Cathy Glass - Can I Let You Go?

‘It’s very pretty,’ I said. With a satin finish and a colourful flowery pattern, it was a welcome contrast to the drabness of her clothes.

‘I didn’t have a wash bag,’ Faye said. ‘So Grandpa asked our neighbour to buy one for me when she went shopping. He gave her the money. That’s was kind of him, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, it was. It’s beautiful,’ I said. ‘Lucky girl.’

She beamed and her whole face lit up.

Once the case was empty I stowed it on top of her wardrobe so it was out of the way. Then she took her towel and wash bag to the bathroom and I showed her where to put them: her towel on the rail next to ours and her wash bag on the shelf, ready for later. We returned to her room and unpacked her shoulder bag. It just contained her mobile phone, some well-thumbed women’s magazines, which Faye said were her gran’s, her hairbrush, some sweets and a small framed photograph of her grandparents which we placed on top of the chest of drawers. This photograph was the only object she’d brought with her that could personalize her room and I suggested that when we went shopping the following day she could choose some posters to put on the walls to make the room look more comfortable. I’d noticed she had some pictures of the Flower Fairies on her bedroom walls at home. Faye liked the idea and, giving me a hug, thanked me. It seemed a big treat for her.

I now suggested we went downstairs and looked through her maternity folder together. I needed to know how Faye was doing with her antenatal care and when her next appointments were, and it would be a reminder for her. I hoped it might also be a starting point for discussion about her baby. So far she hadn’t mentioned it and continued to behave as though it wasn’t there. She was happy to let me take the folder and we went downstairs where we settled side by side on the sofa with the folder open on my lap. The first few pages contained standard introductory information on the purpose and use of the folder, with emphasis on it needing to be kept with the patient and taken to all antenatal appointments. This was followed by the patient’s details: Faye’s name, address and telephone number (I’d give them mine too at the next appointment), date of birth, age, her doctor’s details and the date the baby was expected – 14 December. I’d thought it must be close to Christmas, but seeing it in print gave me a jolt. Faye would be giving birth and then parting with her baby only two weeks before Christmas, possibly closer if she overran her delivery date. The only consolation was that at least she would be home with her grandparents for Christmas.

I continued to the next page, explaining as I went. The results of Faye’s two ultrasound scans were included and they were normal. At the time of the second scan the sex of the baby can be ascertained with a reasonable degree of accuracy, and the parent(s) has the right to know if they wish. A note had been made by the nurse that Faye didn’t want to know the sex of her baby, which was obviously her decision and perhaps understandable, as she wouldn’t be playing any part in its life. While I’d been talking through the notes I’d noticed that Faye had been looking around the room, largely indifferent to the information, much of which was interesting and illustrated with diagrams. I’d been expecting her to ask questions or make comments as she had been doing about other things, for she didn’t appear shy any more.

‘So you’ve had two scans and everything is fine,’ I said, trying to engage her.

She shrugged, and I wondered if she hadn’t understood what a scan was or didn’t remember having the scans. ‘You know when you went to the hospital and the nurse put cold gel on your tummy, and there was a picture on the screen? It says here Gran was with you.’

Faye gave a half-hearted nod and continued to gaze around the room. I returned to the folder. I read that Faye was going to give birth in the hospital rather than the birthing centre, but there was no mention of a birthing partner.

‘Is Gran going to be your birthing partner?’ I asked, for clearly she needed someone there.

Faye shrugged again, so I wondered if she hadn’t understood. ‘A birthing partner is someone close to you, who stays with you while you are in labour. They help and support you. Will Gran be with you when you have your baby?’ I tried again, rephrasing it.

For the first time since I’d met Faye her face set. Losing her open, happy disposition, she now looked grumpy. ‘Don’t say that word,’ she said, frowning.

‘What? Baby?’ I asked, puzzled.

‘Yes. We don’t talk about that.’

I looked at her carefully. ‘Faye, love, we are going to have to talk about it. You are having a baby and I need to help you prepare for that.’

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ she said again. ‘Gran knows that. You have to be like Gran.’

This completely threw me. How was I going to help prepare her for what was to come, which was part of my role, if she refused to talk about it? If she wasn’t prepared, labour was going to be a very frightening experience for her.

‘You can read it,’ she said. ‘But don’t talk to me about it. That’s what Gran does.’

‘OK.’ I’d wait until she’d been with me longer and I’d had a chance to speak to her social worker, Becky, on Monday. I didn’t want to upset Faye, but on the other hand she needed to know how her pregnancy was progressing and how the baby would be born. Perhaps she already knew about childbirth, but it was possible she didn’t. If not, I had some literature that I used with children that would help explain the process.

I continued going through the folder, looking for the appointment schedule, without making any further comment while Faye gazed around the room. I found a note saying that Faye wouldn’t be attending the standard antenatal classes, nor the workshop on breastfeeding, as it wasn’t considered appropriate, but she would join the group for a tour of the maternity unit. I didn’t know if it wasn’t considered appropriate because of her learning difficulties or because she was giving up the baby. Becky had said that she hoped being away from her grandparents might encourage Faye to start opening up and maybe identify the baby’s father and the circumstances in which they’d met, but clearly that wasn’t going to happen while she denied the existence of a baby. However, it was still early days.

Once I’d found the list of appointments I closed the folder. ‘Good. Everything is going well,’ I said with a cheerful smile. ‘Do you have any questions?’

‘Not about that,’ she said, prodding the folder. ‘But can I play with Sammy?’

‘Yes, of course, if he’s in the house.’

‘I’ll go and look for him,’ she said. She stood and with childlike enthusiasm went off in search of Sammy. I heard her go upstairs and then Paula’s voice on the landing as they began a conversation. I put away the folder and went into the kitchen to begin the preparations for dinner. Sammy wasn’t in the house, but as soon as he heard me in the kitchen he shot in through the cat flap in search of his dinner.

Adrian texted to say he’d be having dinner with Kirsty and would see us later, so the girls and I ate together at around six o’clock. Faye had a good appetite but ate and drank using the same slow, measured movements with which she approached everything. When she’d finished she carefully set her knife and fork in the centre of her clean plate.

‘You’re a pleasure to cook for,’ I said.

‘It was nice,’ she said. ‘Better than we have at home.’

‘You shouldn’t say that,’ Lucy admonished with a laugh.

‘But it’s true!’ Faye protested. With her naïve approach to life and lack of inhibition, she said things as she saw them, unencumbered by tact or diplomacy.