Rosie Lewis - Angels in Our Hearts

The rest of the night passes in a blur as I continuously walk the length of my bedroom, trying to console her. As winter sunlight creeps into the room she finally settles and I ease her into her crib, dummy in position and tightly swaddled. Padding to the kitchen, I reach for the coffee jar like a drowning woman to a dinghy. I’m grateful when my mother offers to feed Sarah if she wakes, allowing me the time to write up my daily record sheet and prepare bottles for the next twenty-four hours. It feels surreal to be sterilising feeding equipment again.

My whole body aches with tension as I wave Emily and Jamie off to school a couple of hours later. Tiredness makes me feel like I’m wading through petroleum jelly and by mid-morning, as my mother gathers her bags, I feel a moment’s panic at being left alone with Sarah.

Mum brushes a kiss on my cheek. ‘Talk later. I hope she settles for you.’

I’m tempted to grip her arm and plead with her to stay but I remind myself that I’m nearly forty, not a teenaged first-time mum. ‘I’m sure we’ll be fine,’ I say, smiling with a confidence I don’t feel.

We spend the rest of the morning walking from the front door to the kitchen and then back again, interrupted only by regular pit-stops at the kettle to warm her bottles. She seems to drink more if she sucks while we stroll; I think the movement distracts her from the painful cramps in her stomach. By 1 p.m. nausea sets in and I realise that I haven’t eaten for hours. Lunch is a few hurried handfuls of nuts and a clumsily buttered piece of bread, eaten as we complete yet another circuit of the kitchen.

Emily willingly takes the baton and makes laps of the house when she gets in from school so that I can toss a quick stir-fry together.

‘It won’t be like this for ever,’ I reassure Emily and Jamie as they eat. ‘In a few weeks she’ll be rolling around the carpet and cooing at us.’

‘We know Mum, don’t worry.’

With fostering, there are times when my attention is stretched a little too thinly and, I muse with a twinge of guilt, we have experienced a number of difficult placements over the years. Kissing their heads, I remind myself that there are lots of positives for birth children in fostering families and at least I’m around for them at the end of the school day.

Before her last bottle I attempt a shower. Securing Sarah in her bouncy chair, I flick the switch to vibrate and carry her to the bathroom. She immediately objects, traumatised by the separation. In record speed I remove my clothes and jump into the steamy hot jets, her howls already at fever pitch. Within seconds her face is purple and she’s reached the holding breath stage so I stumble out and wriggle into my dressing gown even though I’m still soaking wet.

We both sigh with relief when she’s back in my arms, her ear pressed against my heart. With pyjamas damp and twisted, I climb into bed, Sarah’s tiny ribs vibrating against mine as her sobs subside. The arm she is resting on falls asleep but she is so peaceful that I dare not move to get the blood flowing. Barely twenty minutes later she starts to howl again, the muscles in her tiny body trembling violently.

By 3 a.m. I shiver with exhaustion as I offer her a third bottle in as many hours. She only seems able to take half an ounce or so at a time, her stomach making sounds like mini-explosions as she feeds. Sinking my head back, I close my eyes and pray for some reprieve, only to be woken minutes later by an inordinate volume of milk soaking my chest. How she manages to bring so much up I’ll never fathom, with her taking so little in.

Back on my feet, I pace the room but this time even movement won’t soothe her. Her piercing shrieks addle my brain and I start to panic, until it occurs to me to sing.

My voice croaky from tiredness, I stand at the window with Sarah in my arms and sing ‘Hush, Little Baby’. I didn’t even realise I knew all the words. Serenading the empty moonlit street, I wonder if I’m the only person awake in the whole of the north of England. My head thuds with exhaustion and I sing with my eyes half-open, just enough to make out her shape through my eyelashes. I’m surprised to find her watching me with a little frown, as if she’s trying to make sense of every tuneless word.

As she clenches a tight hold of my finger and locks eyes with mine, I’m filled with renewed confidence that we’ll both get through this ordeal just fine.

When I wake at 5:30 a.m. the low thud in my head has become a throbbing pain, my crusty eyes aching. I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror and quickly look away, deciding my time will be far better spent trying to make the house look neater than attempting the mammoth task of tidying myself up. Desmond, my supervising social worker, and Sue, Sarah’s own social worker, are visiting this morning for the placement planning meeting and I want to appear as if I’m in full control. After waving my own children off to school I scan the living room, hardly knowing where to start. I’d forgotten how someone so little can cause such an inordinate amount of chaos.

Tucking her nappies and wipes in the magazine rack, my back strains with the effort of cleaning with Sarah attached to my chest. I decide to give up and let them take me as they find me. I’ll be no use to anyone if my back goes. An hour later, as I make one final effort by sweeping the detritus of the morning into the cupboard under the stairs, the doorbell rings.

‘Hi, Desmond,’ I say, genuinely pleased to see him. Desmond has been my link worker from the fostering agency ever since I registered, and we quickly established a rapport. Only a few years older than me and with a Scottish lilt to his voice, I feel comfortable in his company and able to speak to him with complete frankness, something I fear I will be unable to do in the presence of the social worker who follows him in.

I have never met Sue before – a tall, formidable-looking woman in her fifties with short, permed black hair. As I welcome them into the living room, Sue fills the space with the scent of her musty perfume. ‘Can she breathe in that thing?’ she asks, arching her pencilled-in eyebrows at the harness.

She reminds me of my old religious studies teacher, her disapproving voice strained after years of being hugely irritated by unruly children.

‘Of course, she’s comforted by the closeness and …’ I answer falteringly before trailing off. Sue has sat herself down and is removing a diary from her large canvas bag, not even listening. Desmond raises his eyebrows.

‘Well, I can’t stay long.’ Sue thrusts a copy of the placement agreement towards me and I smile weakly, tiredness minimising my ability for small talk. ‘Check through and sign the last page. I need to get back to the office before lunch.’

Within ten minutes and without even asking how the baby is doing, Sue informs me that I must take Sarah for contact with her birth mother in the morning. Then, with a withering expression, she says goodbye.

The next morning I wake to a leaden, cold sky. It rains hard and steady from 5 a.m. and continues incessantly as I drive along unfamiliar country roads and through the black wrought iron gates of the psychiatric hospital. Stumbling through the sodden lawns with Sarah sleeping in the car seat lodged in the crook of my arm, my socks wringing wet and clinging to me, I feel a stab of irritation towards Sue, Sarah’s social worker.

During her whirlwind visit she neglected to mention that Sarah’s birth mother had been detained under a section of the Mental Health Act 1983 after attacking one of the midwives with her dinner fork. Taking a deep breath to calm myself, I stagger across the sprawling grounds towards the hospital, wondering whether the car-seat manufacturer enjoys a practical joke with its customers by putting rocks in the base of their products. Bare trees cast skeletal shadows across the grounds and rolls of barbed wire atop the high boundary walls are a reminder that the hospital building, a large old country house with ivy-covered red brick, is not the setting for an episode of Downton Abbey .