Mummy Where Are You? (Revised Edition, new) (23 page)

              Chris, now away from Miss Whiplash, showed some humanity and decency by saying to me that he understood that operations were harder for the parents than the child and became affable again as we walked back to the ward. 

              I was told to go and meet my father in the coffee bar and wait for the phone call to summon me to the recovery room.  I did so and waited anxiously, sipping nervously at my coffee and checking my phone at minute intervals.  An hour later the phone rang and it was Miss Whiplash.  She told me M was on his way back from the recovery room and to meet them in his room.  I was outraged.  I had promised M that I would be there for him when he came round and they had denied this to me, even though it had been in the written agreement they themselves had drawn up.

              They hid behind the usual flight risk theory and said that the Children’s Ward manager had said there could be only one person in the recovery room and as that would have meant leaving me un-chaperoned with M, despite their being half a dozen nurses, they had not allowed it.   It was absurd.  As if I could have taken him straight from an operation in a locked room.  It was just another way of bullying me and an attempt to sabotage my relationship with M by forcing me to breach my promise to him.  When I reached the ward and whilst waiting for M to arrive, I asked to speak to the Children’s Ward Manager, who told me he was acting on the instructions of the Department.  I then asked to speak to him with Miss Whiplash and asked her why they had said I could be there for M and then reneged on this.  The two blamed each other.   It was hopeless.  I later made a complaint but as usual got nowhere.  The Director of the Hospital closed ranks with his staff and the Social Workers. I was then accused of being aggressive, which I had not been, although naturally I had been upset.  I was expected to be a robot and register no emotion  whilst they kicked both me and my child.

              I went back to M’s room and waited for his return.  He was still sleeping as he was wheeled in and I sat on the side of the bed waiting for him to wake.  The hour’s visit that I had been given post-op was nearly up and M slept through all of it.  I didn't want to disturb him, but nor did I  want to leave until I had reassured myself that he was okay, so I asked if I could remain a little longer when I reached my eleven O clock curfew.  I was callously informed that I couldn't.  I already felt terrible that I hadn't been there when M had come round in recovery as I'd promised to be and it was imperative to be there when he now woke. God knows what they would have told him, had I not.  Most likely that Mummy had abandoned him and didn't care.  Miss Whiplash refused, but I stood my ground and in the end she conceded to giving me an extra fifteen minutes.  M then woke feeling nauseous and I bathed his forehead and held him, reaching for a cardboard bowl and holding it under him, mopping his brow, as he retched.  He had not had this reaction to his earlier op when he had still been with me and I guessed it was from the phlegm from his sinuses dripping down the back of his throat and mentally cursed them for not treating his Hay fever. 

              Fifteen minutes passed very quickly with all of it spent with me trying to alleviate the distress of M’s nausea.  “Time’s up,” said Miss Whiplash.  “You have to go now.” 

              M was still retching and begging for me to be allowed to stay with him, but Miss Whiplash was adamant.  I was forced to leave him holding his own bowl and pleading for me to stay. Their cruelty knew no bounds.

              My father was incensed when he heard what had happened and as his hour was now due to start, he headed to the ward.  He told Miss Whiplash that he would sacrifice his time with M so that he could have his mother.  She initially objected but then gave in and Dad’s time was cut in half to allow me another half an hour with M. 

              The time went by in a flash.  He was still feeling very poorly but was less sleepy and we managed to play a game on my phone for a few minutes.  At eleven-thirty on the dot I was again told to leave and this time M raised less objection.  He'd become resigned to the situation.  He made one feeble plea for me to stay and then his little white face took on the ghostlike qualities of a child who has had his life, his security and his wishes removed from him for so long that he has given up trying to fight for his rights.  He simply didn't have the strength.  Even if he hadn't been in his post-op weakened state, he knew it was pointless.  These were his jailors and both he and his mummy had no say in anything.

              I waited whilst Dad had a short half hour visit and then he took me out for lunch to a nearby pub where we often used to take M.  I could barely eat and we both expressed our anger at how M had been treated.  I rang the ward to see how he was half an hour after leaving the ward and was told he was now fine and his father would be with him for the rest of the day.  The man who had caused him so much pain and anguish and who had lost him his family, the same man who had not even wanted to know M until he was six months old and had never seen him through one day’s sickness before, had now completely usurped my role of caretaker.

              I spoke again to Miss Whiplash asking if M could be allowed a phone call with me to let me know how he was later that evening.  This was refused. I rang the ward again to see if he was over his nausea and was told that he was still on the ward.  I was surprised as he had been home within a couple of hours following his previous op, but the only information was that he was still feeling sick and they told me I had no parental rights to any more information than that.  This was completely untrue and against what the law dictates as I had never lost Parental Responsibility for M.  All I could do was like awake and worry and hope that I would be granted a call in the morning.  It was torture.

              The following morning, I was, at last allowed a call. I received an email giving me one ten minute call to the Foster Carer’s home.  I was relieved to hear that M sounded better, but I longed to be with him to nurse him through his recovery.  It must have been so hard for him to be with total strangers instead of his mother at only eight year’s old following a fairly major operation. 

              The puppy came home soon after this.  I collected Coco from the breeder’s and other than whimpering a little for the first night’s separation from his mother and brothers and sisters, he settled in quickly.  My good resolve to keep him in his bed in the kitchen at night, very quickly went out the window.  I needed the comfort more than he did.  I would carry him up and place him on a puppy mat on my bed and his tiny warm little hamster-body, would cuddle into the crook of my arm and sleep, reminiscent of when my son’s little body had curled into mine seeking the very same comfort and warmth.  Of course, a puppy cannot make up for the loss of a child in any way whatsoever, but his warm little presence, another living being in the house, was a welcome gift at that time. 

              As soon as M was well enough, I saw him back at the Contact Centre.  He recovered despite their lack of attentive care.  I felt it was rather careless of them to have let him go into the sea that weekend only days after his op when his wound would still be susceptible to infection.  I remembered the advice I had been given by the Urologist after the last Op which had suggested the wound  could not be got wet for a minimum of two weeks, but it was fruitless to complain.  M was at their mercy and he told me he'd also being playing football, which again seemed ill-advised as a wayward ball in his groin area would have been very painful indeed and potentially damaging so soon after his operation.

              M survived despite the Foster Carers and certainly not because of them and it remains my opinion that they were not fit to have him which was confirmed by what I learned later on.  It was not that I was a mother who over worried about her child.  I'd  always believed in the need for both solid roots and wings and that you certainly cannot wrap children in cotton wool.  The odd fall and scratch goes with the territory and is a learning curve that protects them in later life, but sometimes there was a need for pure common sense which seemed to be lacking all round.

              The following contact, the Contact Centre staff allowed me to bring the puppy to show M and Chris, the more humane Social Worker agreed that this could do no harm and may be of benefit, bringing him some much needed comfort and raising his spirits. 

              I brought Coco to the centre on the same day I collected him and M was overjoyed.  He ran into the room with glee and went straight to the tiny brown furry animal and picked him up.  His whole face lit up.  It had been worth every penny of the four hundred and fifty pounds I had paid for the little animal.  M was totally smitten and naturally wanted to spend the whole time playing with him.  For once I was happy to take a back seat and whilst I sat on the floor with M and let the puppy dash between us, I didn't mind in the least that he was absorbed in stroking it, cuddling it and playing with it. 

              As M had had such a lovely time with Coco, I asked if I could bring him each week and the Contact Centre Manager said she could see no harm in it at all.  They had no rules that prevented it whatsoever and she also felt that children benefitted from being able to see a pet. 

              M’s happiness at having the puppy to play with was once  again snatched from him, as Miss Whiplash and Nanny Mac, decided that they were not going to allow it.  It seemed they had one aim and that was to deny M anything that brought him any happiness.  One couldn't help but feel that there was a strong sense of jealousy at the root of this.  They wrote to me saying I could not bring Coco again and ignored a letter from the Contact Centre Manager contradicting this view.

              Once again, my attempts to bring M some small shred of comfort had ended in tears.

              It took two months of hard battle to persuade them to let the puppy come for half an hour – and then only in the back yard where there was no room to play and where we would get soaking wet, as the weather cooled for Autumn.  In the meantime they pressed on with extending M’s contact with his father who was now having him for whole weekends and the weekend after she had written to me denying contact with Coco, Miss Whiplash brought her own Chihuahuas to R’s cottage to show him - which M unwittingly revealed to me at  a contact session.  He also told me that the Social Worker regularly dropped in at weekends to see his father, on her days off.  They were blatant in their bias and did not even try to hide it. 

              I had been written off as M’s parent in every way and all I could see ahead was a life without him.  I prayed that by some miracle this cruel and wicked lie would be exposed – that we would be reunited and that justice and the truth would win out, but I feared it would not.  I had known in my heart from the minute they took him, that I had lost my child forever and that now they had him they would stop at nothing until they had placed him firmly in the hands of his abuser.

              Through the summer months, we were allowed to leave the centre accompanied by two supervisors and walk to a nearby park.  It was not that exciting  for M  as he was past the age where children's play areas held appeal, but at least it was a small amount of freedom compared to the restriction of what I had dubbed, the exercise yard - little knowing then, how poignant those words would become. 

              The nearest play area was within walking distance and was not very well equipped, but at least we were able to kick a ball more easily. 

              On a couple of occasions we were allowed to go to a larger park where we could kick a ball - each time accompanied by two Social Workers sitting in, but at least it was better for M. 

              None of this artificial world bore any resemblance to the life we had had - Small crumbs thrown to us by the Department, whilst his father got more and more contact and total freedom to do what he liked and go where he liked with neither supervision nor scrutiny.   I worried constantly that M may still be being abused.  I thought it was less likely whilst his father was now in a strong position to gain residency.  He was too busy trying to bribe and manipulate M into wanting to live with him by buying his affection with toys and taking him Go-Karting and anything else that might entice him. 

              My life was in constant limbo.  I tried to remain positive and when the QC had suggested we appeal the Fact Find judgment out of time, I had thought that we may have a chance of getting M back and justice may still prevail.  What caused the QC to change his mind, I will never know, but just as those who had gone before, who made promises of challenging the Care Order and getting M back to me where he belonged, this one was no different.  He very quickly did a volte face, saying this was not the best way to get M back and persuaded me to focus instead on proving that I was the best parent for M. 

              What more could I do?  I knew I was the best parent for M, all those who had written testimonials for me had testified to that, and I jumped through every hoop that was put in front of me.   Other than try and protect my son from harm by taking him away from danger, I had done nothing wrong.  I had been a devoted, caring and loving mother, but it didn’t seem to count for anything.

              Whilst I didn’t agree with Phillip's “appease the court” approach, he was Queen’s Counsel and had a wealth of experience, so I had to put some faith in him. He had, now changed his initial opinion and believed that if we appealed the Family Court Judge he would then be more determined to give M to his father.  None of this made sense to me as surely appealing the Judge would put the case before another Judge and having seen the ABE interview twice myself, I couldn't  believe that the Appeal Court Judges could possibly ignore the sincerity and obvious truth of my son's words.  I still felt it was the only way of avoiding the catastrophic outcome that I feared.