'Why my little girl has to speak for me'

CHRISSY Coombe can't speak. Sitting on her sofa, an A4 pad on her lap, she scribbles down the answers to my questions. It's a laborious process. Ideas come to her come to her and she starts to mouth the words but I can't understand her and she has to write them down. Her pen flies over the page but it still seems an age before she finishes and thrusts the pad towards me.

Chrissy lost her voice in March last year. For two days, it faltered, before vanishing completely and leaving her voiceless. She has been able to make noises for the last few weeks but is still unable to articulate any words. You can see the frustration in her face as she tries to express herself.

This isn't the first time the 47-year-old has lost her voice. It has happened on several occasions, sometimes for a few weeks, but usually just for a couple of days.

"People at first made a joke that I talked too much but it isn't verbal. It is mental. It happens when I overdo it, when I get worked up about things. The doctor says I should calm down and rest," she explains.

But Chrissy can't calm down. She runs a drop-in centre for teenagers in the Dene, near Medomsley, Consett, and worries that if she doesn't carry on with her work the youngsters will miss out. It's a vicious circle; she knows she needs to rest but staying at home generates just as much stress.

Chrissy lives alone with her eight-year-old daughter, Bianca, and relies heavily on her. When I visit, it's half term and like any other eight-year-old, Bianca is looking for something to do. She pops out to see which of her friends are around, comes back in to play with the cat, and then goes back out, wearing a pair of pink roller skates. But she never strays too far.

She's lively and bright, with dark inquisitive eyes that watch me warily. I sense she's like this with all strangers, making sure they don't take advantage of her mum. "Is she protective towards you?" I ask. Chrissy laughs. "Very," she mouths, putting up her fists to show me just how much. "We're very close."

She's garrulous too, but then she has to be because she often finds herself speaking for Chrissy. Ask her a simple question and she reels the answer off. After just five minutes, I know the names of all her pets, the date of her birthday.

While it's relatively easy to communicate with Chrissy face-to-face, where she can write things down or you can lip read, the phone presents an entirely different challenge, and Bianca is indispensable.

Chrissy's youth work means she has to deal with lots of different organisations and individuals and she's also secretary of the Medomsley and District Community Association. Sometimes there are five or six calls for Bianca to make when she gets back from school. She may want to watch TV or play with friends but she always helps her mum out first.

"She's brilliant. Absolutely brilliant," explains Chrissy. "But she's only a child and it's a lot for her to do. When people call, they don't listen to her and that can be very frustrating."

Chrissy worries that the responsibility is too much for her daughter and that her inability to speak is having an adverse effect on their relationship.

"Sometimes she just comes over for a cuddle and says: 'Mammy, I wish you could talk'. She misses our stories. I used to tell so many of them when she was little. Sometimes I worry that we are missing out on stuff because I can't talk, but there's nothing I can do."

She is hopeful that her voice will return - it always has in the past. In the meantime, she's been for a head scan and has had an exploratory camera down her throat. She's visited an acupuncturist and a faith healer and is now seeing a speech therapist. She even has a friend who is a nun praying for her.

"So you'll try anything?" I ask.

"Anything," she mouths, nodding her head vigorously but all the doctor can recommend is rest.

According to experts, Chrissy's condition is well-documented but relatively rare. Known as a conversion disorder, it affects around one to three per cent of outpatients attending mental health clinics and is more common among women than men.

Carol Seheult, consultant clinical psychologist at Sedgefield Care Trust says: "It suggests a general medical condition but is only pseudo neurological and is usually stress related. It often happens after a traumatic event.

"People can become mute, they can lose their hearing or their sight. They can also lose their sense of touch or pain sensations. The most common line of treatment is referral to a clinical psychologist."

Until last year, Chrissy was studying for a pre-school teaching diploma but had to stop because she could not ask the children questions. She hopes to complete it when her voice returns and, in the meantime, is keeping busy with the drop-in centre.

"I started the drop-in so the kids had somewhere to go, hoping that there would be a proper group by the time Bianca needed somewhere to go. I was determined to carry on because it took so long and lots of people's help to get where we are now."

The sessions usually attract between ten and 20 teenagers, and there is a range of activities, including basketball, table tennis, darts, painting and cricket.

Chrissy works two nights a week and somehow manages to keep everyone in check. "The kids are brilliant. They look after themselves really. They have a stereo as well and most of the time the music's so loud they can't hear each other, let alone me - so it doesn't really matter. It isn't perfect, but what is? I just try to be positive."

And that could sum up Chrissy's situation. She may not be able to speak, but she is determined to make the best of things.