Cathy Glass - Cruel to Be Kind - Part 1 of 3

‘He needs to sit down,’ Jo said, coming in. ‘He’s got an inhaler in here somewhere.’ She began undoing the school bag she was holding as Max took hold of the doorframe and heaved himself over the doorstep into the hall.

‘Sit down here, love, until you get your breath,’ I said, directing him to the chair we kept in the hall by the telephone.

He dropped into it as Jo took his inhaler from his school bag, shook it and passed it to him. ‘Do you know how to use it?’ she asked.

Max nodded, gave it another shake, put it to his mouth, took a deep breath, held it and then exhaled. Jo looked as worried as I was.

‘I didn’t know he had an inhaler,’ I said to her. The foster carer should be told of any medical conditions during the first phone call about the child.

‘I didn’t know either until I collected him,’ Jo said, clearly stressed. Max took a second breath from his pump.

‘Has he got asthma then?’ I asked. Clearly I needed to know so I could be prepared.

‘I’m assuming so. I’ll find out when I see Caz later.’

Max had administered the second pump and now returned the inhaler to Jo. ‘It’s just two pumps?’ she asked him.

‘Yes,’ he said, his voice husky.

Jill appeared at the end of the hall. ‘Is everything all right?’ I could tell from the look on her face that she hadn’t been informed of Max’s asthma or obesity either. Paula had taken a few steps back and was looking at Max from a short distance, very concerned. In addition to the drama of him needing his asthma pump and Jo’s and my concern, this clearly wasn’t the child Paula had been expecting. He wasn’t simply chubby or what one would describe as a bit overweight; my guess was that he was at least twice the size he should have been, overfed to the point where it was obviously affecting his health and quality of life.

‘Shall we go into the living room?’ I suggested to Max now his breathing had settled. ‘I’ll fetch you a drink.’

The poor child heaved himself off the chair and not so much walked as waddled down the hall towards Jill. I always try not to judge, but seeing him in so much obvious discomfort, I thought that, assuming he didn’t have a medical condition, whoever had allowed him to get into this state, presumably his mother, was as guilty of child abuse as if he’d been beaten. This hadn’t happened overnight; it had taken years of over-eating – probably all his life – for him to get like this.

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