Helpless: A True Short Story
A dramatic short story from experienced foster carer Rosie Lewis.Baby Sarah is born to a crack-addicted mother on a freezing cold night in December. Rosie is woken a few short hours later, at 1am, and taken to the maternity unit by police escort to collect the infant and take her to a place of safety.But it soon becomes clear that Sarah is suffering from severe withdrawal symptoms. Knowing that separation is inevitable, Rosie tries to maintain a professional distance but that’s easier said than done.
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‘Course, I seen it all, love,’ Bob, my police escort, says as we drive through the cold November night towards the hospital. ‘Twisted car wrecks, stab victims, the lot, but I couldn’t do what you do, not for twice my police pension.’
Smiling, I re-check the contents of the hurriedly packed nappy bag on my lap, mentally running through the items I might need to get through the next twenty-four hours. Bob’s reaction isn’t surprising. Who wouldn’t be overwhelmed by the prospect of being permanently on duty? When I’m fostering, every second of my existence is dominated by the needs of the damaged child, but I don’t mind. Like many foster carers, I’m driven by a powerful need to ease their pain.
I remember myself as a child, walking by our local newsagents on the way to school. Outside the shop stood a little wooden figure of a beggar boy with polio, both legs fixed in metal callipers and a forlorn expression painted on his face. He held up a sign saying ‘Please give’ and there was a slot in the top of his head for pennies. Undeterred by the bird droppings across his shoulders, I would give him a quick hug, longing to take him home and make him better.
My pulse quickens as we pass over a deserted bridge lined with old-fashioned street-lamps. After seven years of fostering I still feel an intense excitement when taking on a new child. It’s only been a few days since my last placement ended and already I’m itching to fill the void.
As we drive past the riverside council blocks I’m reminded of one of my previous charges – three-year-old Connor, a boy who spent a large part of his day roaming the second floor of the grim building with his overfull nappy hanging at his knees while his mother familiarised herself with a string of violent, resentful partners. How fragile their lives are, I think, when nothing is certain and the events of one day can turn everything familiar upside down.
Soon we turn into a main road and the functional, rectangular building of the city hospital looms into view. Bob pulls the police car into the large parking area outside the maternity wing and I reach for the infant seat with trembling fingers, gripped by a sudden fear that I’m too out of practice to care for such a young baby.
Coming in from the knife-like wind, the warmth of the maternity unit engulfs me like a blanket. Another police officer stands guard outside the delivery suite and the sight causes my stomach to flip. What if the birth family find out where I live? Am I putting my own children at risk?
Bob seems to sense my apprehension, gently cupping my elbow and leading the way to reception. I show the midwife, a young but harassed-looking woman, my ID card. ‘I’ll call Sister for you,’ she says, checking her bleeper and hurrying off down the equipment-lined corridor.
My stomach churns as I pace the stark white corridors like an expectant father from another era, back in the days when convention kept men out of the delivery suite. A faint cry and the rhythmic thud of sensible shoes signals another breathless charge of adrenaline. Craning my neck, I catch a glimpse of Sister as she rounds the corner, a small, ruffled blanket in her arms. The weak cry gradually increases in volume until it sounds like an ailing but furious kitten. I suddenly feel light-headed and realise that I’m holding my breath.
‘Hello, dear,’ the middle-aged woman says, raising her voice to compete with the mewing. She lifts her glasses and squints at the ID badge hanging around my neck. ‘I’m told you’re a specialist carer?’
I nod, biting my lower lip. When I took the call at midnight from my fostering agency there was no mention of the need for specialised care. My pulse rises again, wondering what could be wrong – HIV? Hepatitis? I know from experience that foster carers are sometimes the last to find out such vital information.
Sister leans in conspiratorially. ‘We’d generally hang onto the poor mite for a bit longer but, well, you’ve probably been told, the family are making all sorts of threats.’
I nod again. Foster carers are often required to liaise with intimidating and hostile parents but tight budgets don’t usually stretch to the luxury of police escorts.
‘I suspect little Sarah has the tail end of something nasty in her system. We’re not entirely sure what Mum was on, though she claims to be teetotal.’
Don’t they all? I marvel, my heart sinking like a lift with a snapped cable. If she is withdrawing there’ll be a tough time ahead. For a split-second I wonder at my choice of career, until I feel her warm weight in the crook of my left arm. I’m taken aback by how light she feels, as if there’s nothing wrapped in the blanket but air.
Momentarily disorientated by the move, the baby stops shrieking and blinks around in surprise. The skin on her face is wrinkled and reddish. Milky eyes return my stare, narrowed pupils betraying the harsh substances running through her veins. Her expression is filled with a puzzlement that says, ‘Am I safe with you?’
