Mummy Where Are You? (Revised Edition, new) (22 page)

              At Easter, I emailed them, admitting I knew.  I waited to see if all hell would break loose, but as I had rightly guessed, they did not move M.  Lack of Foster Carers would have made it very difficult for them to do so, but mainly, I suppose they knew deep down I was not a serious flight risk or indeed any kind of threat to their plan.

              M had been kidnapped and held hostage.  The ransom was for him to agree to give up living with me and live with his father to cover their mistake.  They knew that I would never agree to this, so they worked on M instead and with the example of one child going up for adoption in the foster family and M's terror of that happening to him, losing Mummy then forever, was enough to keep him compliant with their wishes,  If he agreed to go to his father, he believed it would lead to more time with me or even coming back home.  He was only eight and having lost years of innocent, carefree youth already – he now tried to survive as best he could and I tried to survive for him, despite the misery and despondency that had taken up permanent residence in both our hearts.

              I at last moved back into my cottage.  I had found it so difficult to be surrounded by all of our things, all the reminders of our life before, but I felt that Dad and I pulled each other down and the torment of what he'd done, lay between us like a sharp knife cutting the air and forging a wedge between us.  I needed distance and so did he, so I braved the move back home and stayed out of M’s room as much as possible as I couldn't go into it without weeping.  I would look at the mural of a lighthouse and boats on the water, dolphins  jumping the waves and us paddling in the sea that I had, with love in every stroke, painted on his wall.  I wondered if he would ever see it again. 

              His rocking horses stood where they had been, unmoved.  The first one I had given him after his first ride on a real pony on our first holiday away to
Centre Parcs
– so many firsts in that room – the other horse had been given to him by my mother, the last Christmas that she was alive.  His little bed was still made up with his
White Company
Patchwork quilt over the top and the two paintings of Thumper and Dumbo that I had painted for him as a baby lay against the wall.  Dad had brought them out to America at my request, but I had carefully brought them back home with me and put them back into their frames.  I didn't want to change anything, because I believed that if I left things as they had been, then M would come back to me.

              Mother’s Day was another milestone to face and to make matters worse, my father had developed a nasty attack of Cellulitus and had had to go into hospital.  I had come back to his house whilst he was ill to look after him, but over the weekend of Mothering Sunday he was still on the ward having drip antibiotics.  Naturally I was very worried about him but it also meant that I would spend the day totally alone.  Again I was allowed a call with M and again I had to chase through the duty social worker to get it.   I sometimes wondered if the Foster carers did this deliberately to cause me torment.  They were probably just careless, but how could they understand the importance of those few minutes on the phone when separated from your child? 

              I went to put flowers on the graves of my mother and sister and sat there weeping and thinking of all that I had loved and lost.  I prayed, although my faith had gone completely.  I begged God to let me have my precious son and I asked over and over again in my mind “why?”, the echoing loud resounding question mark hanging over our lives – WHY?  A question that we may never know the answer to.

              It was at about this time, I decided to get the dog for company.  M had always wanted a dog and I felt it would give him something to look forward to.  I knew I still had to keep believing that he would be returned to me and this would help me to focus on that as a certainty – the power of positive thinking.  Our cottage was only two- bed roomed and very small.  We also had no garden, just a little back yard, but we were a stone’s throw from the beach so could easily manage a small dog.  M had always liked Chihuahuas, so when I saw some long-haired Chihuahua puppies advertised in the local newspaper, I decided to go and have a look. 

              I have never been a dog person, always preferring cats with their sleek independence, particularly Oriental cats.   When M was a baby I had had to part with my much loved Burmese for fear that she may attack him as she was so possessive of me and rather unpredictable.  I had wept buckets as my mother had collected her to take her off to live with friends, but she had gone to a wonderful home and M’s needs were always at the forefront of my mind. 

              I had made a new friend since coming back to the Island.  Liz was something of an activist and rebel herself having been treated badly by the system over the years.  In her case her beef was with the Education Department, but there were a lot of similarities in the way she had been bullied and how they had tried to suppress her as subversive.  She had been fighting her own cause for many years and would never let it go.  Naturally they had deemed her mad and stuck her with a Borderline label which ensured that she could shout as loudly as she liked and still not be heard. 

              I first met Liz through another friend who had a similar case to mine on the Island and had a child at the same school as M.  We had begun with just phone calls and emails.  It was not until I returned from the States to the Island that we actually met in person and quickly became firm friends.  She was a kind, generous girl, incredibly bright and loyal to those she supported of whom there were many.  She had an open-door policy and there was usually someone drinking tea in her kitchen whilst her Jack Russell scrabbled at their legs looking for scraps or attention.  As I had little experience of dogs, although we had owned a Border Collie cross in my childhood, I decided to ask Liz to come with me to look at the puppies.

              Liz was only too delighted to come along and we were both absolutely smitten with the tiny furry creatures who were no bigger than hamsters and not dissimilar to look at.  These long-haired Chihuahuas were much prettier than the short-haired variety and the one that stood out was a tiny fawn and white coloured puppy.  It seemed quieter and more docile and sat apart from the rest. I picked it up and it nestled in my palm, so I decided that this was the one for us.  I took photos of them all though and took them to contact to show M so that he could pick out his favourite.  He also picked the fawn coloured puppy, so it was decided.  Straight after contact I drove to the breeders and paid the deposit on the tiny hamster-like dog.

              The puppy couldn't come home for another six weeks as it had to be a certain age before the dealer could let it go, but meanwhile it gave M and I something to talk about and look forward to and I'd already checked to see whether I might be able to bring it to contact for him to play with.  The Contact Centre staff, who were by now, mainly supervising my contact with M, had no objection at all.  I was told that lots of children had contact with their pets at the centre and I also knew that one of the girls who worked there used to bring her Staffordshire Bull Terrier into work with her on occasion. 

              M and I spent the weeks leading up to getting the puppy, in choosing names.  I printed off a list of Mexican names and he picked the name Coco. 

              Meanwhile M was due to have a small operation for an undescended testicle.  I'd  been pushing for this to be done and he had had one side done already.  I knew that any delay could leave him infertile in later life, as it had a member of my own family.  The Department of course, were against anything I suggested, regardless what it was – it seemed for the sake of it.  They accused me of being over-solicitous to M’s health, despite all the medical evidence and the fact that M had been under the Urologist for a number of years.  In  fact the Urology Department were already negligent in that this operation should really have been done before he was five and he was now eight.  I'd been on their case the whole time, but they'd assured me it was not urgent, now they were saying it was already too late and if he became infertile the damage would already have been done. 

              The Department routinely objected to anything I put forward, regardless what is was or how sensible it was.  M had always had hay fever.  He has had the condition every year since he was four years old.  I would give him
Piriton
, an over the counter antihistamine.  My doctor has prescribed it for him since he was four and from Spring onwards he would need this.  However, the Department refused to allow him to have it and he was sniffing badly now and clearly very uncomfortable.  The Foster Carers wouldn't give it to him, insisting that he had a cold.  It was ridiculous when his medical notes bore out the fact that he had the condition.  I hated to see him suffering unnecessarily, but when I tried to point out that he needed his
Piriton
, I was accused of over-medicating him.  It was the same with M having been drowsy in the mornings at school.  The Paediatrician had prescribed him
Melatonin
for a short period before we had gone to the States to try to help him sleep as the forced contacts had been giving him nightmares.  I was then blamed for giving him the medication as prescribed.  This was the extent to which they twisted things and tried to demonise me.  It was anger making, and yet I had no power to change it.  Neither it seemed did my lawyers, who wrote letters and were constantly ignored.  In the end M started having nosebleeds as the lining of his nose had become inflamed, but still they would not give him the medication that would have brought him almost immediate relief. 

              With his operation now approaching, it was even more important that M was in good health.  He would be having an anaesthetic and would need to be able to breathe well, but once again my pleas for him to be allowed his meds fell on deaf ears, as did the diagnosis of M’s former GP.

              They had drawn up a schedule for the day at hospital that gave me one hour with M prior to his operation and one hour when he came round.   My father would also been given an hour with him following his op.  I bought some items of clothing for him which they had already agreed did not constitute as gifts, mostly because the Foster Carers didn't want to spend any money on clothes, and I managed to give him an
I-pod Nano
so he could listen to his favourite music by suggesting it was a late birthday present from a family member. by  

              On the day, I had brought in the new soft pyjamas, a sweatshirt and small cuddly toy - a few harmless items to comfort a young boy facing surgery when his mother would not be allowed to stay with him - I would later criticised these too. His father, by comparison, was allowed to buy him an extravagant gift with no criticism whatsoever.

              I arrived in good time on the Children’s ward and was naturally anxious.  Miss Whiplash and another Social Worker were already in the room with M.  The second Social Worker,  a man called Chris, was Liverpudlian and had supervised some of our contacts and on the whole seemed a decent sort.  He was someone who would join in with the games at contact and was kind to both M and I but he was quite different towards me today.  Now in the presence of the more senior Miss Whiplash, he was showed total allegiance to her. 

              I was heavily chastised for being five minutes early but was nonetheless allowed to come into the side room where M was now seated on the bed waiting anxiously for his operation.  I was proud of how well he was coping and how brave he was being.  He was naturally pleased to see me and we cuddled up and I read him a story to take his mind off the ordeal that lay ahead.  I'd  been told I would be called on my mobile once the operation was over and would be allowed into the recovery room, so I was able to reassure M that the first person he would see when he came round would be his mummy.  His little voice pressed, “Promise me Mummy you will be there.”  I held him tight as I assured him I would.

              The Department had written a new decree for the hospital visit that confirmed my two hours contact and that I could be there with him both when he went into surgery and directly afterwards.  With a written agreement, I felt secure in the knowledge that they would have to stick to their word for fear of the disapproval of the Court.

              Eric the Children’s Ward Manager, also Liverpudlian, seemed to be well known to both Miss Whiplash and Chris and the two men, it seemed, belonged to the same football club.  Eric's attitude to me, though, was openly hostile.  I mentioned the fact that M was sniffing and clearly congested, but he dismissed this, as did the anaesthetist when he came in and gave a cursory examination of M.  It seemed they had been primed not to pay any attention to anything I said.  My status as the mother who had raised him and cared for him until now, was suddenly inconsequential.  These people who barely knew my child, now made all the decisions and I was merely an unwanted visitor.

              The two Social Workers paid little attention to M, but sat in the room whispering and giggling together like school kids. I tried to ignore their insensitivity and focus only on giving M as much reassurance and comfort as I could.  Soon after they arrived to take him to theatre and I was allowed to walk with him to the pre-op room and wait with him before he went in for his operation.  I was with him right until he had his anaesthetic and watched his vulnerable little form fall asleep, leaving the room with tears in my eyes and hating, like any mother that he had to suffer any discomfort at all.