Jonathan's Story : A Sense of Belonging by Wendy G |
Marco, Jonathan’s birth father, visited occasionally, taking Jonathan out for the day to visit his parents in their beautiful harbourside home. Jonathan also had an uncle and cousins, all extremely clever and successful lawyers and doctors – but there was little or no contact with them. Later, the knowledge that Jonathan’s uncle was one of the most prestigious lawyers in the state, and was even awarded "Queen's Counsel", would prove very useful …. Who knew how he would become linked with us further down the track? Within a few years, Marco developed cancer and died shortly after. Jonathan’s birth mother, Sheryl, was consistent in visiting monthly for her weekend of respite care. Initially, she would come, collect him, and leave hastily, and would return him quickly at the end of the weekend, hurrying home straight after. She didn’t seem to want a relationship with us. It saddened me, but it wasn’t hard to understand. I put myself in her shoes. She saw herself as a failure. How could this “other mother” manage, with three other children as well, when she herself hadn’t been able to look after just one? The reason was simple: this “other mother” already had experience bringing up children and was receiving a measure of practical support from the family members. Over time Sheryl relaxed more and stayed longer on her visits; we chatted about Jonathan and his life. I’d been honest with her about my difficulties in adjusting to his nighttime behaviour and shared with her how I managed it. She’d seen huge improvement in his sleeping pattern and was thankful and was delighted to see his seizures so much better controlled. She knew her son was happy and well; he was being loved and cared for. She was happy too that I referred to myself as “Mum Wendy” because it meant that I accepted him and loved him as my own. I promised her that I would never usurp her rightful place. She was “Mum Sheryl”, and she would always be his real mother. Jonathan did not know that other children did not all have two sets of parents. I could see the enormity of her love for him, and it was sacrificial love. She was willing to give up her child because she knew he would be in a better place with a family, receiving some help from the State for his practical needs; he would have a chance to live a normal and happy life. Did she want him back? No. She was realistic. She could not provide what he needed. She could see him flourishing in family life and was glad he had a brother and sisters. And she knew that despite her present good health, she was still too fragile to be his full-time caregiver. I was honoured that she trusted me with her son. She started very gradually to open up about her past life, and the story was sad, always recounted in a matter-of-fact manner. She had no self-pity, and I came to understand her extraordinary toughness. Life had not been kind to her. Her pain was still raw, years later, about various heart-wrenching experiences of abuse and rejection she’d experienced throughout her life. Christmas each year was, for her, extremely difficult, as were other days of family celebrations. She had a few friends, a few relationships, but she always felt alone, and different. After inviting her to our place for Christmas Day every year since the beginning of our fostering, one year she finally accepted, to our surprise. Previously her answers had been a quite abrupt “No thanks.” But this time I felt it was a landmark in our relationship. I wanted her to feel part of the family too, for we were linked in an unusual way. She was included in everything on that day and did not rush away at the end; she seemed happy throughout, not at all uncomfortable. Her personality was always quiet and withdrawn, but she said she’d enjoyed herself, and was happy she had come. I was pleased. Our Christmas celebrations were always informal; it was easy for her to relax, and from then on, she came every year. She later told me that she’d always refused our Christmas invitations because it would have been too hard for her. She had never had a single happy Christmas. She didn’t know what it was to be in a loving family and didn’t know how she would cope emotionally. How does one get to that age without knowing a single day of family happiness? She was quite overcome when I told her that I considered her as a sister. Her “real” sisters had never wanted to have anything much to do with her, particularly after Jonathan’s birth. She too was starting to feel part of our family. Our relationship, over time, became very close, and I could “read” her needs almost as much as I could read Jonathan’s needs. I included her in every decision which had to be made about Jonathan, whenever possible. She appreciated it. Yet, there were also times when she was hospitalised for varying periods. I knew it meant she had fallen back into old habits and was paying the price. But she fought hard to become well and stay well, time after time. She was a fighter. I didn’t and don’t judge her – I had never walked in her shoes, living a lonely unloved life in a broken home with alcoholic, violent and abusive parents. She later retrained as a bus-driver, navigating the narrow streets not too far from where she lived. She knew that she herself was part of the traffic noise she hated, but it was a steady job, and would help to ensure she didn’t succumb again to the demons of her past. She chatted with me about her experiences as a driver. She rarely conversed with her passengers, but despite her quiet demeanour, she gradually got to know the regulars and their little ways and tried to look after them. Many were society’s outcasts, and she identified with them. What I noticed most was her care for the vulnerable. She would wait patiently until the elderly or disabled were safely seated and settled, before driving off. It sometimes meant her bus was then running behind schedule, a fact duly noted on her performance evaluation, and for which she was rebuked by the bus company. She refused to change – for her, people mattered more than bus timetables. As the years passed, I could see her trusting me more and more, and although she never wanted to intrude in our family gatherings, I could see she was becoming more comfortable with us all, and she was starting, at last, to genuinely feel a sense of belonging. We were now her family too. Which was just as well …. ********** As for me, after leaving the school for deaf and blind children I was accepted for a part-time position at a nearby school, working the equivalent of three days a week. A couple of days before school recommenced after summer, it appeared that the contract had markedly changed from what had been initially advertised – it was now almost a full teaching load. Once more, I had fallen into a trap: I had seven classes, almost two hundred students. Homework and assignments to mark, exams to set and mark, reports to write and almost two hundred parent-teacher interviews, twice a year. It was not part-time! That year nearly killed me, with looking after Jonathan as well. Just as well I had learned that one does not die from being tired. The following year I changed schools, to a new one being established. Sixty students only, in my first year there, each one doing both French and Maths. Kids I got to know and love …. ********** By this time Jonathan had turned seventeen. He was getting heavier, and more awkward for me to lift, bathe, reposition in bed, dress, and feed. Full care, with little respite. My back was constantly aching. I felt as though a steel band was encircling and pressing my torso, crushing me. It was clear that the time was drawing near for him to move into a group home. Sheryl and I talked about the qualities of a group home for disabled adults that we considered important for his happiness. We both wanted to see a gradual transition. His introduction to our home, after eighteen months in respite care, had been swift and sudden, certainly not ideal. There was little information and no time for adjustment for any of us. We did not want a repeat of that. We wanted him to have time to relate to new carers, perhaps visit his new home initially just for a weekend, and then gradually build up the duration of his stays – and we wanted them to get to know him little by little too, learning to read his signals. We needed to explain his personality, his physical and emotional needs. The process this time had to be gentle and smooth. As a family, we would also need to adjust to his move, we would need time to separate emotionally. We had to have confidence in his new carers, believing that he would be loved and looked after well. He had been such an enormous part of our family life. We would miss him dreadfully and worry about him – what fears might he experience, what confusion? He could not express anything. Would he feel abandoned, rejected? None of us was looking forward to what is normally an exciting coming-of-age experience for young people. We could not possibly have imagined what happened next ….
| |
|||||||||||
