Can I Let You Go?

by Cathy Glass

  ‘Will you tell my gran?’ Faye asked, still more worried about what her gran would say than the enormity of the decision before her.

  ‘Yes. I can tell your grandparents if you decide you want to go to the mother-and-baby unit,’ Becky said.

  ‘I do,’ Faye said.

  Becky looked at her carefully. ‘Faye, you understand the choices here, don’t you? You could give up your baby for adoption after you’ve had it at the hospital, and then return to your gran and grandpa to live. Or you can go to the mother-and-baby unit?’

  ‘Then can I come back here with my baby?’ Faye asked, confused.

  ‘No, love,’ Becky said. ‘At the end of the six months we will make a decision on what is best for the baby long term. It’s possible we will decide it would be better for it to be adopted.’

  Faye fell silent, her face unreadable. Who knew what she was thinking? Becky had explained the options and she now gave her a few moments to consider what she’d said, before she asked, ‘What do you think, Faye? You have the right to decide what you want to do. We’ve found a lovely couple to adopt your baby, or do you want to go to the mother-and-baby unit?’

  ‘Baby unit,’ Faye said.

  Becky nodded and, opening her notepad, began writing. ‘OK. I’ll speak to my manager, then I’ll phone you later in the week.’

  ‘Will you tell Gran and Grandpa?’ Faye asked again.

  ‘Yes. Once I’ve spoken to my manager,’ Becky said. ‘Is there anything else you want to ask me?’

  Faye shook her head.

  ‘If Faye goes to the mother-and-baby unit, will I be able to visit her?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, if Faye wants you to, which I assume she will do.’ She glanced at Faye, but she was deep in thought. ‘It’s about a forty-five-minute drive from here. I’m not sure how practical it will be for Stan and Wilma to get there,’ she added.

  ‘Possibly I could give them a lift in my car,’ I suggested. ‘I’m taking them to the cemetery the day after tomorrow.’ I then explained to Becky that Faye had wanted to visit her mother’s grave and that I’d offered to take her grandparents too. I also mentioned that I’d begun giving Faye a lift in my car when she visited her grandparents, rather than her using the bus, and why.

  ‘That seems sensible,’ Becky said. ‘Thank you.’ Then, looking at Faye, she asked, ‘Is there anything else you want to ask me?’ Faye shook her head. ‘Well, if you think of anything, you can telephone me or ask Cathy.’ She put away her notepad and pen. ‘I’ll be in touch later in the week. Goodbye then, Faye. Take care.’

  ‘Goodbye,’ Faye said.

  As I saw Becky to the front door she said, ‘I have to give her the chance, as she’s asked, but Stan and Wilma are going to be upset. So will the adoptive parents. They were expecting this baby as much as Faye, and this is the second time they’ve been let down at the last moment. They’re a lovely couple in their mid-thirties who can’t have children. They’re going to be devastated.’

  I nodded. This was a side of adoption that is little considered: the childless couple who will have gone through years of fertility testing and treatment to finally be told they will never conceive a child. Then comes the painful acceptance, the soul-searching decision to apply for adoption, the long and gruelling assessment to be considered as adoptive parents and, at last, the heart-stopping elation of being approved. Then another long wait until an infant is matched with them and the jubilation of that call – their prayers have finally been answered and they will soon be parents. Followed by the devastating news that it’s off, the baby is no longer theirs – not once, but twice.

  ‘The nursery is ready,’ Becky added as she opened the front door. ‘It’s beautiful. The baby would be so loved and wanted. Now someone has to tell them it’s not going to happen. And sadly I fear Faye’s parenting assessment will only tell us what we already know, although I’d like nothing more than to be proven wrong.’

  Foster carers worry about the children and young people they look after just as most parents worry about their children. Sometimes we worry more about them than we would our own. As a parent you know you’ve given your child the best start in life and have equipped them with the skills to make appropriate decisions and to meet challenges. But Faye, because of her learning disability and despite her grandparents’ best efforts, remained ill equipped for life’s challenges and certainly not for parenting. She was naïve, vulnerable and relied heavily on others. I could see she was going to be badly hurt and I worried about her on and off for the rest of the evening and most of the night. Tossing and turning through to the early hours, I heard her get up to use the toilet twice and then return to bed. Would it be possible for her to learn the skills necessary to parent a baby? I doubted it as much as Becky did, and she’d had plenty of experience of working with adults with learning disabilities. If Faye went to the specialist mother-and-baby unit, how would she feel at the end of the six-month assessment? Would she realize and accept that she couldn’t parent her child and therefore feel adoption was the best outcome? Or, having bonded with her baby, would she be even more upset and unwilling to part with it? I’d been slightly surprised that Becky had made the offer of the specialist mother-and-baby unit. Social services’ budgets are tight and to fund this type of placement would be expensive. Hardly money well spent if the prognosis for Faye being able to keep her baby at the end of it was so very poor.

  But was it feasible to change that prognosis? I wondered as the hours towards morning passed. Faye would receive help and support from the staff at the unit, but would it be enough to change the outcome? She also had seven weeks left with me. What could I teach her in that time? Enough to give her a chance of keeping her baby? I doubted it, but I had to try. Assuming that when Becky phoned she would confirm that Faye was to be given the chance to go to the unit, I would do everything in my power to teach Faye how to look after a baby. If Faye wanted to keep it enough then perhaps this would accelerate her learning and she could understand and retain what was needed to pass the parenting assessment. But what was needed? What were the criteria for assessing a parent? What goal posts were we aiming for?

  It was not yet 6.00 a.m. but while the rest of the house slept I slipped on my dressing gown and went downstairs and switched on the laptop. I left it in the living room to boot up while I made a large mug of coffee and gave Sammy an early breakfast. He meowed a thank-you. I took the mug of coffee into the living room, set it on the corner table within my reach and brought up the search engine on the computer. I typed in social services parenting assessment criteria and up came a page of links to articles and to some of the specialist family centres. I began reading and five minutes later I’d found exactly what I wanted: the criteria used by social workers when assessing what I now learnt was known as ‘good enough’ parenting. ‘Good enough’. I liked the term and felt a surge of optimism. Not perfect – no parenting is perfect, regardless of how hard we try – but ‘good enough’, adequate. I felt we were in with a chance and I read on.

  ‘Good enough’ parenting essentially requires meeting the child’s health and developmental needs, putting the child’s needs first, and providing routine and care. As well as giving basic care, it includes keeping the child safe, providing emotional warmth, stimulation, guidance, boundaries and stability. The assessment took into account the parent’s ability to ask for support where necessary, and wider factors such as family circumstances, income, education, housing, employment and own upbringing. Then I found a few paragraphs specifically on assessing parents with learning difficulties, and it said that when a parent with a learning disability neglected their baby or child it was usually as a result of them forgetting to do something, rather than intentionally harming the child, which made sense and resonated with me in respect of Faye. It warned professionals against presuming incompetence (that is, assuming the parent wouldn’t be able to adequately parent purely because they had a learning difficulty), which could result in their strengths being overlooked. I
t said that the parent’s disability should be identified within the assessment but must not be the overriding factor. Other factors that should be noted were the parent’s early childhood experiences (which could affect their own parenting); the parent’s ability to learn and retain new information; to be able to assess and respond to changes; to prioritize the needs of others and themselves, and to be able to communicate adequately. It said that it was unlawful for a social worker to remove a child from a parent purely on the grounds of the parent’s learning disability. The decision had to be based on whether the parent could meet the needs of the child and provide ‘good enough’ parenting.

  There was a lot to take in. Faye could communicate to a reasonable level and I felt sure it would be adequate, but whether she could process and retain information to the required standard to parent a child I wasn’t sure. But I was now completely committed to doing all I could to help her. Lowering the lid on the laptop, I drained the last of my now-cold coffee and, deep in thought, went upstairs to shower and dress. I wouldn’t say anything about what I’d learnt to Faye until we’d heard from Becky that she would definitely be going to the specialist unit. I knew from experience that decisions can and do change in social work. This wouldn’t just be Becky’s decision but that of the adult social services team responsible for Faye.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A Sense of Occasion

  It was pouring with rain the following morning, so Faye and I didn’t go to see the horses as we’d planned but stayed indoors. After breakfast and once she was dressed I took the opportunity to explain more to her about her developing baby and reinforce what I’d already told her. I used the children’s book I’d used before and also the internet, although much of the writing on the webpages required a level of reading far in advance of Faye’s. I’d tried to find a website especially for parents who had leaning difficulties, but there was nothing. Some websites made reference to the problems that adults with learning difficulties faced when trying to parent, but none actually addressed the issues. However, the diagrams and pictures on the general parenting websites were useful and some showed what the developing baby looked like in the womb. I read out that at thirty-one weeks gestation, which was the stage Faye was at, the baby weighed approximately 1.5kg and measured about 40cm from the top of its head to its toe. I showed her on my arm roughly how long this was – from my elbow to the tip of my finger. We could see from the pictures that the baby’s arms, legs and body had filled out and were now in proportion to its head, so it no longer looked like a foetus but a newborn baby. We learnt that it wouldn’t be moving around so much now, but that if Faye ever noticed it had stopped moving then she needed to tell me straight away so we could see the doctor for a check-up. Faye pulled a face when I read out that the baby was now passing small drops of urine, practising for when it was born.

  The weather was still poor in the afternoon and Faye asked if we could go to the cinema. Adrian had mentioned at the weekend that he’d been to see the new James Bond film and Faye said she wanted to see it, as she liked James Bond films. She told me she had been to the cinema before, but not for a long time, because her gran and grandpa found the seats too uncomfortable and had difficulty getting in and out, and up and down the steps. She brought her purse with her, as she wanted to buy herself some popcorn, which she remembered doing before at the cinema. The little bright-red zip purse she clutched contained her pocket money, which her gran topped up as and when necessary from the state allowance she received.

  I paid for us to go in and Faye bought her popcorn. I helped her count out the money from the coins she had in her purse; it took a while. The cashier was patient, appreciating that Faye was struggling, but it made me realize how difficult it would be for Faye if she ever had to cope alone. She had no experience of managing money beyond a bit of pocket money. Would she ever cope with a household budget? I doubted it. So what would happen if she passed the parenting assessment? How would she manage living independently, just her and the baby? Unless she returned to live with her grandparents, but was that feasible? Then I caught myself worrying about the what-ifs of her as-yet-undecided future and drew back. One stage at a time. Faye had yet to have her baby and go to the specialist unit and attempt to pass the parenting assessment.

  Faye loved the film – the noise, music and action – nearly as much as she loved the popcorn. She ate slowly and consistently throughout the film, taking one piece of popcorn out of the box at a time. Having eaten the last husk from the box, she wanted to buy some more, but I said it would spoil her appetite for dinner. I also wondered about the effect all that popcorn was having on her baby, as everything a mother eats or drinks passes through the umbilical cord to her baby. I explained this to Faye and she accepted that she’d had enough for one day. As we were leaving the cinema a well-meaning woman glanced at Faye’s bump and said to her, ‘It won’t be long, love, before you’re bringing your little one to see the films.’

  Faye paused and then replied, ‘If my social worker lets me keep it.’ While the woman looked uncomfortable, I was relieved that Faye had understood at least some of what Becky had told her and that keeping her baby wasn’t definite.

  That evening just the girls and I were in for dinner, as Adrian was working a late shift. Faye told them she’d been to the cinema and what a nice time she’d had.

  ‘All right for some,’ Lucy replied a little tartly. ‘Some of us have to go to work.’ They were short-staffed at the nursery where Lucy worked and she hadn’t had a lunch break so wasn’t in the best of moods.

  Faye went quiet for a moment and I hoped she hadn’t taken Lucy’s comment personally. Faye never made sarcastic retorts like that to anyone, it wasn’t in her nature. After a moment, looking at Lucy, she said, ‘You are so lucky being able to go to work. I wish I could, but no one wants someone like me.’ It was so sincere and heartfelt, I knew Lucy felt her words as much as I did.

  The following day I was pleased that the rain had stopped for our visit to the cemetery where Faye’s mother rested. I dressed casually but smartly in light-grey trousers and jumper and a navy coat. Faye was dressed smartly, too, in black leggings and a royal-blue maternity top we’d bought her, and carried her coat to the car. On the way she wanted to stop to buy some flowers to place on her mother’s grave. She said there was a man selling flowers at the gate of the cemetery but her gran never bought them from him as they were too expensive. I stopped at a petrol station and helped her choose a bunch of flowers. I hadn’t heard any more from Becky, so I didn’t know what, if anything, the grandparents had been told about the possibility of Faye going to the mother-and-baby unit. However, when we arrived at their flat they greeted us warmly and unreservedly, so I assumed they hadn’t yet been told. They were ready and dressed in their Sunday best. Stan was wearing a suit and tie and Wilma a floral-pattern winter dress under a black coat. Stan had his walking stick at his side and Wilma her walking frame.

  ‘You do look smart,’ I said.

  ‘Well, it’s not every day I get the chance to take three young ladies out to lunch,’ Stan said. Wilma smiled and touched her hair into place. I could see just how much this outing meant to them. It wasn’t just going to visit their daughter’s grave; it had become an occasion, they so rarely went out. But it soon became evident just what an effort it was for them to leave the flat.

  Using his walking stick, Stan went out of the living room first, followed by Wilma with her walking frame. She had a carrier bag containing a bunch of flowers looped over one of the handles of the frame and her handbag over the other. As she went through the doorframe one of the flowers caught against the wood and a bloom fell off. She tutted. I offered to carry the bag, as did Stan, but, independent, she brushed off our help and transferred the bag to her hand. Then she struggled to manoeuvre the walking frame out through the front door and eventually, with a sigh of frustration, she passed the carrier bag to Faye and we all left.

  I closed the door behind us and Wilma wanted to
deadlock it. She slipped her handbag from her walking frame and took a moment to open the clasp, her arthritic hands clumsy and not doing what she wanted them to. I could see her frustration. Having opened her handbag, she spent more time grappling with the contents before she found the key and then locked the door. It would have been easier if one of us had done it, but it was clear that Wilma needed this independence and considered it her responsibility. Stan, clearly aware of this, was waiting patiently by the elevator and didn’t press the button for it to come until we approached. Wilma walked slowly, evidently in pain, and I could see why she moved around the flat as little as possible. I knew she was waiting for an operation to replace one knee and hip joint, but I had no idea to what extent that would help her general mobility. Her whole body seemed very stiff.

  The elevator arrived and Stan kept his hand on the open door to stop it from closing while we all got in. Wilma first, then Faye and me, and lastly Stan.

  ‘We’re on our way,’ he said brightly to Wilma with a wink as the doors closed behind us.

  ‘We certainly are,’ she said, smiling, despite the pain she was in.

  ‘I’ve bought flowers for Mummy,’ Faye said. ‘They’re in the car.’

  ‘Good girl,’ Stan said.

  ‘Our neighbour got ours,’ Wilma said to me. ‘She’s good like that. She’s always popping in to see if we need anything before she goes shopping.’

  The elevator stopped at the third floor, but the two teenage girls who were waiting there decided they’d let it go rather than try to squash in with us. At the ground floor Stan again kept his hand on the door while we all got out. ‘Are you fit, love?’ he asked Wilma, meaning was she managing all right.