Mothering Sunday on call

"I hate Mother's Day," said K, 13 years old, and 4 months in foster care. She'd taken an overdose of ibuprofen last night, triggered by thoughts of her own mother, who is currently in hospital having taken an overdose herself. TJ*, in the next room, is less than 2 weeks old and is already being taken into care; he is attached to a baby alarm (sounds like a car alarm); it has to be disabled by turning a key in the lock at the end of his cot before lifting him out of it. It's been going off every few hours, because the auxillary nurses (in these gentler parts - compared to Hackney anyway) aren't used to this kind of thing, and keep forgetting.

*Tom had arrived on Saturday evening by "rocket" (his name for the helicopter ambulance). An ex-premature baby, now nearly 5 years old, he looked tiny in the full sized hospital bed. He sat with a furrowed brow, misting his oxygen mask as he scribbled furiously a green crayon. "He's worried about the Mother's Day present he's hidden under his bed," said his mum. Tom looked up at Dr. M. "You'll just have to have Mothering Tuesday, then" he said. Tom smiled in agreement.