An Alternative Explanation

A Mother’s Love

My little girl is ill. She has been ill for some time now, in fact, since she was tiny. She is now four years old. I struggle to remember a week free from hospitals, tests, doctor’s questions and medicines.

My husband left me when Isobel was three months old. I work part time in a local hospital. Some may say that to work in a hospital when your child is ill is a strange choice. However, I feel as though it helps me. It helps me to be around other families, I can offer them comfort and support. I can expand my knowledge around my daughter’s illnesses, also the doctors can be so helpful.

We have been to see many doctors, they differ in their opinions. Therefore, Isobel is subjected to further tests, some are invasive, some seem to be cruel. I sit by her bedside and cry. I pray God will make her better. I pray for a doctor who can make her well.

I don’t have many friends. I guess my friends now are the doctors and the nurses. They are the people I can talk to, they tell me what is happening outside of these hospital walls. People seem to pull away from me when they hear that I have a sick child, I can sense their awkwardness. Of course, Isobel and I get the odd invite to parties and social events, but it is rare that we can attend. Isobel often cannot do what other children can. She gets short of breath and when she uses her wheelchair she gets embarrassed, she says the other children tease her.

My heart breaks for my poorly little girl.

The doctors at my daughter's hospital say that I am to blame but I don’t understand.

The doctors asked me to sit and wait in a cold, bright room. I wasn’t sure what I was waiting for. I have always wanted to work well with the medical staff, so I did what I was told. Moments later, the door opened and two detectives walked through. They asked me to come with them, which of course I did.

The detectives sat me in a dark room that was so warm I could have fallen asleep. I was asked to sit next to a man in a grey suit. They kept asking me questions. They wanted to know if I had hurt my daughter; if it was me who had made her poorly. I said that I couldn’t have, Isobel had trouble breathing, especially when she slept. Sometimes she needed to use a wheelchair because of the wounds on her legs. The questions went round and round, I couldn’t follow what they were saying.

The male detective opened a blue folder and pulled out some paperwork. He leaned forward, I could smell stale cigarettes on his breath. ‘We have been watching you for a while now, by we I mean doctors, social services and us’. My solicitor interrupted, he asked what evidence they had against me.

I think they got fed up with me not being able to answer their questions so they put on a DVD. The images showed me putting a pillow over Isobel’s face. When her body stopped moving I leant forward and pushed the panic alarm. Three nurses came running in and the one with the blonde hair began to resuscitate her. Isobel’s body came back to life. The detective then went over to the DVD player and changed the disc. This time I sat and watched while I injected something into Isobel’s legs. According to the detective I was injecting faeces into my daughter’s wounds. The female detective turned to face me and asked me if I could offer an explanation. I replied that if they believed I had done it then I must have done, but I wouldn’t want that. I catch the officer roll his eyes. He states that my precious daughter is being taken into care, I am being charged with child cruelty and I must attend court and attend therapy sessions.

Three weeks have gone past and I am sitting in the psychiatrist’s office, she has her legs crossed, I can see her knee caps. They are bony and shiny white under her skin-coloured tights. She looks posh. Her clothes, her make-up, her hair all telling me so. She invites me to share my views. She asks me how I feel about no longer seeing Isobel. I’m not sure I understand why she would ask me the same questions that the detectives asked me. I don’t have any more to tell her. I repeat that I could not harm my daughter. She nods and tells me that since Isobel has moved in with her foster carers she is doing well.

Apparently, Isobel no longer needs her wheelchair. Her leg wounds are healing and she has slept through the night with no breathing difficulties, she doesn’t even need her inhaler. I can’t quite get my head around this. I’m sure she needed them when she lived with me, why would that change? I certainly would not hurt her. The pretty and polished psychiatrist looks up at me, I can see she wants to say something and she is waiting for the right moment. I pause. She tells me that she believes I have something called Fabricated Illness and there are people who can help me, but first I need to be honest. She asks me about my childhood. I am confused and anger stirs up in the pit of my stomach. Why would she want to know about my father who touched me and my mother who treated me as though I was invisible? Why would she think that I would want to talk about them? I search for something to say, something to stop her asking questions about my past.

I tell her that I’m not ill, it’s Isobel, she is the one that is ill.