Shock read: How could I betray my daughter like this?
Linda Mcfadden, 53, has paid a heavy price for mistakes she made when she was young...
When I look at my daughter, Claire, there are so many things I want to tell her – how proud I am, how much I admire her strength. But sometimes, I just want to tell her I’m sorry.
At just 23, Claire has overcome so many obstacles in her life, and I only have myself to blame... I was 15 when I tried my first beer, at a party. I was usually painfully shy, but with the booze, I felt happy and confident. It wasn’t long before I was going to the pub every weekend. I looked older so getting served wasn’t an issue.
As the years passed, my drinking got worse. On the way home from my hairdressing job, I’d nip into the off-licence and buy four cans. ‘It’s been a long day,’ I’d tell the shop assistant.
By the time I was 22, alcohol consumed my every thought. Living with my parents, I’d hide cans on the outside window
ledge so my parents didn’t know. And I’d drink before work. ‘Sorry!’ I’d say, rushing into the salon late again. Nobody said anything, and I refused to believe I had a problem – I was slim, had plenty of energy. So what if I liked a drink?
In June 1988, I was at the pub when David, then 30, walked in. He was kind, had a great sense of humour, and it wasn’t long before we became an item.
Becoming a mum
David liked the odd drink at weekends, and in the early days he thought I was just a social drinker like him. Only, two months after we met, I fell pregnant. I knew alcohol wasn’t good for the baby, so I tried to cut down, but couldn’t. ‘Are you sure you don’t want a lemonade?’ David frowned, as I ordered yet another pint in the pub when I was five months pregnant. ‘I’m sure,’ I nodded.
He didn’t understand that it wasn’t a choice for me, I simply had to drink.
In May 1989 I had to be induced two weeks early because the baby wasn’t growing quickly enough. Our daughter Sarah was born weighing just 4lb 5oz.
I assumed she was just small like me, but soon I noticed she wasn’t feeding as well as she should be. She was taken into hospital to be fed by a tube.
‘We’re concerned Sarah has foetal alcohol syndrome,’ the consultant said.
My cheeks burned with shame as we were told children with FAS often have learning difficulties, but when Sarah was six months old, doctors decided she was fine. She hit all her milestones at the right time and was even walking at 10 months.
But while Sarah was thriving, I was now getting through eight pints of beer a day. David would come home from work to find me passed out on the sofa, Sarah in her play pen. We’d have blazing rows, and I started hiding cans around the house.
But I couldn’t hide from the hangovers. ‘What’s wrong, Mummy?’ Sarah, then five, asked one day when she caught me vomiting in the toilet. ‘I’ve had too much tea,’ I told her wearily, my hands shaking.
In March 1994, I found I was pregnant again. By now drinking had such a hold over me, I didn’t even think about cutting down. But in October 1994, two months before my due date, I hadn’t felt the baby move for a while. I was given an emergency C-section at At Chelsea and Westminster Hospital and my baby girl was whisked to special care.
When I saw her for the first time I was racked with guilt. She weighed less than 2lb and had just a 50% chance of survival. We called her Claire, and I sat by her incubator in tears as the consultant came to see to us.
‘We can tell by Claire’s features that she has FAS,’ he said. He explained babies with FAS often have small eyes and the space between their eyes and their nose is flat.
‘I refused to believe I had a problem’
Crisis point
When we brought Claire home a month later she was behind developmentally, but I put it down to the fact she was premature. I didn’t want to admit my drinking had affected her, so I carried on. My skin was sallow, my hair thinning, I weighed just 6st and I felt as though I was in a constant fog.
Then in May 2001, while David was at work, I left the cooker on and fell asleep, drunk. ‘Mum!’ I heard Sarah, then 12, scream. Opening my eyes, smoke was billowing out of the kitchen. The fire brigade put the fire out, but they must have smelt the alcohol on me, because soon after, social services arrived and threatened to take the girls to live with a relative.
The family rallied round and my sister Margaret, then 35, suggested moving me into her house to help me get sober while David took care of the children. Unpacking my things at Margaret’s, I felt so ashamed.
In June 2001, I checked myself into a substance abuse clinic. I realised how important it was for me to get sober. Giving up was tough. I suffered from sweats, vomiting and my body would shake, but every time I felt the urge to drink I thought about my two little girls.
Three months later, I came home. The girls were so excited to have me back and I relished being a sober mother. But in my sobriety, I could see how much Claire had been affected by my drinking. She suffered from anxiety and her progress was far behind the other children at school. Telling her that it was a result of my drinking was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.
When she started secondary school, kids bullied her for looking different, and she often came home in tears. ‘This is your fault,’ she cried. I felt so guilty that at night I’d sob as David held me.
When Claire left school she applied for jobs through agencies for people with learning difficulties. She managed to find work, but her anxiety was so severe she often rang me 10 times a day for support.
It’s now 17 years since I had my last alcoholic drink, but Claire, now 23, lives with the effects of my drinking every day. She lives independently and has a long-term boyfriend, but struggles with social situations. Thankfully, we’re very close. She knows how sorry I am and I’m always there when she needs me.
Of course, I’ll never forgive myself. I feel so guilty for betraying my daughter.
‘It was the hardest thing to do’