Jonathan's Story : Sheryl's story by Wendy G A First Book Chapter contest entry |
She turned and walked back to her car, then drove home through the rain. She'd said goodbye ... on the afternoon that would change her life forever. And his. She parked outside her rented terrace house and hurried inside. It was small and pokey, the passageways were narrow, not at all suitable for their needs, but it was all she could afford. A steep internal staircase too … really quite impossible for their situation. She glanced around at her few possessions, and grimaced at the way everything was mismatched. Of course it was – it was all from second-hand shops or donated bits and pieces. Yet the place was conveniently located – if one didn’t mind the incessant noise of traffic. Sheryl sighed. Could she go through with her plan? She was trapped – and so was he. There was no answer … unless she committed an unthinkable act of betrayal. Which would hurt more, going ahead with her crazy idea, or continuing as they were? No, there was no easy answer. The house was quiet inside. Too quiet. She turned on the radio, and turned it up loud, very loud. That would block out the traffic noise. Perhaps it would block out the noise in her head, help her forget her pain. She went to the kitchen, intending to make a cup of tea to steady herself. Changing her mind, she reached under the bench for the bottle. One can’t really hide things from oneself. She always knew where she’d hidden it. She sat down on the old sagging sofa, drinking and weeping. Silently. Not that there was anyone to hear. Tomorrow, she would be back at work. Boring, mundane work, but it paid the rent. There were times she felt she couldn't manage one more day. She couldn’t lose her job though. She must not. If she did, they’d be in even bigger straits than the present troubles. She always tried to do her work carefully and safely. By the day’s end she was exhausted, sometimes too tired even to eat. She drank to help her sleep, to drown out the noise. *** Two lonely and confusing days followed. However, the turning point would come, and very soon. She could no longer postpone the decision. The inevitable phone call came, late Sunday evening. She didn’t answer it. Several more times she let it ring out, unwilling or unable to answer it. After a sleepless night, she called her work, pleading illness. They were annoyed at the lack of notice. She put the phone down and waited. The next time it rang, she would answer it. *** It rang. Snatching it up, she listened silently to the querulous voice at the other end, asking, explaining, demanding, the voice rising and falling. “I’m not coming back,” she finally whispered. Relief and shame filled her in equal measures. “I can’t go on. Please look after him.” She hung up. *** She’d had no help. None to guide her, no one interested at all. Rejection. Increasing distance by her so-called family. What was family? She had sisters and stepsisters. She’d been born into a family with alcoholic parents, and had been removed from their care, moved from one foster home to another, each with their own set of issues. She and her sisters had been separated, almost lost touch. They were therefore not close, and although they knew about her present situation, they could not or would not help her. Her schooling had been erratic, but she was intelligent, and street-smart. She’d seen a lot of the worst side of human nature. She had not been raised – she’d simply grown older until, as a young woman, she could make little sense of the world around her, starved of friendship and of any meaningful relationship. It made her tough and determined, and she said what she thought. She had nothing to lose. Life continued. When she met Marco, she fell hard. Tall, handsome, dark-haired, and funny. He was everything she was not. He was from a wealthy family who had prestige and lived in an exclusive suburb, and he went to university. His father had been highly decorated for his contribution to the war effort – a pilot of fighter planes. He was now retired, after many years as a private school headmaster. Marco's brother was studying to be a lawyer. A very respectable family, stable, and comfortable in their easy life. Marco's sophisticated way of life was very different from Sheryl's world; she did not fit in well, despite her efforts. She admired their well-chosen perfectly matched furniture, and floral arrangements in elegant vases decorating the living areas. Their house was filled with books whose titles she could not even pronounce. At dinner parties she felt awkward ... her eyes glanced discretely sideways, trying to observe which fork to use first. But Marco was kind, and talked to her as though she was his equal. They talked for long hours, discussing their ideas and thoughts about life and its meaning - philosophies, purpose, values, people, about all that was important, and about what wasn't. She hadn't read widely, didn't know the classics. Yet, despite his education, he wasn’t as much of a thinker as she was. He’d never had any demands on him, apart from the mostly unspoken pressure to succeed, and to uphold the family name. He lacked her toughness and resilience. She sought his qualities, and he was intrigued by hers. Marco took her places – to the beach, to bars and hotels. He drank a lot. He was not academic, and struggled with his studies, to his parents’ displeasure. His family blamed Sheryl – she was rough and uncouth, a bad influence. Marco started to feel the stirrings of rebellion. He was becoming increasingly estranged from his disapproving family and spent less time in the comforts of home. Sheryl and Marco soon became very committed to each other, and, wanting a simple life of peace and harmony, they joined the then-fashionable hippie movement, started to smoke pot, and both began drinking more and more. She had a sense of belonging with Marco and these young, free, rebellious people, and they became her family. The world took on a rosy hue. Before long, they were sharing other drugs, and binge-drinking became the norm for their community. Marco dropped out of university. The world of his parents seemed to him to be narrow and pressured, focussed on wealth and possessions, and social prestige - shallow values. His parents were furious. Sheryl was held responsible for all Marco’s choices. “All you need is love,” they laughed and sang. They moved in together. After all, marriage was never going to be a possibility. *** Time passed. Pregnancy was inevitable. Sheryl was happy. She’d have a baby to love and care for. She had Marco. She knew nothing about babies, but they would manage. Wouldn’t they? *** She had no realisation that anything was wrong with her baby. She didn’t know what milestones to look out for. He cried a lot; he did not feed well, either at the breast or from a bottle. He was becoming malnourished. The mothercraft nurse was alarmed. The baby was floppy, did not recognise Sheryl’s face, did not smile. He showed no ability to develop the skills needed for sitting, or even rolling. Sheryl and Marco were shattered to hear the words confirming that their child was severely and profoundly disabled. Tests were arranged, each result bearing worse news. Severe cerebral palsy, technically blind. Their baby would never crawl, nor sit unsupported; he would never stand or walk. It was unlikely that he would ever speak. They were shocked and devastated. Marco got a labourer’s job. Sheryl did her best to care for the baby, not very successfully. Government assistance was not offered. Further disastrous news was received when their little one was a toddler, except that he didn’t toddle. He had severe epilepsy, manifesting in several frightening seizures a day. Life was a nightmare. When their little boy was eighteen months old, Marco left, returning to his comfortable family home. He could not cope with having fathered a severely disabled son; nor could he accept that he had an ongoing role in this boy’s life. It was all too hard. He wanted and needed an easier life. The happy hippies did not care to include a woman with such a severely disabled child in their midst. Their role in Sheryl’s life was also apparently over. Friends disappeared, embarrassed to be seen with her. Sheryl was assisted to organise government assistance. She chose to also work part-time, in an effort to introduce some normality into her stressful life, leaving the child with a neighbour while she worked. As he grew heavier, she wheeled him around in a toddler’s stroller, not designed to support his body. The curvature in his spine grew more pronounced, and his hips were not in alignment. They grew dislocated. But it was the nighttime which was unbearable. He laughed, wild-eyed, on and off, all night. Not happy laughing, but extremely loud maniacal laughing, which set all Sheryl’s nerves on edge. A few minutes of silence when she would hope he had fallen into an exhausted sleep … and then he would start up again. His laughing was that of a crazy person, loud, shrill, and never-ending. Sheryl lost weight, and found it hard to cope with work when she was so anxious and distressed from sleep deprivation. Depression and guilt were destroying her. During the nights, punctuated by the wild laughter, she knew she was starting to hate him. Yet in her calmer moments she loved him. They survived. She enrolled him in a school for children with special needs. During the day, the little one would cat-nap, never settling into a deep sleep. Sheryl found out later that he was not sleeping deeply enough or long enough for the growth hormones to be released. At eight years old, he was still being wheeled around in the small child’s stroller. *** This, then, was Sheryl’s predicament. She was physically and emotionally exhausted, and losing her mind from the ongoing sleep deprivation. Her comfort was the bottle, the drugs. She overcame the habit many times – but only for short periods; it always mastered her. She’d organised for her little boy to have respite care for one weekend a month at a government-run agency. It was little enough help for a struggling young mother, but she cherished every moment of her free weekend. She would take him to the centre on the Friday afternoon and say goodbye, and pick him up on the Sunday, late afternoon. Except, this time she wouldn’t. She’d made the decision. She was abandoning her child. She knew she had reached breaking point, and that she could not continue. She would harm him, or she would harm herself. Or worse. *** Government agencies hustled together a care plan for him. He’d be transported to a nearby school for children with special needs during the daytime, and he would have a rotating set of caregivers to feed and look after him for the rest of the time. They would be responsible for his medications and well-being, despite their minimal training. So began stage two of his unusual life. *** Sheryl left work and booked herself into an addiction recovery program. She also sought help for her mental health needs. She would make a new life for herself. She was strong and tough, a survivor. She’d always had to be. She wanted to reclaim her child. However, guilt plagued her, ate at her. Who could understand her depths of despair? She’d never known love. Yet she’d wanted to love her child. He was the best thing that had ever happened to her. Ironically, also the worst. Who could understand her regret and guilt at abandoning the one she’d dreamed would bring purpose and meaning into her life? Who could understand her feeling that she’d failed as a mother? Who could understand that she blamed herself for his condition? Had it been caused by her drinking and drugs? Nobody knew. She was told that he had probably had a stroke in the womb which had arrested his development. She was encouraged not to blame herself by her caregivers – but Sheryl couldn’t switch off her thoughts so easily, nor her pain. Others were quick to judge her, and point the finger. A new arrangement with the government agency allowed her to see her son for a weekend a month. Social workers visited to help her work through options for his long-term care. A decision was finally agreed to. It would be in her son’s best interests for him to become a Ward of the State. The government would be responsible for his care and needs, but she could still see him. She was still too fragile to be his caregiver. A private Social Work agency heard of the situation of this little boy, by now eight years old, who had no family life, only a rotating set of caregivers in a government-run respite centre. They asked Sheryl if she would consider allowing him to be rehomed with a family until he was an adult, at which time he would be accepted into a Group Home for Disabled Adults. The social worker was enthusiastic about a new programme offering long-term foster care to severely disabled children. Her son would be with a normal family, not permanently in an institution meant for very temporary respite care - and she would have ongoing access. Sheryl’s heart broke. Would anyone want him, with his complex needs? Would they offer him love? She knew the foster system from her own experience and knew the potential for abuse within it. Would she lose him altogether? Would she really have access or would the family not want her around? It was a heavy price to pay for her inability to cope. Filled with fear and grief, she agreed to relinquish him to the new long-term fostering program. Was that really the best outcome for her son? He had been in respite care for eighteen months and was now nine years old. *** My family was the one chosen to foster this little boy. I would be his “other mother”, for Sheryl was still and always would be his mother. He would also have another father. He never knew that other families only have one of each. He’d also have three siblings, two older sisters, Anna and Bella, and a younger brother, Joe; he would be the brother my son had always wanted. No one told us his background. Just that this poor little boy needed a family. Our new life was beginning.
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