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 8

The following day, the letter I’d been waiting for from CAMHS arrived. Melody was to start play therapy the following Tuesday, for an hour a week, 4–5 p.m. When I told Melody she shrugged dismissively and said she could do painting and artwork here with me.

‘It’s a bit more than that,’ I said. ‘Marina will help you to sort out your feelings about what has happened.’

‘How?’ she asked.

I hesitated and realized I didn’t know. I’d taken plenty of children I’d fostered to CAMHS, but the carer or parent always stays in the waiting room while the child is with the therapist and there is virtually no feedback. I knew play therapy involved artwork and appeared to help some children, though not all, but I didn’t know any more than that. It occurred to me that perhaps foster carers should experience a play therapy session as part of their training so we had some understanding of how it worked. I made a mental note to suggest it to Jill when she next visited.

‘I’m not sure exactly how the play therapy does work,’ I admitted to Melody. ‘You could tell me if you like once you’ve started going.’ Which seemed to appeal to Melody.

‘OK. I’ll go, and give it a try,’ she said.

‘Good girl.’

I purposely hadn’t told Melody that Mr Wilson had died, for it would have raised the question – how did I know? Also, I rather hoped I wouldn’t need to tell her, as I felt she had enough sadness in her life to deal with without adding to it. I hoped she wouldn’t notice that he was no longer calling out from his room. How wrong I was.

On Friday, armed with our usual batch of iced cakes, fruit, biscuits and another card made by Melody for her mother, we went to the care home straight after school. I’d also put my camera in my bag, as I wanted to try to take at least one good photo of Melody with her mother and give them both a copy. We were greeted at the door by Mr and Mrs Bennett, gesticulating to be let out. The care assistant who opened it said that Amanda was in the lounge and we headed down the corridor. As we passed Mr Wilson’s room I glanced at Melody. A call buzzer could be heard bleeping from another room close by, but Mr Wilson’s door was closed and the room silent.

‘No Mr Aeroplane Man,’ Melody remarked.

‘No,’ I agreed. It was a statement, not a question, so I didn’t add anything and thought I’d got away with it.

Amanda was sitting as usual in one of the high-backed chairs at the edge of the room, looking clean and well dressed in the clothes donated to the care home. They kept all the residents looking very presentable. The patio doors leading to the courtyard were open and two residents were pacing up and down outside. Many of the residents paced from time to time and I supposed it was part of their illness, although I hadn’t seen Amanda do it yet. The occupational therapist sat at the table, helping two ladies play a game of cards. She said a welcoming hello and asked Melody if she’d liked to bring her mother to join in. I went with Melody to Amanda and said hello as Melody kissed her cheek. She asked her if she wanted to play cards and, without replying, Amanda stood and went to the table.

Once they were settled, I sat in the chair Amanda had vacated with a resident on either side. The two care assistants in the room were busy with other patients. From where I sat I could see the game of cards and it was very slow. It seemed to be a form of snap where the players were meant to shout ‘Snap!’ when two cards that were the same appeared from the pack, but it had lost its usual fervour as Amanda and the other two residents had to be told when to call ‘Snap’. I think it was more to help them recognize the cards than win a game, although of course at her age Melody couldn’t appreciate that. After two very slow, laborious games, when there was no competition and Melody won easily, she lost interest and asked her mother if she wanted to go to her room. Amanda ignored her and the occupational therapist began to collect up the cards, ready to deal again for another game. I saw Melody place her hand on her mother’s arm and tug slightly, as children do when they want to attract a parent’s attention. Amanda reacted by slapping her daughter sharply on her bare arm.

‘Ouch!’ Melody said, rubbing her arm. ‘That hurt, Mum!’

‘You mustn’t slap,’ the occupational therapist told Amanda firmly.

I went over. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Mum slapped me,’ Melody said, clearly shocked.

‘She didn’t mean to,’ I said. I’d heard care assistants before tell residents not to slap, pinch, thump or grab, but Amanda hadn’t behaved like this towards Melody before. I assumed it was another indication that her illness was progressing. Amanda remained unconcerned by what she’d done.

‘Amanda,’ I said, leaning in towards her. ‘Melody would like to go to your room with you now. Is that OK?’

Amanda looked at me and then at Melody, as if seeing her for the first time. ‘Go to my room,’ she repeated, and she stood and left the table.

I thanked the occupational therapist, and Melody and I followed Amanda out of the lounge and along the corridor. Although Mr Wilson’s room remained silent, Mr Andrews appeared from the opposite direction on his way to the ladies’ lounge making his ‘boo-boo’ sound.

‘Boo-boo,’ Amanda imitated as he passed.

Mr Andrews immediately stopped, turned and squared up to her. ‘Boooooooo!’ he shouted loudly, jutting out his chin aggressively.

‘Booooooo!’ Amanda yelled back, mimicking his posture.

Melody giggled, but I was concerned.

‘Come on, Mr Andrews,’ his care assistant said and, taking him by the arm, led him away.

Amanda looked as though she might go after him, so I linked my arm in hers and, drawing her away, said, ‘Melody wants to go to your room now.’ Which seemed to work and we continued along the corridor, Mr Andrews’ ‘boo-boo’ sound steadily receding. While the scene had had some comical elements, they had squared up to each other quite aggressively and if left unchecked it could have turned nasty. The care assistants often had to deal with small acts of aggression between the patients.

Once in Amanda’s room, Melody shared some of the cakes with her mother and then put the rest in the bedside cabinet and gave me the box from the previous week. At some point during our visits to her mother’s room Melody usually checked the cupboards and drawers to make sure her mother had everything she needed. Today in the top drawer she found the letter she’d written and was delighted. ‘Look, my letter! Did you read it, Mum?’

Amanda took the few steps across the room and snatched the letter, as she had with me the week before, and stuffed it into her pocket. Melody looked taken aback.

‘She probably thought you were going to take it from her,’ I suggested. ‘It’s very precious to her.’

‘I’m not going to take it, Mum,’ Melody told her. ‘I wrote it for you.’

Yet despite incidents like this Amanda still had flashes of lucidity and recognition. With the letter in her pocket for safekeeping, she took the photograph album from her bedside cabinet and, sitting on the bed, began looking through it, associating this act with Melody. Melody joined her, and as Amanda turned the pages Melody talked about each photograph as they had many times before. I thought it would make a nice picture – the two of them together – and I took my camera from my bag.

Melody, always happy to have her picture taken, smiled at the camera, but Amanda just looked blank.

‘Smile,’ I encouraged as I looked through the viewfinder. ‘Smile, Amanda.’ But no smile came. I hadn’t seen her smile in a long time and I knew that smiling was lost in patients with advanced dementia. I tried again without success and then took a picture. Although it wasn’t full face, it was nice and showed the two of them sitting close and looking at the album.

We stayed for an hour; it was long enough. When I said it was time to go Melody didn’t protest. ‘See you next week, Mum,’ she said. Then realized her mistake. ‘No. See you in two weeks.’ Neither of which meant anything to Amanda, for she’d long lost any sense of time.

She came out of the room with us and as we passed Mr Wilson’s room it remained quiet. Intrigued, Melody stopped and retraced her footsteps, stamping a little to see if she’d get a response. I knew then I’d have to tell her, but Amanda beat me to it. Having hardly said a word all visit, she suddenly said very clearly, ‘He’s dead.’ Then continued along the corridor to the main door.

Melody caught up with her. ‘What did you say, Mum?’ she asked.

Amanda looked at her nonplussed and didn’t repeat it.

‘I’ll explain once we’re outside,’ I told Melody.

Mr and Mrs Bennett appeared by the door and I saw Amanda looking at them with hostility for reasons I didn’t understand. Then, before the care assistant arrived to let us out, Amanda left and walked down the corridor in the direction of her room.

‘Bye, Mum!’ Melody called after her, but there was no reply.

As soon as we were outside Melody asked, ‘What did Mummy mean about Mr Aeroplane Man?’

I took her hand. ‘I’m afraid he’s died, love,’ I said gently as we walked. ‘He was very ill.’

‘Oh. My mummy is very ill. Will she die soon?’ Melody had asked me similar before and I always tried to be honest. ‘I don’t think your mummy will die yet,’ I said, ‘but you’re right, she is very ill.’ Melody accepted this, but again I wondered how much of her mother’s decline she should witness. It was impossible to predict how quickly the disease would progress, but from what I knew I thought it was likely that Amanda had many years before it proved fatal, by which time Melody would be older and hopefully able to understand and cope with what was happening. She’d also be in a better position to decide how often she wanted to see her.

On Saturday the weather was very warm for the end of May and while Adrian continued studying in his room, the girls and I went for a long walk in the woods – a local beauty spot not far away. On Sunday we went to see my parents, again leaving Adrian behind to study. He only had a couple more exams to do the following week and then he was finished, so it was worth making this last all-out effort. My parents were sorry he couldn’t make it but appreciated why he hadn’t come with us.

On Monday, once I’d taken Melody to school, I went into town and had two copies of the photograph I’d taken of Melody with her mother printed. I also bought two frames. Melody was delighted when I gave her one of the framed prints and she positioned it on the bookshelf in her bedroom so she could see it from her bed. She was looking forward to being able to do similar in her mother’s room when she saw her the following week. On Tuesday after school Melody began play therapy and she wasn’t impressed. She was fine going in with the other three children, but when she came out at the end of the session she was scowling. Dr Marina Short had brought the children into the waiting room to return them to their parents and carers and said to me, ‘I’ve had to explain to Melody that the artwork she’s done has to stay in the room and can’t be taken home.’

I knew this from other children I’d fostered who’d attended play therapy, but not the reason behind it. ‘Why is that?’ I now asked.

‘I wondered the same thing,’ another parent said.

Marina looked slightly taken aback. Perhaps no one had ever asked before. She took a breath and addressed us all.

‘Play therapy is designed to encourage the child to explore their personal world through art and craft. We provide a safe environment that allows them to get in touch with their innermost thoughts and feelings through the process of creation. These are sensory-based experiences – visual, tactile, kinaesthetic – which encourage the child to express and record their experiences, perceptions, feelings and imagination, which they may not be able to verbalize. What they produce is very personal to them and they may want to return to explore it at a later date, so we keep it here safe.’

There was a moment’s silence. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I think I understand.’

‘I don’t,’ the other woman said under her breath.

On Thursday evening we baked and iced cupcakes, ate two each and put the rest in the cake tin. This was the week Melody didn’t visit her mother, but I would still go. The following day I took some out for Amanda and wondered if any of my family would notice that the cakes were disappearing faster than would have been expected had it just been us eating them. My visit to Amanda that afternoon was very similar to my previous one. We spent some time in the lounge and then went to her room, where we looked through the photograph album. I’d no idea if Amanda knew who I was, although I told her a few times. Once she said Melody’s name as we looked at her photo. I said, ‘Yes, well done. That’s your daughter, Melody. She’s at school now. She’ll see you next week.’ But that was it. As usual I left her the box of cakes and replenished the fruit bowl. I also asked a care assistant if Amanda needed anything, but was reassured she didn’t.

Friday was also the last day of Adrian’s exams and when I returned home he was already in and relaxing. He would still have to go into school until the end of term, but the lessons were vocational for those who’d taken exams to help them decide on a career and choose the subjects they wanted to study at a higher level.

Jill paid one of her statutory visits the following week and, having updated her, I made my suggestion for including play therapy in foster-carer training to give us a better understanding of what happened in a session. She thought it was a good idea and said she’d pass on my suggestion. I also told her I was seeing Amanda every other Friday when Melody didn’t. She couldn’t see a problem with that but pointed out that if Melody found out I’d have to explain my reasons for not telling her. She also said it was nice of me to go. I shrugged off her comment. I wasn’t visiting Amanda to ‘be nice’. I was going because I had got to know her, was looking after her daughter, and because she was very much alone in the world. It reassured me as much as anything that she was being well looked after. I told Jill that I doubted Amanda knew who I was or remembered my visit after I’d gone.

‘Or maybe she does,’ Jill said, ‘in which case your visits are even more important.’

Our weekday routine continued and towards the end of June Lucy and Paula had end-of-year exams, and Neave visited. She didn’t have any more to tell me but said family finding was ongoing for Melody. I updated her on how Melody was doing, including swimming and her visits to her mother. I said I felt that Amanda’s disease had plateaued for the time being, as I hadn’t noticed much change in her in the last month, and Neave agreed that was the nature of the illness. I told her that Melody was a little ambivalent towards the play therapy but didn’t mind going. At some point Marina would write a report for Neave.

School broke up the third week in July for the long summer holidays, and as Melody was now at home I had to suspend my visits to Amanda on alternate Fridays, but obviously still took Melody as normal. Although the weather was lovely and some residents were outside in the courtyard, Amanda never wanted to go out – unlike Mr and Mrs Bennett. We always followed the same routine: spent time in the lounge (doing occupational therapy if the therapist was there), then went to Amanda’s room. One day when we arrived there was a police car parked outside.

‘I wonder what’s happened?’ Melody asked excitedly.

As we let ourselves in through the outer door we could see two police officers through the inner glass door talking to three members of staff, one of whom I recognized as the manager. Mr and Mrs Bennett were also there. Once we’d signed in and were admitted, I heard the manager thanking the police officers for returning them. I guessed she was referring to Mr and Mrs Bennett. In the lounge, I soon learnt that they had slipped out when the door had been left open during a delivery of catering supplies. Thankfully their absence had been noticed as soon as the lorry had left and the police had been called. They were found just ten minutes away, but the care home’s security was being reviewed, as clearly they and the other residents were highly vulnerable and could easily come to harm out alone. Having said that, you have to admire their persistence.

I hadn’t booked for us to go away during the school summer holidays, but we had plenty of days out, including trips to the coast, theme parks, the zoo and other places of interest that suited everyone. My children were growing up quickly and I knew it wouldn’t be long before they didn’t all want to come on every family outing, so I was making the most of it while they did. Adrian and Paula also saw their father. Lucy saw her birth mother very occasionally. She phoned if she was in the area, but we hadn’t heard from her for a while. Lucy had grown used to this and, although she loved her, she accepted her mother’s shortcomings.

Neave telephoned in respect of Melody’s next review, which was due in August. The previous two reviews had been held at Melody’s school but the school was closed for the summer holidays, so Neave asked if it could be held at my house – reviews are sometimes held in the foster carer’s home. I said that was fine and Melody could play in another part of the house until it was her turn to speak. Then, almost as an afterthought, Neave added, ‘The family-finding team think they may have found a good match. I’m going with them to meet the woman at the start of September. She’s away on holiday at present.’

‘Oh, really?’

‘Nothing is definite yet, so please don’t say anything to Melody.’

‘No, of course not. Who is she?’