the perils of foster caring, part one
Just today I heard on the radio that scads of revelations are about to come out regarding sexual abuse within the foster-care system. It’s the sort of stuff we foster-carers always dread, and often hear.
So I’m going to write a bit about my recent experience as a foster-carer, though I’ll avoid mentioning personal names of course. It might bring home to some the perils of foster-caring, and the vulnerable position they find themselves in.
Right now I’m playing a waiting game, the only game available. A little over three weeks ago, the seventeen-year-old boy in my care, the fourth boy I’ve acted as carer for, was whisked away for a ‘respite’ weekend, by CYFS, a department under the Minister for Families and Communities, which has responsibility or guardianship of kids who for one reason or another have been placed into the care of the state. This struck me as a little unusual but I didn’t think too much of it, and I was going out for drinks with some friends only half an hour later when I got a call on my mobile from a woman from Anglicare, the agency with which I’ve worked as a ‘Special Youth Carer’ as part of the SYC program for the past two years.
She told me that the young person had been taken out of my hands and wouldn’t be returning, and that a serious accusation had been made against me, but she couldn’t tell me anything more. She gave me the phone number of a person in the 'Special Investigations Unit', who was handling the case, but she assured me that, at this stage, he wouldn’t be able to tell me anything more than she could.
This was a Friday afternoon, and it was a hell of a way to spoil my weekend.
It was the second time I’d been ‘in trouble’, and my initial reaction was much the same each time. A state of mild shock, confusion. Loss of appetite, inertia. A snail buried deep in its shell.
About twenty minutes after this call I received another, from the Anglicare youth worker who’d been my liaison person for most of my time as a carer. She asked how I was, but I sensed a distance, a wariness. ‘I suppose you know what this is about,’ she said. I told her I hadn’t the slightest idea. I spoke tersely, wary myself. I didn’t particularly like it that everyone seemed to know more about what I was accused of than myself, and that they’d probably formed their own conclusions. She apologised, just as her boss had, for not being able to tell me more. I could barely respond.
More than a week went by, during which my liaison person contacted me a few times, to reassure me, to tell me to hang in there. I began to imagine that maybe she thought I was innocent after all. One day I received a call from the CYFS social worker who had charge of the boy who’d been whisked out of my care. He asked if he could come around to pick up some of the boy’s things. He, too, apologised that he wasn’t able to discuss any details of the case with me.
He arrived in the company of the boy, much to my surprise. I didn’t know what to say to him – especially as I didn’t know whether it was he or someone else who’d laid this complaint. Also, I noticed, or felt, that the CYFS worker was taking up a position between us, as if shielding the boy from any inappropriate questions I might ask.
So I went into the front garden and proceeded with the laying of my front path. The boy and the worker finally came out with his TV and a couple of bags.
‘So, what’re you taking?’ I said, trying to sound breezy.
‘Everything,’ the boy said with an easy grin.
‘Well, not everything,’ the worker assured. Unsuccessfully. The boy’s attitude convinced me that it was he who’d made a complaint against me. I felt as if I’d been stabbed.
Then later I wasn’t so sure. We’d always gotten on fine, he was very settled, he was doing well at school, CYFS and Anglicare were pleased with his progress, though he was a difficult kid, young for his age (like most of the kids in care, I’d noticed), very stolid and uncommunicative. Banter kept the relationship bobbling along.
Others I talked to also felt that it was unlikely to be the boy. And it was true that his apparent happiness at leaving my care could just as easily be interpreted as going cheerily with the flow, making the most of whatever was being imposed on him.
My Anglicare liaison person rang to tell me there’d been a meeting about the situation. ‘I’m not allowed to tell you anything directly about the case, and I have to say, I think the way you’ve been treated is really really unfair, but I am allowed to say this: don’t assume that the accusation has anything to do with this current placement.’
These words were a godsend. A few further remarks and some questions from me made me realise what she’d been hinting at in previous phone conversations, that this accusation had come from the same source as the previous one, even though the boy in question had been out of my care for several months.
So I’m going to write a bit about my recent experience as a foster-carer, though I’ll avoid mentioning personal names of course. It might bring home to some the perils of foster-caring, and the vulnerable position they find themselves in.
Right now I’m playing a waiting game, the only game available. A little over three weeks ago, the seventeen-year-old boy in my care, the fourth boy I’ve acted as carer for, was whisked away for a ‘respite’ weekend, by CYFS, a department under the Minister for Families and Communities, which has responsibility or guardianship of kids who for one reason or another have been placed into the care of the state. This struck me as a little unusual but I didn’t think too much of it, and I was going out for drinks with some friends only half an hour later when I got a call on my mobile from a woman from Anglicare, the agency with which I’ve worked as a ‘Special Youth Carer’ as part of the SYC program for the past two years.
She told me that the young person had been taken out of my hands and wouldn’t be returning, and that a serious accusation had been made against me, but she couldn’t tell me anything more. She gave me the phone number of a person in the 'Special Investigations Unit', who was handling the case, but she assured me that, at this stage, he wouldn’t be able to tell me anything more than she could.
This was a Friday afternoon, and it was a hell of a way to spoil my weekend.
It was the second time I’d been ‘in trouble’, and my initial reaction was much the same each time. A state of mild shock, confusion. Loss of appetite, inertia. A snail buried deep in its shell.
About twenty minutes after this call I received another, from the Anglicare youth worker who’d been my liaison person for most of my time as a carer. She asked how I was, but I sensed a distance, a wariness. ‘I suppose you know what this is about,’ she said. I told her I hadn’t the slightest idea. I spoke tersely, wary myself. I didn’t particularly like it that everyone seemed to know more about what I was accused of than myself, and that they’d probably formed their own conclusions. She apologised, just as her boss had, for not being able to tell me more. I could barely respond.
More than a week went by, during which my liaison person contacted me a few times, to reassure me, to tell me to hang in there. I began to imagine that maybe she thought I was innocent after all. One day I received a call from the CYFS social worker who had charge of the boy who’d been whisked out of my care. He asked if he could come around to pick up some of the boy’s things. He, too, apologised that he wasn’t able to discuss any details of the case with me.
He arrived in the company of the boy, much to my surprise. I didn’t know what to say to him – especially as I didn’t know whether it was he or someone else who’d laid this complaint. Also, I noticed, or felt, that the CYFS worker was taking up a position between us, as if shielding the boy from any inappropriate questions I might ask.
So I went into the front garden and proceeded with the laying of my front path. The boy and the worker finally came out with his TV and a couple of bags.
‘So, what’re you taking?’ I said, trying to sound breezy.
‘Everything,’ the boy said with an easy grin.
‘Well, not everything,’ the worker assured. Unsuccessfully. The boy’s attitude convinced me that it was he who’d made a complaint against me. I felt as if I’d been stabbed.
Then later I wasn’t so sure. We’d always gotten on fine, he was very settled, he was doing well at school, CYFS and Anglicare were pleased with his progress, though he was a difficult kid, young for his age (like most of the kids in care, I’d noticed), very stolid and uncommunicative. Banter kept the relationship bobbling along.
Others I talked to also felt that it was unlikely to be the boy. And it was true that his apparent happiness at leaving my care could just as easily be interpreted as going cheerily with the flow, making the most of whatever was being imposed on him.
My Anglicare liaison person rang to tell me there’d been a meeting about the situation. ‘I’m not allowed to tell you anything directly about the case, and I have to say, I think the way you’ve been treated is really really unfair, but I am allowed to say this: don’t assume that the accusation has anything to do with this current placement.’
These words were a godsend. A few further remarks and some questions from me made me realise what she’d been hinting at in previous phone conversations, that this accusation had come from the same source as the previous one, even though the boy in question had been out of my care for several months.
posted by Stewart at 1:49 am
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