TAKE HIM HOME AND ENJOY HIM
‘Take him home and enjoy him.’
The words echoed through the hospital corridor, bouncing off the walls hitting me hard and fast like a squash ball.
I wanted to scream.
Where did I go wrong?
I packed up smoking as soon as the blue line appeared on the test kit I’d bought on my way to school that morning. I reached into the bottom of my bag, fished out the squashed packet of Silk Cut, lit one, took a long drag and promised the baby and myself it would be my last. Mum was standing at the kitchen sink, peeling potatoes when I got home that afternoon. I walked over and put my head on her shoulder. She turned her head and kissed me.
‘Mum—I’m pregnant.’ To my surprise, there was no shouting, no hysterics, and no lecture, just a look of concern and possibly exhaustion followed by;
‘Oh, Claire!’
While Coke bottles laced with vodka, scotch or anything alcoholic were being sipped at the end of term disco, I clutched a bottle of mineral water feeling just as woozy. I was already throwing up at regular intervals and had no trouble convincing my friends that my water bottle had contained vodka and lemonade.
George I called him.
Gorgeous George. Born 9th February 1996
The date made history. I was familiar with the phrase: He came into the world with a bang. For George, it was true. Canary Wharf was bombed forty minutes before my little man made his difficult journey into the world.
MAY 1996
I’d been asked all the usual questions at George’s routine six-week check-up, but a few weeks later, I was back in the surgery answering the same questions all over again.
‘Is he smiling?’
‘Was it a normal delivery?’
If the doctor considered being strangled on his way out normal, then yes, it was a normal delivery, but somehow it didn’t seem normal to me.
‘Is he feeding okay?’A question mark was placed beside that one. He was still very slow, sometimes taking a couple of hours, rolling the teat—chewing rather than sucking.
‘Any major concerns?’
‘Yes—No—Oh—I don’t know. I’m not sure.’
Say it, just say it!
‘I think there’s something wrong with him. His head is still really wobbly.’
‘Okay, let’s take a look.’
I undressed him down to his nappy and laid him on the couch. He wasn’t our usual GP but a supply doctor, who happened to be a paediatrician. I sensed something wasn’t right when he held George’s hands and pulled. His expression changed. He looked puzzled.
‘Hmm. I think to be on the safe-side, I’m going to refer him to a consultant paediatrician at Guys. I don’t think there’s any major cause for concern, but I’m not entirely happy with his head control.’
‘No major cause for concern’. Then why—just two hours later—was a health visitor knocking on our door?
It didn’t sink in right away. She was a cheerful African lady with a thick accent, whose words came out in one melodic sentence.
‘Hello, Claire. We-ava-bed-for Jodge.’
‘A bed?’
I knew her. She lived upstairs to Nan with her two boys. One of them had shimmied down the drainpipe into Nan’s back garden one day. He held a piece of cardboard up at the window: HELP I AM BEING HELD PRISONER. It’s a wonder he didn’t fall and break his neck. Nan told him she’d break it for him if she caught him in her garden again.
For a split second, I thought she was trying to sell me a cot. George’s cot cost almost £300. He didn’t need a bed. Did she think we were poor or something?
‘Did you say you had a bed for George? Are you sure you’ve come to the right house?’ I asked.
‘We-ava-bed-for-Jodge.’ What did she mean?
She handed me the fax message. I skim-read it. 6.30pm, Ronnie McKeith ward. Change of clothing, nappies etc.
Panic set in.
It was serious!
No one gets an appointment the same day. Let alone admitted the same night.
Oh God! Whatever’s wrong with him?
Mum! Where’s Mum? A few minutes later Mum walked through the door with Ronnie and Alex, my youngest brother and sister.
‘Calm down, Claire.’ She said ushering Ronnie and Alex into the living room. She turned on the TV and sat them down. ‘Listen, kids. I’ll make you some sandwiches and a drink in a little while, okay? I just need to talk to Claire for a minute.’
I watched her face as she read the fax message. She took a deep breath, trying not to look worried, but I could tell she was. My heart started beating really fast as if it was going to pop right out of my chest. If Mum was worried—
‘Okay—’ she said, taking full control. ‘Let me just sort the kids out, then you go up and get yourself ready. I’ll give George a bath. Don’t worry, I’ll sort him out.’
‘Will you come with me?’
‘Course I will! I’ll call Dad, tell him what’s happened; tell him to bring the kids some dinner in with him.’
I was a mess.
I bent down to get my sports bag from under the bed and went dizzy. Thought I was going to faint. For a few minutes, I walked round in circles. Didn’t know what the hell I was doing, opening and closing wardrobe doors. Fishing around in drawers, not having a clue what I was looking for. I sat on the edge of the bed clutching my head to stop it from spinning. My body shook, dry-sobbing. No tears.
Right...Think...
Babygros...vests... nappies.
I took a deep breath, opened the drawer, reached in and found what I was looking for.
Mum was talking to Dad at the bottom of the stairs.
‘Why? What’s wrong?’ I heard him ask.
‘Tests. That’s all it said. Doctor said he’d arrange an appointment, and then she came round with this.’
‘Bloody hell! What do you reckon it is?’
I didn’t hear Mum’s answer. It was drowned out by my little sister, Alex, stomping up the stairs. She threw her arms around me, sobbing.
‘Hey! What’s up, babe?’
‘Nothing.’
‘What are you crying for?’
‘I—I don’t want George to go to hospital,’ she said, hardly able to take a breath.
I grabbed a tissue from the dressing table and wiped her eyes.
‘No. Nor do I, babe, but they’re gonna make him better. They made your teeth better, didn’t they?’
She nodded and looked up at me with her huge hazel eyes.
‘But there’s nothing wrong with George. He hasn’t even got any teeth.’
‘No. But he’s got a stiff neck. Please don’t get upset, ‘cos you’ll make me upset, okay?’
She nodded and sniffed. ‘Can I give him a cuddle before he goes?’
I tickled her, forcing her to laugh. ‘Course you can, you soppy sausage! You gotta sit on the settee, though. Go downstairs and tell Dad I said you can hold him.’
Alex was only seven, but she was a real worry-guts. I imagined what was going through her mind...
Granddad— He went into hospital...
‘Claire—shall I put his coat on?’ Mum called up.
‘Yeah, I’m ready. Just gotta brush my teeth.’
As we walked through the door of the children’s ward, my belly somersaulted. I felt sick. I hate hospitals.
Our heels clomped down the corridor causing a nurse to crane her head around the nurses’ station.
Duh-duh-dudud-duh.
‘Ah, this must be our George,’ the nurse said, stroking his cheek.
I smiled nervously, trying not to stare at her freckles—bright orange ones. Even her arms looked orange. ‘We’ve been waiting for you, little man. It’s Claire, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, that’s right.’
‘Hello, Claire. And this is?’
‘Sue. My mum.’
‘I thought so. You really look alike. Hi, Sue. I’m Sandy, if you’d like to follow me?’ She led us to an empty cot, lowering one side. ‘If you could get George settled, then I’ll come back in a little while and get you to answer a few questions, if that’s okay?’
‘Okay, that’s fine.’
‘There are no set visiting hours on the children’s wards, so feel free to come and go as you please, but if you could just let us know when you’re going home for the night...’
‘I’m not leaving him!’
‘No! That’s absolutely fine. We’ll get a bed made up for you. I’ll be back in a little while. Give me a shout if you need anything.’
‘Okay, thanks. Do you know how long they’re going to keep him?’
‘A few days, I would imagine, but the doctors will be able to tell you more in the morning.’
I looked at Mum, she looked at me. I was scared; she tried not to be.
A little while later, Sandy came back. She put wrist and ankle-bands on George and a wrist band on me. Mother of...
After Sandy had finished with all the questions, Mum gave me a hug and left. She promised to be back as soon as she’d got the kids off to school in the morning.
It was just gone ten when she left. Most of the kids were asleep and it felt creepy on the ward. A night-light shone above each cot, but the ceiling-lights were switched off. Apart from medical equipment that beeped every so often and the clock ticking, it was eerily silent and quite chilly. I crept over and stared out of the window. It was dark outside, but from where I was standing, London was still buzzing with life. Tower Bridge and St Paul’s looked as if it was bathed in sunlight. I saw people walking in all directions; all of a sudden I wished I was one of them. It felt like I was prison. The people outside were free to do as they pleased, but I couldn’t.
I had a baby and I had to be responsible.
I don’t know what made me turn around, but I did. The little girl in the cot next to the nurses’ station was shaking violently. I ran over to her. There was foam coming from her mouth; I thought she was choking. I didn’t want to leave her, but there were no nurses around, so I ran down the corridor, checking the side-wards. Sandy and the ward Sister were attending to a sick child, changing the drip. He or she looked really ill with tubes coming from everywhere.
‘Scuse me—Sorry to interrupt but I think this little girl is having a fit or something.’ I pointed in the direction of the ward.
‘Oh, that’ll be Lucy. Could you take a look, Sandy, while I finish up here?’ the Sister asked, connecting another tube.
Sandy followed me back to the little girl in the cot. It was horrible to watch, but I couldn’t pull myself away. Her eyes were rolling up in her head. She looked like she’d swallowed Fairy Liquid with all the bubbles coming from her mouth. The nurse pressed a few buttons on the drip machine, increasing the dosage. It took a few minutes but gradually the little girl quietened.
‘Is that my Lucy causing trouble again?’ A chubby woman with a happy smile came over, lifted the little girls hand and kissed it. ‘What are we going to do with you?’ I smiled and walked back over to George. I didn’t want her to think I was being nosey. I wondered how she had the courage to look so cheerful considering how ill her little girl was. A little while later she came over.
‘Hello, love.’
‘Hello.’
She peered into George’s cot and stroked his hand. ‘Oh, bless. He’s so dinky. How old is he?’
‘Ten weeks,’ I replied, smiling proudly.
‘It seems ages since Lucy was that small. By the way, thanks for earlier. Sandy said you went and fetched her.’
‘She scared the life out of me. I’ve never seen anyone have a fit before. I thought she was choking at first.’
‘I’m used to it now. She used to have one after another. They’re keeping her sedated now, until they can operate. It’s her only chance of leading a normal life. They say it’s risky, but what life has she got now?’
‘I hope she’ll be okay.’
Poor woman had been there for nineteen-weeks. She lived in Bournemouth and spent all week in London, with Lucy, only going home to her other kids and husband at weekends. She introduced herself as Margaret.
The nurses were busy on the ward that night there seemed to be some kind of emergency with a little boy that had been admitted in the cot opposite. A team of doctors were with him for what seemed like hours. Sandy must have forgotten about my bed so I pulled up another armchair and dozed off here and there with my feet up.
With each new day, came more tests. I was sure there couldn’t be many more. The amount of bodily fluids they’d taken from him; wee, blood and spinal fluid, I was surprised he had any left. X-Rays, MRI, EEG. But finally, we were free to go home with an appointment in three-weeks.
‘Take him home and enjoy him,’ the doctor said. My body went numb. I could have done with a stiff drink to numb my mind that was racing with all manner of things, but I was breastfeeding, or trying to. He still found the bottle easier. I wanted to ask what they thought was wrong, but the words wouldn’t come. Besides, guessing wasn't going to help. The test results would take three weeks. If I took him home, loved him, looked after him – he might get better. They could be wrong. Maybe it was nothing. Doctors don't know everything, do they?
At least it wasn’t meningitis, I knew that.
I took one final look at the little boy in the opposite cot. He was about eighteen months old, but it was hard to tell. He was sleeping soundly. In fact, he’d been sleeping soundly for three days, ever since he was admitted. They brought him in together, her and her long streak of piss boyfriend. They sat beside his cot all night, crying, as if they cared. I guess the only thing he cared about, was that he might get banged up for it. Lock him up and throw away the key. That’s what I say. There was a photo of the little boy on the shelf above his cot, looking all chubby and lovely, as if by a miracle, he would look down and wake himself up and everything would be okay.
But it wouldn’t.
He would never be the same again.
That’s what happens when you are a little baby. Your body can’t cope with being shaken so hard that your brain bounces around inside your skull. Maybe if she’d got him there sooner, they might have saved his sight, stopped the brain haemorrhage. I only knew what had happened when the police came and took the long streak away. News like that travels fast around a hospital. I blamed her too. I felt like punching her face in to be honest. She’d have probably made mince meat of me, though, the size of her.
Bastards.
‘Take him home and enjoy him.’
I will never forget those words; I still have nightmares, even now.
George was eleven weeks old and I had to wait three weeks for the tests to come back. I didn’t know if I could wait that long. I spent most of that time wondering if it was something I did, or whether there was anything I could have done to prevent whatever it was that was wrong with him. I spent most of the following three weeks shut in my bedroom. I couldn’t face anyone. If I shared him, the time would go too quick and I would be nearer to losing him. No one knew what was wrong. They mentioned cytomegalovirus, but I didn’t dare wonder what that meant. Mum had been looking it up. I went downstairs to make a sandwich, that’s when I saw the pile of books on the kitchen table; she’d been to the library.
The Brain Damaged Child - The Truth about Brain Damage
What the hell is she reading this crap for?
He’s got a stiff neck! He’s not brain damaged! For God’s sake, what’s wrong with you, Mother?
I made a sandwich and went straight back upstairs; there was no one at home. Probably down the library again looking up some more rubbish. It wasn’t like me. I loved my family, but I didn’t want to talk to anyone about George. He was my little soldier. I played with him, made him smile and checked every now and then for signs of improvement. Well—I did that every time I fed him or changed his nappy. I pushed my thumbs gently into his palms, held his hands between my fingertips and pulled slightly, the way the doctor had, just to see if he was strong enough to lift his head.
Nothing.
His head was still lolling.
‘Maybe tomorrow, George, eh baby?’ I kissed him and laid him back in his cot while I ate my sandwich. For a while I just stared at him, then I picked up his rattle and shook it, but he stared at the wall. If I made eye contact, he recognised me and smiled his sweet smile, but most of the time he stared at the wall as if he was in his own little world. It scared me. I snatched him up and cuddled him, made him look at me. I didn’t want him to drift off and not come back. I found myself making up silly songs and singing them to him when no one was around. My Granddad used to do that with us lot. I remember him pacing the floor rocking my sisters, sometimes for hours when they weren’t well or teething. His voice gradually getting quieter and quieter until he’d rocked them to sleep.
I wish he was here now.
I was sitting with my knees bent, my back against the headboard with George in front of me, singing another one of my silly songs, stroking his little pink cheeks, his bright blue eyes staring back at me when suddenly I felt a minor explosion.
‘Phwaor! George, you pong!’
So I made up another one while I changed his nappy.
Dinky Dinky Doo,
Georgie’s done a poo,
In his na-ppy, what are we going to do.
I don’t know if it was the silly face I was pulling or the silly song, but it made him laugh and became our regular nappy changing song. Sometimes the songs were so soppy they made my eyes water.