by Cathy Glass
‘Your father and I are relaxing in the living room with nothing to do,’ she laughed. ‘Adrian, Lucy and Paula are in the kitchen insisting they make us dinner.’
‘Excellent, I am impressed.’ Like many young people, my children came into their own when their mother wasn’t around, although I’d never have left them alone all night. While I considered them responsible for their ages, if something untoward happened they wouldn’t have the experience or maturity to deal with it.
I told Mum not to disturb them, to give them my love and I’d see them tomorrow.
On Thursday morning when I collected Melody I briefly met Dana’s sister, who’d popped in to meet Melody. I instantly recognized her from the photo in Melody’s album. She was a lovely lady who would be helping Dana out when she returned to work at the end of her adoption leave. I formed the impression they were very close sisters. In the car going home Melody said she liked her aunt and would meet her cousins and her new nana and grandpa on Sunday – after she’d moved in.
Friday was Melody’s last day at school and understandably she went in feeling a bit sad at having to say goodbye. However, later, when she came out at the end of the day, she was very excited. Miss May and Miss Langford were with her and had clearly been making her last day memorable. Melody had a large good-luck card signed by all the children in her class, and a present of a beautifully illustrated book. I thanked them both for all they’d done for Melody and as we said goodbye I saw Miss Langford’s eyes fill. She couldn’t come to Melody’s leaving party, so this was goodbye, but Miss May and Lizzie and her mother could come, so we’d see them again later.
I’d prepared most of the buffet tea for Melody’s leaving party during the day, as well as packing the rest of her belongings ready for the following morning. Once home I set the table with a fancy cloth, paper plates and soft drinks, then just before five o’clock put out the plates of buffet food. It wasn’t long before the doorbell began ringing and by 5.15 the house was buzzing. A dozen of us, chatting and laughing, had gathered together to wish Melody well for the future. All our guests had brought her a gift and card – we’d give her ours the following morning when she left. Melody had a fantastic time and was the centre of attention all evening. Then of course, when everyone had gone and the party was over, overtired and emotional, she burst into tears.
‘I don’t want to leave you all,’ she sobbed.
I took her in my arms. ‘You’ll be fine in the morning, love, after a good night’s sleep. Come on, up you go and I’ll read you a bedtime story from your new book.’
‘You will come and visit me, won’t you?’
‘Yes, of course I will.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Lucky to Have Her
The following morning Melody was up early and looking forward to Dana’s arrival at 10.30. Adrian, Paula and Lucy were up and dressed too so they could see her off. After a noisy breakfast with everyone talking at once, we brought down the last of Melody’s luggage and stacked it ready in the hall. Lucy and Paula then played with Melody until at exactly 10.30 a.m. the doorbell rang. Melody fell silent as she came with me to answer the door.
‘All ready, love?’ Dana asked her, smiling.
Melody gave a small, sad nod.
Dana was aware that, despite a really positive introductory period, parting from us might be difficult for Melody and we needed to keep the goodbye short. She came in and I offered her a coffee, but she said she had bottles of water in the car and that they could stop off for something to eat and drink on the way home if Melody wanted to. We then began loading her car. Toscha came out to see what was going on. Melody stroked her and said she’d miss her, which was sweet and very different from when she’d first arrived and accused her of having fleas. With all Melody’s luggage in the car, it was time for us to say goodbye. No matter how sure I am that the child’s new home is right for them, seeing them off is always sad, not only for me, but for my children too.
The girls and I took it in turns to hug and kiss Melody goodbye, while Adrian gave her a high five. ‘Good luck in your new school,’ he said. ‘Be good.’
‘I will,’ she returned.
Adrian then waited in the hall while the girls and I went with Melody and Dana to the car. Dana checked Melody’s seatbelt was fastened, said goodbye to us and then got into the driver’s seat and lowered Melody’s window.
‘Take care, love,’ I said, giving her one last kiss through the open window.
‘See you in a month,’ Dana said from the front. ‘I’ll phone to arrange.’
‘Yes, good,’ I replied. ‘Take care, both of you.’ As Dana started the car, I looked at Melody and thought how she’d changed during the time she’d been with us. She’d arrived angry, with a reputation for very challenging behaviour, and was used to being in charge. Somewhere along the line, having been relieved of the burden of looking after her mother, she’d become a child again. A lovely child with hopes and dreams, who now knew how to play, make friends and fit in. Certainly she’d come a long way, and my biggest hope was that her past wouldn’t ruin her future.
‘Bye,’ Melody said quietly as the car began to pull away.
‘Bye,’ we called.
We stayed on the pavement waving until they were out of sight and then slowly returned indoors. Instantly it was obvious that someone was missing from our home. When my children were younger and a child left I used to take them on an outing to give them something else to think about. Now I suggested we went out for dinner that evening.
‘Yes …’
‘OK …’
‘Later …’ were their unenthusiastic responses.
The first few days after a child has left are the worst, and going into their empty bedroom is always difficult. I decided to do that straight away. It was a shell of a room without Melody and her belongings. I concentrated on changing the bedding and then I gave the room a good clean, not because it was dirty or I wanted to rid it of any trace of Melody, but because I knew it probably wouldn’t be empty for long. Sadly, at that very moment, a family somewhere would be in crisis or a child was being abused, resulting in them coming into care.
On a happier note, just as I’d finished in Melody’s room, Mum telephoned to see how the move had gone. I told her and thanked her and Dad again for helping out, for truly I couldn’t have managed without them. When I said that we were planning to eat out later she suggested that she and Dad could meet us halfway and we could have a late lunch together, which I knew would please my children. We arranged to meet at a pub restaurant we knew at 3 p.m. and Mum said she’d book us a table. When I told Adrian, Lucy and Paula their response was very different to before.
‘Great.’
‘Fantastic.’
‘I’ll get changed now.’
Thank goodness for loving grandparents!
Sunday morning was strange without Melody. Usually it was just me and her downstairs first thing. Adrian left to play football, and with the girls having a lie-in I wrote up my log notes – the final entry for Melody. Once dressed, I cooked a batch of cupcakes, the warm smell of baking drifting around the house. Paula came down to investigate. ‘Hmm, that smells good, but it’s not Thursday,’ she said. Baking cakes on a Thursday had become something of a ritual.
‘No, I know, but we all like these cakes and I can make them any time now, can’t I?’
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘Let me know when they’re ready.’
‘I will.’
But I had another motive for making these cakes today. Having not seen Amanda for over two weeks, I was intending to visit her the following day. I’d never told my family I had been going to see her; it wasn’t a secret, it just never came up. Also, if I told them then, I knew that after each visit they’d ask how she was and what could I say? Deteriorating? A bit worse? There wasn’t anything positive to tell them, and while Melody, the poor child, had to cope and come to terms with her mother’s decline, thankfully my children didn’t.
&nbs
p; On Monday morning I telephoned Neave and Jill and told them the move had gone well. Obviously they were both pleased. Neave said she’d tell Gaynor, and Jill said they’d had a referral over the weekend for a child who may need a foster-care placement and she’d keep me posted. I had an early sandwich lunch at 12 and then set off for Oak Lane House with a carrier bag containing the box of cakes, some grapes and another small potted plant. As I drove my thoughts went to Melody and how she was getting on – her first day in her new school. It was bound to be a bit strange to begin with as it is for any child going to a new school, making new friends and finding their way around the building. Lizzie’s mother and Dana had swapped telephone numbers at Melody’s leaving party so the girls could keep in touch, but I knew that Dana was planning on letting Melody settle in first before she phoned so it didn’t unsettle Melody. For the same reason, we wouldn’t see Melody for a month and Dana was going to wait a couple of weeks before she took Melody to see Amanda.
How long I’d be able to continue to visit Amanda I didn’t know; it would depend largely on my fostering commitments – a new child would mean a new routine. But today I had a good journey and an hour later I was parking outside the care home. Taking the carrier bag from the passenger seat, I got out and breathed in the fresh, cold November air. I let myself in the outer doors, signed the Visitors’ Book and then pressed the bell to be admitted. Nothing much had changed and Mrs Bennett appeared with her handbag looped over her arm, ready to go out. I smiled at her through the glass, but there was no recognition. A care assistant I knew from my previous visits appeared but didn’t return my smile. Indeed, she seemed anxious that I was there.
‘Didn’t you know?’ she said as she quickly let me in and closed the door.
‘Know what?’ I asked, turning cold.
‘You’ve come to visit Amanda?’
‘Yes.’
‘She’s in hospital.’
‘No, I didn’t know.’
‘I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted trip.’
‘When did this happen?’
‘Last week. You should have been told.’ But there was no reason why I should have been told, as I wasn’t a relative.
‘Does her daughter know?’ I asked.
‘Her family and social worker would have been informed.’
‘Which hospital is she in?’
‘I think it’s the City Hospital. If you wait here a moment, I’ll check in the office.’
‘Thank you.’
Worried, I wondered what was the matter with Amanda that required her being in hospital. Mrs Bennett stayed by the door, hoping it might open again. The care assistant reappeared; she hadn’t been gone long. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, a little embarrassed. ‘I’ve just spoken to my manager and I can’t give you details of the hospital because of patient confidentiality. Only close relatives can have that information.’
‘I understand,’ I said. ‘Thank you anyway.’
With another apology she let me out and I returned to my car. I didn’t start the engine but sat gazing through the windscreen. I hadn’t asked the care assistant what was the matter with Amanda, as I knew patient confidentiality would have forbidden her telling me that too. I thought it was odd that Dana hadn’t said anything to me about Amanda being ill, or was it? She didn’t know I still visited Amanda and I could see why she hadn’t told Melody partway through the introductory period in case it unsettled her. Amanda’s social worker would have presumably passed on the information to Neave, but again there was no reason for her to have told me. I sat for a few moments longer. The care assistant had said she thought Amanda was in the City Hospital. I made the decision to drive there now and hope someone on reception would be able to tell me which ward Amanda was in – if indeed she was there at all.
It took me ten minutes to drive to the neighbouring town and then I followed the signs to the City Hospital. It was 1.30 by the time I’d parked, fed the meter and placed the ticket on the windscreen. I didn’t know the hospital at all; parts of it were new and there was still building work going on. I went through the glass revolving door of the main entrance and to the reception desk, behind which sat two elderly gentlemen. Many reception desks in NHS hospitals are staffed by volunteers, and they do an excellent job. It was busy. I waited my turn and then asked which ward Amanda was in, giving her full name. The man attending to me began looking through a long printout. ‘When was she admitted?’ he asked, so I started to think that maybe she wasn’t there.
‘Last week. Sorry, I don’t know the exact day.’
He continued through the list. ‘Here it is,’ he said at last, pleased. ‘She’s in Beech Ward.’
‘Thank you so much.’
‘Straight down this corridor to the end,’ he said. ‘Then take the lift or stairs to the second floor. Visiting is from two o’clock, but they might let you in early.’
I thanked him again and began along the main corridor as he’d directed. With fifteen minutes before the start of visiting time, I stopped off at the hospital shop and bought a packet of juice, which I drank sitting on one of the benches just outside the shop. Dropping the empty carton into the bin provided, I continued up the stairs to the second floor, then followed the signs to Beech Ward. Sanitizing my hands from the dispenser, I went in. The ward corridor stretched ahead of me and then curved round out of view. I had no idea which bed Amanda was in, so I went to the nurses’ station and asked there.
‘Side room three,’ the nurse replied. ‘On your left, about halfway down.’
Thanking her, I went in the direction she’d pointed, passing four bedded wards as I went. Then on my left were the side rooms, 1, 2 and 3. I looked through the glass panel of the door marked 3 but could only see that someone was in bed, nothing more. Another hand sanitizer was beside the door, and having again rubbed a little of the foam into my hands, I knocked on the door and went in. For a moment I thought I’d come into the wrong room.
I’ve found before when visiting friends or family in hospital that they often look very different. Propped up on a mound of white pillows, hair flattened from lying in bed and in their nightwear rather than day clothes, they often appear more poorly then they feel. But nothing could have prepared me for Amanda’s decline. Lying flat on her back with her arms straight at her sides, her eyes were closed and she lay perfectly still. Her skin was deathly white, and her face was sunken beyond recognition. Over the top of her hospital gown her collar and neck bones jutted out. She’d always been very thin, but now she was emaciated. I gingerly went over and sat on the chair beside the bed. There’d been a huge change in her in just over two weeks and I dreaded to think what was the matter with her. It must be very serious; she looked awful.
She had a drip dispensing fluid attached to her arm and a urine drainage bag hung from the side of the bed. I sat for some moments watching her as her chest lightly rose and fell – it was the only sign she was alive. I didn’t know if she was in a deep sleep, unconscious or sedated. I was reluctant to wake her, for she wouldn’t know who I was. She hadn’t recognized me (or Melody) for some time. Not sure what to do for the best, I continued to sit beside her and then took the box of cakes and grapes from the bag and set them on the bedside cabinet. She clearly wasn’t up to eating them now, but hopefully when she felt better she would be. I left the potted plant in my carrier bag, as I knew that NHS hospitals didn’t allow flowers and plants on the ward for fear of them bringing in disease or triggering allergies. I wondered if Amanda had any of her belongings with her from the care home and I opened her bedside cabinet. It contained a pair of slacks, a jumper and shoes – presumably the clothes she’d been wearing when she’d been admitted to hospital – but that was all. Perhaps her washbag was in the bathroom. I quietly closed the cabinet door.
Another five minutes or so passed as Amanda slept on. The window was open a fraction and through it came the distant sounds of building works from another part of the site. Suddenly the door opened and a nurse came in, making me star
t. She seemed surprised to see anyone here. ‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t know Amanda had a visitor,’ she said. ‘I really need to change her. Could I ask you to wait outside for a few minutes?’
‘I was going soon anyway,’ I said. I stood and she wheeled in a treatment trolley. There didn’t seem a lot of point in waiting. ‘What’s the matter with Amanda?’ I asked as she pushed the trolley to the bed.
‘You’ll need to ask the ward sister or her doctor,’ she replied.
I thanked her and came out. I didn’t go to find the ward sister or a doctor, as I knew the same patient confidentially would apply as it had at the care home – with only close relatives being given information on the patient. I returned to my car. Clearly Amanda was very poorly and I wondered if Dana knew just how ill she was. I guessed from the nurse’s reaction to my being there, and the fact that Amanda was wearing a hospital gown and my cakes and fruit were the only items that had been brought in, that she hadn’t had many visitors, if any at all. It upset me to think of her lying there in that impersonal hospital gown. They are usually only used for emergency admissions before relatives have the chance to bring in the patient’s own nightwear, washbag and any personal items they might need. I wondered when Dana was thinking of bringing Melody and I decided to phone her later.
It was 3.30 when I arrived home and Dana would be collecting Melody from school now. At the end of her first day in her new school they’d have plenty to talk about, so I decided to wait until Melody was likely to be in bed before phoning. At nine o’clock, with my family in other parts of the house, showering, reading and listening to music, I sat in the living room with Toscha beside me and keyed in Dana’s number.
‘Hello?’ she answered quietly.
‘Dana, it’s Cathy.’