The unit also offered a therapeutic environment and sessions around parenting, as well as practical help. The very regime of prison – the rules, the regularity of food being provided, no drugs, no domestic violence – promotes bonding with children and is ideal for young women like Megan, who need the support.
‘The team are so helpful and always have time for us,’ she told me. ‘I know some of the other residents think we have it easy on the MBU, but we don’t. It’s a tough graft!’
‘It is,’ I smiled. ‘Being a mum is very hard work!’
I prescribed a course of antibiotics and painkillers on the computer for Megan, so that she could start them straight away, and told her to come back and see me if her symptoms persisted.
‘I will,’ she said. ‘Thank you for seeing me.’
‘You’re welcome. It was really good to see you again,’ I said, and with that she wheeled her buggy and baby out of my little room and off down the corridor.
As I watched her go, a memory flashed into my head of the day I had to go back to work when my first son, Rob, was three months old. Apart from all the usual hormonal and emotional fluctuations of the postnatal rollercoaster ride, I was also struggling to imagine a future for my beloved little boy.
When I was thirty-four weeks pregnant, I was referred for a scan to check the placental flow as my bump was measuring smaller than it should’ve done at that stage of the pregnancy. I wasn’t nervous going to the scan, and I thought it was routine, so I drove there myself. I had seen enough pregnant women to know that the size of the bump often did not reflect the size of the baby. I didn’t for a moment imagine there would be anything wrong.
The consultant I was referred to in Oxford was very quiet and seemed to spend an eternity scanning me until he finally announced: ‘I can’t find his right leg.’
As he said that, my head started spinning and even though I was lying down, I felt as if I was going to pass out.
‘What do you mean?’ I asked in disbelief, wanting him to say he had made a mistake, that it wasn’t true.
He continued in an unemotional way to give me a medical list of other possible problems that Rob may have; complicated syndromes that I had never heard of, that could be associated with a limb not developing.
‘But we won’t know what else may be wrong with him until he is born,’ the consultant said.
As he carried on talking, I became more and more terrified until I convinced myself that my poor little baby was going to face a life of unimaginable difficulties.
I felt as if I couldn’t breathe. I don’t know how I made it home.
Over the next ten days, my fears spiralled out of control as I imagined all sorts of dreadful scenarios. I couldn’t imagine the future and felt like I was living in a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from.
I struggled to eat and sleep and even just to think straight in the end.
I lost a stone in weight in that time, and when I felt that I just couldn’t cope any longer the decision was made for me to have a caesarean section when I was thirty-six weeks, as there was a growing concern for both my sanity and Rob’s welfare.
I hoped and prayed with all my heart that it would only be his leg that was missing, and that all the fears and dark imaginings that had formed and grown in my mind would not prove to be a reality.
Holding him in my arms and looking into his tiny face for the first time, my love for him was immediately overwhelming, overpowering and beautiful. My fears of multiple problems were unfounded, to my massive relief. But despite my incredible love for him, I thought I could never truly be happy again. He was born with a very short bent right tibia, no fibula, and he only had three little toes on his right foot. It was obvious that he would have to undergo major surgery to enable him to walk, and would forever be dependent on a prosthetic leg.
It is impossible to know, when our children are babies, what the future will hold for them. I shed so many tears in those first few weeks, that I began to wonder if I would ever get through a day without crying. Little did I know then that he would turn out to be one of the happiest and most positive people I have ever met. He loves life with a passion, and after leaving school travelled all over the world with a spare leg in his rucksack. While on his travels he skydived and did the biggest bungee jump in the world with his one leg strapped for safety.
I still remember the dreadful thought of leaving him, and of how nervous I felt about going back to work. I had convinced myself that I had forgotten all the medicine I ever knew, and felt I had lost every tiny grain of confidence I ever possessed, especially as I’d never had much to start with. I felt the same dread of separation and loss of confidence just before going back to work when my beloved second son Charlie was three months old. It was no easier second time around. Even though it was over thirty years ago, the memory was still so clear and vivid.
By definition, the fact Bronzefield is a prison for women means it is full of mothers and the human female chains that form our society. Around two-thirds of women in prison have dependent children under the age of 18 at home. There are mothers whose kids have been taken away from them; mothers whose kids are temporarily being looked after by others; new mothers looking after their babies on the MBU; and, sometimes, mothers who have harmed their children.
In many cells are photos of kids – baby photos, school photos, holiday pics – little gummy faces staring down from the confined walls. Alongside these are scrappy bits of paper with drawings of rainbows, cars, princesses, footballs and everything in between; a complete range of children’s wonderful creations and imaginings to cheer up their rooms and make them feel a bit more homely.
Around 18,000 children per year are separated from their mothers due to imprisonment, yet only nine per cent of them are cared for by their fathers in their mothers’ absence, and only five per cent remain in their own home. One fifth of the mothers in prison were lone parents before imprisonment. The impact must be far-reaching. There is an army of women out there who take on these mothering roles. It may begin with a sudden phone call from the police station or social services. Sometimes it is only when a mother gets to Reception that she will tell an officer that she has left her child or children with a friend or neighbour who will be expecting her to pick them up. What a terrifying thought for a mother to know that she will not be able to see her children, and for her to think of the fear and shock that they may be feeling.
Many women must struggle with their identity as mothers when their children are not with them. How can you be a mother in the truest definition of the word when you are not there to care for them? The separation of mothers and their children is definitely one of the most painful aspects of being in prison for a lot of the women I meet, and the trauma of this severance must cut both ways. There are people whose job it is to aim to improve the ties between mothers and their children, but once mothers are in prison, it must be really difficult.
I was driving into prison to work a Saturday afternoon shift, and I could see a wide variety of people of all ages and ethnicities arriving to visit friends and loved ones. Some people were being pushed in wheelchairs, some had walking aids and appeared to struggle to walk, but they were all there to support the person they cared about.
As I drove up to the prison, I reflected that many of these people may have travelled a long way, and by that time the children and elderly guests might be exhausted and running on pure nerves. I could see babies being pushed in buggies along the pavements and young children skipping and laughing with excitement at the thought of seeing the person they loved. It was a strangely heart-warming sight, but at the same time it was also quite sad and thought-provoking. It was hard to imagine the huge range of emotions everyone might feel in that single day: from excitement, heightened anticipation and apprehension