A story of domestic violence.
Sometimes one person’s sanctuary is another’s prison.
A healthy three-year-old confined to a hospital ward.
A traumatised child needing secure attachment and a safe and nurturing environment.
Sue shares how when in hospital with her foster son, she met a three-year-old boy with his mom, escaping an abusive home life, and choosing to love them had a lasting impact on both Sue, her now adopted son, and the little boy and his mom.
Sometimes one person’s sanctuary is another’s prison.
It was a hot February evening when I first laid my eyes on him, Valentine’s Day to be exact.
I entered the surgical ward for the first time, a place that would become like a second home in the coming months- well not a home. Hospital visits however long, are never like being at home. Home brings a sense of security and nurturing – a safe space. Little did I know that this hospital was safer for this little guy than his home.
He was visibly upset, his mom trying to coax him into listening and joining her in the room at the end of the ward. I bent down to his eye level and offered him a sweet, checking with his mama that it was okay, her shrug of resignation gave me the go-ahead. I shared with him how this was my first time in this ward, and asked if he could show me his room. He lit up, his tears stopped, he took my hand and led me to his room, a room with three other hospital beds.
That was all it took.
A desire to see a brokenhearted little boy comforted, relating to him with playfulness, acceptance, empathy and curiosity.
These simple steps were repeated many times over in the next week.
What followed was beautiful.
The nights are always the toughest in the hospital.
The incessant beeping of machines, bright corridor lights, children crying in pain, and the clacking of nurses’ heels as they walked the length of the ward going about their duties. It is an assault on the senses. Your body is on high alert constantly, but every morning at 5am he would appear like clockwork at the bedside of my 4-month-old foster baby, looking up at me, grinning from ear to ear.
I spent the week discovering who he was, his love for paw patrol, having books read to him, playing games at my feet, colouring in, doing puzzles, eating snacks, a typical 3-year-old I thought.
I wondered why he wasn’t dressed in the hospital gown that all children in the surgical ward wear. He seemed healthy. What brought him here?
And then the truth came spilling out of the mouth of a mother doing all she could to protect her son. I listened hard.
A story of domestic violence. Home was no longer safe.
Sometimes one person’s sanctuary is another’s prison.
A healthy three-year-old confined to a hospital ward.
A traumatised child needing secure attachment and a safe and nurturing environment.
A son who should have received unconditional love from his father, instead sheltering away from his abuse.
I pitched up the best I knew how welcoming his presence every morning. I praised him for his kindness, listened to his heart ( I come home with you), and tried to help him feel safe. I made jokes, and he laughed. I bought my laptop for him to watch his beloved paw patrol, read stories to him, and watched him colour pages from the colouring book. There was structure to his day. I extended invitations for him to take responsibility – facilitating the packing of the toys away or helping to feed my foster baby.
He seemed to blossom.
A week later my foster son was discharged from the hospital.
I shed tears for the little guy who had crept into my heart.
He was devastated, and inconsolable, not understanding that I would move heaven and earth to ensure he was safe, protected and loved.
My leaving him was not abandonment, I would always be in his life.
Two years have passed.
My foster son is now my adopted son.
Little guy has spent Easter and Christmas with my family.
He regularly spends weekends with us.
He still cries every time I drop him off at his home, but he knows I love him and he is always welcome in my family.
