Читать книгу Where Has Mummy Gone?: Part 3 of 3: A young girl and a mother who no longer knows her - Cathy Glass, Cathy Glass - Страница 6

Bad news never seems to come alone. I had time to go home first before I needed to collect Melody from school, but as I let myself in Adrian immediately appeared in the hall looking very worried. My first thought was that the exam he’d sat that morning hadn’t gone well, but then he said, ‘Mum, there’s something wrong with Toscha. She’s in her bed and won’t get up. I’ve tried to tempt her with food, but she’s just lying there and her nose is running.’

I quickly followed him into the kitchen-diner where Toscha had her basket in one corner. She was never in her bed during the day. We knelt beside her and I stroked her. She looked so poorly and hadn’t the energy to raise her head, and her eyes were watering. ‘I’ll phone the vet,’ I said, straightening.

‘Here’s the number,’ Adrian said, handing me a piece of paper. ‘I was going to phone them, then you came in.’

‘Thanks, love. Can you get the pet carrier from the cupboard under the stairs? It’s right at the back.’ The carrier was only normally used once a year to take Toscha to the vet for her annual check-up and vaccination – I couldn’t remember her ever being ill before.

I used the handset in the kitchen to phone the vet. They ran an appointments system, but when I described Toscha’s symptoms the receptionist said to bring her in straight away, as there was a nasty flu-type virus appearing in local cats, which could be fatal in older animals. I felt my heart twist and said I’d be there in ten minutes. Adrian and I gently lifted Toscha into the carrier. Normally she had to be tempted in with treats, but now she was too ill to protest. A lump rose in my throat. Toscha had been part of our family for as long as anyone could remember.

‘I’ll come with you,’ Adrian said, picking up the carrier.

‘Thanks but what about studying for your exam tomorrow?’

‘I won’t be able to concentrate until I know she’s OK.’

He carried her to the car and then sat on the back seat with her on his lap, talking to her in a soothing voice. It was only ten minutes to the vet and I was able to park right outside. Adrian carried her in. I went to the reception desk to check in as Adrian sat on a chair with Toscha in the carrier on his lap. There was one other lady in the waiting room, elderly, with a small dog on her lap. Usually Toscha would have hissed at a dog, but now she remained unnaturally quiet.

‘The vet won’t be long,’ the receptionist said. ‘She’s with another emergency, but you’ll go in next.’

‘Thank you so much,’ I said, and sat next to Adrian.

‘Are you the ones with the very sick cat?’ the woman asked.

‘Yes.’ I guessed the receptionist had told her and that we would see the vet ahead of her.

‘I hope your cat is OK. Albert is just here for his check-up.’

I raised a smile and nodded and assumed Albert was her dog. I think she would have liked to chat, but I was too worried about Toscha to make conversation. I also had one eye on the clock. If I was going to be late collecting Melody from school I’d have to phone and let them know. Five minutes ticked by with Toscha remaining unnaturally quiet and still, and then a veterinary assistant came out and showed us through to a consultation room.

The vet was waiting there and we carefully lifted Toscha out of the carrier and put her on the examination table. Adrian and I were silent as the vet looked in Toscha’s eyes, ears and throat, then listened to her chest and took her temperature.

‘When did she fall ill?’ the vet asked.

‘This morning,’ I said. ‘It was very sudden. She seemed fine first thing, although I noticed she didn’t eat all her breakfast. Then when my son came home at midday he found her in her basket like this.’

‘I’m sure it’s the new strain of feline influenza that’s appeared. It comes on very quickly, even in cats that have been vaccinated. I’ll give her a shot of antibiotics now and a course of oral antibiotics for you to continue at home. I want to see her again on Monday, but if she worsens over the weekend then phone our emergency out-of-hours number.’ I nodded. ‘Keep her calm and try to get her to drink. Don’t worry too much about food. She won’t feel much like eating while she’s feeling poorly. She’s an old cat, so let’s hope for the best.’ I heard her warning, as did Adrian.

‘She will be all right, won’t she?’ he asked.

‘The next forty-eight hours are crucial,’ she said. ‘Do you have any other cats?’

‘No.’

‘Keep her in and away from other cats, as the virus is very contagious. I’ll get the medicine.’

She left and Adrian and I stroked Toscha, who was on her front, legs tucked under her and head down. I could see how worried Adrian was. He doesn’t easily show his feelings, but he was close to tears.

‘She’s strong,’ I said, touching his arm. ‘I’m sure she’ll pull through.’

‘I hope so,’ he said. ‘I know she’s old, but I’m not ready to say goodbye to her yet.’ His voice broke.

The vet returned and prepared the antibiotic injection. I steeled myself for the needle going in, but Toscha was so poorly she didn’t murmur. Adrian and I stroked her as the vet talked us through how and when to give the oral antibiotics, then we gently lifted Toscha back into the carrier. I thanked the vet and we returned to reception to pay and make the follow-up appointment for Monday. Another couple with a pet carrier had joined the woman with her lapdog, Albert. As we left she said goodbye and hoped our cat was better soon. I thanked her.

Toscha was quiet on the drive home. Usually by now – on her annual trip to the vet – she would have had enough of being in the carrier and would meow constantly, calling us all sorts of names. Her silence deepened our concern, and Adrian and I were quiet too.

Once home, we settled Toscha in her basket again and I left Adrian trying to tempt her to drink some water, as I had to collect Melody from school. I arrived in the playground a few minutes late and Miss May was waiting with Melody. I walked swiftly over.

‘I’m so sorry I’m late. I had to take our cat to the vet,’ I explained. ‘She’s got cat flu.’

‘Oh dear, I hope she’s all right,’ Miss May said, concerned. ‘Melody’s told me all about her. Toscha, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, that’s right. She’s on antibiotics.’

‘She’ll be better soon then,’ she said positively.

I didn’t go into more detail and sound the warnings the vet had done – that the disease could be fatal in older cats. I thanked Miss May for looking after Melody, wished her a nice weekend and said goodbye.

‘What’s the matter with Toscha?’ Melody asked, worried, as we walked away. Despite her early animosity towards Toscha, she was now very good with her and often stroked and talked to her just as we did.

‘She’s got cat flu,’ I said. ‘We have to look after her and keep her quiet so she can rest.’

‘My mum knew a man who died from flu,’ Melody said.

‘Yes, it can happen.’

‘I hope Toscha doesn’t die.’

‘So do I, love.’ I put off telling her about Mr Wilson.

At home I found Lucy and Paula sitting beside Toscha’s bed, stroking her, clearly very concerned. Adrian had told them how ill she was, and was now in his room trying to study. I explained to them what the vet had said – that the next forty-eight hours were crucial and she needed water but not to worry if she didn’t want to eat. Melody joined them for a while and then I suggested they left Toscha to rest.

That evening we had fish for dinner and normally Toscha would have been purring around our legs, hoping for a titbit, but now she stayed in her bed with her eyes closed and with no interest in food.

‘I expect the antibiotics have made her tired,’ I suggested, but it was clear to all of us that she was very ill.

I cancelled the visit to my parents that weekend. They understood I needed to be at home to take Toscha to the vet if her condition worsened. I was the first one downstairs on Saturday morning and I opened the door to the kitchen-diner with some trepidation, scared of what I might find. But as I approached Toscha’s bed her head moved and she opened her eyes a little, although she made no attempt to stand. Normally she would have already been out of bed by now, meowing for her breakfast. I saw that the food and water in her bowl were untouched. I stroked her, made myself a coffee, and then gave her the first dose of the liquid antibiotic using the pipette provided. She couldn’t be bothered to resist and swallowed the medication I squirted into her mouth. I then had the idea of using the pipette to give her some water. I filled a tumbler, drew water into the pipette and slowly released it into her mouth. She swallowed and I refilled the pipette twice more, then her eyes closed and she went back to sleep. The next forty-eight hours were crucial, the vet had said.

As the rest of the family came down their first question was, ‘How is Toscha?’ They went to her bed and stroked her, and then I suggested they left her to sleep. Toscha stayed in her bed all day Saturday and had nothing to eat, although when I gave her the other two doses of medicine – midday and evening – I managed to give her some water using the pipette. That evening everyone made a point of stroking and saying goodnight to her before they went to bed. I knew what they were doing – saying goodbye, just in case.

I was the last to go to bed and before I went I found the old cat litter tray in the cupboard under the stairs and set it beside her bed in case she needed the toilet in the night. Normally Toscha was very clean and went to the toilet in the garden, but she hadn’t been out since early Friday morning.

I didn’t sleep well and was wide-awake at 2 a.m. so I went downstairs to check on her. She was just as I’d left her the night before – no better, but no worse. However, when I went down on Sunday morning I found that the litter tray was wet, which I took as a very good sign. Toscha was in her bed, but her eyes were open. I stroked her and offered her some food, but she didn’t want any. I gave her the antibiotics in the pipette, followed by some water.

She was still in her bed when the children came down, but everyone agreed she was looking a bit better. Our hopes were up, although I sounded a note of caution that she was still very poorly. Melody hadn’t been out at all on Saturday, so I said I’d take her swimming and left Adrian, Paula and Lucy at home, keeping an eye on Toscha. Melody was slowly gaining confidence in the water and we were gradually building on this each week, although she still relied on armbands even in the shallow water. We didn’t stay for a drink in the café as we usually did but went straight home. As we entered the house the smell of fish greeted us. In the kitchen we found Lucy and Paula beside Toscha’s bed with an open tin of smoked salmon.

‘Look, Mum! She’s eating again!’ Paula cried excitedly.

‘She’s had a lot,’ Lucy added.

I wasn’t sure about ‘a lot’, but Toscha was licking little flakes of salmon from their fingers. ‘Wonderful,’ I said. ‘That’s a really good sign.’ The atmosphere in the house lightened.

Lucy, Paula and Melody fed Toscha flakes of salmon in her basket from time to time throughout the day, and I gave her the antibiotics and water in the pipette. That evening as we sat down to dinner Toscha finally left her basket and walked unsteadily to the back door. ‘She wants to do her toilet in the garden,’ I said, immediately standing to let her out. ‘She must be feeling better.’

She was very slow in her movements and unsteady on her feet, just as humans are when they first get up after flu. She’d also lost weight, but she’d put that back on once she started eating properly again; that she was well enough to go outside and dig a hole to do her business in was huge progress. I waited outside for her and she made a brave attempt to cover over her toilet but was clearly exhausted and staggered back indoors. She sat in the kitchen just looking around, probably pleased to be feeling a bit better. Her eyes had stopped watering and her nose running, but she didn’t want anything else to eat or drink. Reassured by her progress, we all went to bed that night feeling much easier.

When I came down on Monday morning I was delighted to find Toscha out of bed and meowing for something to eat. Her food and water bowls were empty, so she must have eaten and drunk in the night. I gave her the rest of the salmon and replenished her water, and told her she was going to be fine. Her movements were still a little uncertain, but I knew she was out of danger now. When the family came down they were relieved and delighted. So often we take our pets for granted. Toscha had always been part of our family and we’d assumed she always would be. This was a timely reminder that we are all mortal. I know some parents don’t have pets, as they believe it’s too upsetting when they pass, but I think that the joy they bring outweighs the loss when they do pass. Thankfully we didn’t have to face that yet.

I took Toscha to the vet that morning for her follow-up appointment and the vet was delighted she was looking so much better. She examined her and took her temperature, which was now normal. She said her throat was still a little sore and I should continue giving her the antibiotics until the end of the week, but that I needn’t bring her in again unless I had any concerns. I thanked the vet for all she’d done and as I lifted Toscha into the carer she meowed in protest. Never had her meow sounded so sweet!

Crisis over, normality returned. Neave visited on Wednesday after school, mainly to explain to Melody why contact with her mother had been reduced and the plans they had for her. Neave said I could stay in the living room with them. She sat opposite us and leaned slightly forward towards Melody as she spoke.

‘You’ve done really well while you’ve been living at Cathy’s, and have surprised us all. Because you’ve made such good progress we think you would be very happy in an adoptive home. Do you know what that means?’

Melody shook her head.

‘It’s a forever family where you stay for good and become a permanent member of that family. All families are different. Some have one parent, some two, and some families have a lot of children, while others only have one, so they have all the attention. We are looking for a special family for you where there will just be you and the mummy, like you used to have before you came here.’

I see, I thought, so she certainly wouldn’t be staying with me then. I looked at Melody sitting beside me as Neave continued her spiel, selling Melody the idea of a single-parent adoptive family where she would be the only child. The family-finding team usually come up with a profile of the family they are looking for, which includes factors like ethnicity, whether the child should be the only child and, if not, should they be the youngest in the family (or didn’t that matter). This was to ensure the child felt comfortable and to give them the best chance of bonding with their new family, and the family with the child. However, in profiling the ideal family, the social services were of course limiting their options. I thought the chances of finding a single woman with no other children who wanted to adopt an eight-year-old with a history of challenging behaviour were pretty slim. When Neave got to the end she asked Melody if she had any questions.

‘Why can’t I see my mummy every week?’

‘Mummy is very ill,’ Neave said. ‘It must be difficult for you, seeing her so poorly.’

‘No, it’s not, I have fun. I make jewellery and things.’

‘Good. But your mummy doesn’t know you are there.’

‘Yes, she does.’

‘Maybe she still does sometimes, but there will come a time when she doesn’t know who you are, which will be very upsetting for you.’ While this was harsh, it was also true and something I’d considered. I did have concerns about Melody witnessing her mother’s decline and for this reason I hadn’t opposed the reduction in contact.

‘You will still see your birth mummy,’ Neave said, introducing the term, ‘but not as often. And when we find an adoptive mother you will be seeing her lots before you go to live with her.’

Melody just stared at Neave. It was a lot for her to take in all in one go: the idea of loosening the bond with her birth mother so she could transfer her affection to someone she had yet to meet. But it was standard practice to introduce the idea of a forever family early on – if that was in the care plan – so the child had time to adjust and get used to the idea.

‘I know it’s difficult for you,’ Neave said with a reassuring smile. ‘You did a great job looking after your mother and now it’s time to let others look after her so you can get on with your life.’

True, I thought, but easier said than done.