I Still Love Her

My stepdad has some nieces whose biological mother had Munchausen by Proxy Syndrome and when I looked it up to learn a bit more about it, I found out that the majority of children abused in this manner are preschool, though they are a few who are abused as old as 16.  So, I wrote a story about an older child going through this.  MBPS is when a caretaker of a child purposefully makes them sick.  And here's the story.

            I sat in the emergency room for the third time in two weeks.  My face and throat were swollen and it was hard for me to breathe.  I was sixteen at the time and my mother was at it again.  I’ve known since I was about thirteen that my mother suffers from Munchausen by Proxy Syndrome.  This means she makes me sick on purpose.  She’s done it ever since I was young.

            Why?  I honestly don’t know.  I know she had an abusive family and apparently that’s a common factor in most people with MBPS.  Why don’t I tell anyone?  It’s simple; I love my mother.  She loves me too.  I know she does.  She just doesn’t know how to show it.

            Once she slipped a little bit of bleach in my drink and when I was barfing it up at the emergency room I saw the look on her face.  Complete horror at what she’d done.  I also remember that when we got home she was crying and crying and saying, “I’m sorry, I’m so, so, sorry, Danny!”

            This time, she had given me a Nutella and peanut butter sandwich.  I’m allergic to peanut butter, which is why I always eat Nutella sandwiches.

            “Don’t tell!  Please, baby, just don’t tell!”  She pleaded with me, running her thin hands up and down my arm.  Her eyes were sunken deep into her eyes, her lips quivered and her thin frame shook.

            I had gotten to the point where I felt I had to tell someone.  Because of her MBPS, I was sickly and missed more days of school than I liked to, so, basically, I homeschooled myself.  It was kind of nice, because I’ve always been more introverted and when I was home alone, I could work ahead as much as I liked.  But I also wanted to make friends, which was something I couldn’t do at home puking out my guts.

            I was scared to tell anyone though.  She was basically abusing me, in fact, when I’d googled, ‘parents making children sick on purpose,’ I found out that it was a rare form of child abuse…and when parents abuse their children, these children are taken away and put in foster care, then the parents are put in prison.  I didn’t want foster care and I didn’t want my mother in prison.

            The pretty blonde nurse—my favorite—came and took me back to the room to give me the shot, shaking her head the entire time, “Mr. Bois, this is the third time in two weeks.  First you have trouble breathing, then that shellfish problem, and now you’ve eaten peanut butter.”  She continued shaking her head as I felt the swelling go down.  “How do you manage to do all this?”

            No, don’t ask me that!  I screamed.  Although I felt the need to tell someone what was going on, I wasn’t sure I actually wanted the option to tell on my mom.  I felt a sense of obligation to her.  She had fed me and clothed me since birth.  My father had been around for the first two years of my life, then bolted.  I have no memories of him.

            My hesitation made the nurse suspicious.  “Mr. Bois?  Are you alright?”

            “Do you know what Munchausen by Proxy Syndrome is?”

            She looked startled.  “I’ve heard of it, but I don’t remember what it is.  Why do you ask?  Do you know what it is?”

            “No, I just heard someone talking about it.”  The lie spilled from my lips before I had a chance to think about what I was saying.  I had become my mother.  She constantly lied to people.  Especially the ER.  There was one time she dropped my out a second story window, just I would break a bone, then said I’d leaned on the screen too hard and fallen out.

            “Oh?”  The nurse sat down on a stool and looked at me.  “Are you sure?”

            I shook my head slowly.

            “So you do know what it is?”  She raised her eyebrows at me and I nodded sheepishly.  “So, what is it?”

            “It’s a rare form of child abuse when the parent purposefully makes their child sick.”

            “Okay?”  She looked puzzled, until it registered what I had said, then her face registered shock.  “Oh.”  She lightly rested her hand on my arm, “How long has this been going on, Daniel?”

            I felt my forehead wrinkle as I tried to think about when it hadn’t been going on.  “I guess my whole life?”

            Her body went stiff and I worried I had upset her.  “Your whole life?”

            I nodded awkwardly and she got up and walked out.

            Crap.  Oh crap.  I thought.  She’s going to go ask my mom.  She won’t believe me.  I should have known better.  But instead she walked back in with a doctor, who asked me to repeat what I had already told the nurse.

            That night, I talked to several people.  Nurses, doctors, policemen…my mother.  There was a lot of crying going on, especially from my mother.  I just wanted to tell them to forget about it, that there was no reason to continue with this, my mother hadn’t done anything wrong, I made it all up for attention…but I didn’t.  I guess I was just sick of it all.  Sick of being sick for no reason.

            Of course, I was removed from my home.  I tried to tell them it would be okay, that I would be able to fend for myself, she wouldn’t make me sick on purpose again, but the cops didn’t believe me.  I honestly don’t blame them, because I didn’t believe myself either.

            “Daniel, how is your relationship with your mother?  Other than the MBPS?”  A friendly looking, red-haired, green eyed, policewoman had a legal pad open, pen poised, ready to write down anything I said.

            “I have the right to remain silent.”  I told her.  I didn’t want to incriminate my mother by accidentally saying something that would cause them to take me away for good.

            “Daniel,” the policewoman looked startled, “you aren’t the criminal here.”

            “Don’t call my mom that!”  I exploded.  “She’s not a bad person!  She just doesn’t know how to show her love, okay?  She does love me.  She’s a good mom.  She just has some flaws.”

            “Do you think good parents purposefully make their sons sick?”

            And of course, I hadn’t exercised my right to remain silent.  There was no way to answer her new question.

            “Have you ever heard of Stockholm Syndrome?”  She asked quietly.

            I narrowed my eyes at her.

            When she finally realized I wasn’t going to answer her, she flipped her legal pad shut and slipped her pen in her chest pocket.  “Stockholm Syndrome is—”

            “I know what it is.”  I interrupted her.

            “Oh?”

            “Yes.  It’s when someone who is captive feels feelings for their captor.  My mom loves me.  I know she does. I just know she doesn’t know exactly how to show it.  And she’s not my captor.  Don’t come in and act like you know all about my situation.  And don’t you dare write any of this down either.  If you expect me to talk to you about anything, all this needs to stay off of the records.”

            She sighed and sat down on a nearby bench.  “Alright.  I can do that.  On one condition?”

            “What’s that?”

            “Anything I tell you right now stays off of the records too.”

            I know I gave her a wary look before I gave a quick sharp nod of agreement.

            “I lost my virginity to my father when I was thirteen.”

            I gave her a startled look.

            “I know, my situation isn’t the same.  But I loved that man.  It wasn’t until two years later when I got pregnant with my own sibling and was forced to have an abortion, that I finally told someone.  I understand loving someone who abuses you, okay?  In that case, I was removed from my home and have had no communication with my father, who is now in prison since then.  I’m twenty-six.”

            “Where are you going with this?”  I asked suspiciously, concerned she was going to say I could never see my mother again.

            “In my case, being removed from my home and never seeing that man again was the best thing for me.  In your case, you will probably removed from the home for a short time and your mother will be taking psychological treatment.  I’ve spoken to your mother and she’s told me over and over that she loves you.  She seems to mean it.”

            “Then why can’t I just go home with her now?”

            “Because the fact remains the same—she abused you and we cannot take that lightly.  You will, however, most likely be placed back with her, providing the treatment she takes helps.”

            “I wish I’d never said anything.”  I muttered, scuffing the toe of my shoe on the concrete sidewalk.

            “I’m glad that you did.”  The policewoman put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed, “It will be okay, Daniel.”

            They let me see my mother before I was sent to my foster home and she wrapped her arms around me tightly in a hug.

            “I’m so sorry, Danny.  I’m so, so sorry.  Please forgive me, babe, please!”

            I squeezed her as tightly as I could, “I love you, Mama.  I love you.  Don’t worry about a thing.”

            I didn’t want to let go of her, but I finally did.  I sat in the back of a police car, and was escorted to an emergency foster care family.  The whole way there though, all I could think was, It’ll be okay, Mama, we’ll figure it out.  I’m so sorry, Mama.  Maybe she had abused me, but she was still my mom, and I still loved her.  I always had.  I always would.

©2015 Katie Holm