Angels in Our Hearts: A moving collection of true fostering stories. Casey Watson

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СКАЧАТЬ screaming baby to a position over her shoulder and performing an instinctive little dance. Sarah’s cries weaken as her tummy is cradled against her foster sister’s warmth.

      Half an hour later, Emily and Jamie reluctantly head off back to bed, Sarah still bawling as my mother cradles her in her lap. ‘Put a drop of brandy in her bottle, that’ll settle her,’ she suggests.

      ‘I can’t do that, Mum!’ She has no idea of the fall-out if social services even heard those words pass her lips.

      ‘Don’t look like that,’ she says defensively. ‘I’m only joking. Not that it ever did you lot any harm.’

      Rolling my eyes, I swoop the baby up and try to tempt her with a dummy, knowing that sucking will help to ease her stomach cramps. Her lips are as tiny as two petals and surrounded by small blisters, the damage from her harsh screams. Fear grips my insides; what if she refuses to ever stop crying? Her voice is already hoarse. Mum warms one of the glass bottles of milk from the hospital, passing it to me.

      ‘You haven’t slipped any tea in there, have you?’

      ‘Course not, but you used to love a drop of tea,’ she says over the din. ‘Couldn’t get enough of it.’

      Scoffing, I offer Sarah the milk, grateful for the reprieve as she guzzles hungrily. Mum leans over to watch and we exchange smiles at the cute little swallowing noises she makes.

      After taking almost an ounce she falls into an exhausted sleep in my arms, her mouth still attached to the teat. I thank Mum then carefully creep up the stairs, terrified that her eyes will pop open the second I lay her in the hastily constructed crib beside my bed. She whimpers when I withdraw my arms, pulling her legs up to her chest. Even while sleeping, she is clearly in pain.

      Switching off the light, I step out of my clothes and leave them in a discarded heap on the floor. Reaching blindly down to the crib, I pop Sarah’s dummy back in for the umpteenth time and slip quietly under my duvet. It has been a long night and, although tired, I feel a profound sense of fulfilment. Before fostering I didn’t quite understand where I belonged. Listening to Sarah’s gentle whimpers as she snoozes in the crib beside me lifts my heart. It is a matchless sensation, reminding me that I’ve found the job that fits me best. Despite the frustrations, interrupted sleeps and endless paperwork, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

      Twelve minutes later Sarah is screaming again, a piercing high-pitched wail that signals intense pain, not hunger. I lift her from her crib and notice tiny beads of sweat forming on her forehead. Her lower lip trembles and her limbs flail wildly as I cradle her in my arms and hold her close.

      Re-adjusting my pillows against the headboard I lean back, cuddling her against my chest. It’s a position my own children relaxed in when they were newborns but Sarah remains so agitated that I have to get up, walk around the bedroom and bob her gently up and down. Her harsh cries subside into little sobs and I begin to fear that her birth mother’s drug of choice may have been crack. It would explain the rigidity in her muscles, the pain etched onto her tiny features.

      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 СКАЧАТЬ