Birth ... and Death

An ambulance flies past, lights flashing and siren moaning. You’re impressed by its speed and urgency. “He’s going a bit fast” you say, as you stand by the road side “Wonder what kind of emergency it is?” Sit in the back of that ambulance, beside a very ill baby and the vehicle appears to be crawling along. “Can’t you go any faster?” Foolish question! The driver is fully aware of the urgency of the situation. Going on duty one particular evening, my first stop was the ward where a friend was recovering from the birth of her first child, earlier in the day. She was sitting up in bed looking proud of her achievement and obviously delighted to be the mother of a baby boy. I congratulated her and turned to admire the baby. I felt immediate concern. The newborn’s colouring was not the healthy pink tint it should have been. Not wanting to alarm the mother unnecessarily, I suggested moving the cot out of the room so that she could get a good sleep and we could keep an eye on the little one. I needed to be able to take a closer look at the baby and keep a watchful eye on it. Its condition appeared to worsen by the minute. Administer oxygen. Call the doctor in charge. In that order. It quickly became apparent that a transfer to the main paediatric unit was urgent. But it was in the city. An hour’s ride in a fast ambulance! Prepare the mum for the bad news, try to give her some support, call out a colleague to replace me, keep an eye on the babe. At a time like this a small country maternity unit seems like the worst idea in the world. And so the journey began. My eyes never left the wee one’s face. There were times when I willed it to keep breathing, to stay alive until expert help was available. The « if only »s pursued me. If only the problem had been detected before birth. If only someone had noticed the baby’s condition earlier. If only the hospital had been nearer. I have to deal too with a feeling of guilt. A friend and I couldn’t even help her baby. The journey back in the ambulance seems shorter. I comfort myself with the thought that the baby is in good hands. All will be well. But all was far from well. I returned to the local hospital to find a grieving family. Their first child and grandchild had died. Their grief tore at my heart. Couldn’t I have done something to prevent their terrible pain, their loss? I had done my best, I had done what I could but it wasn’t enough. Help had come too late. What do we do with the tragedies that are part of our daily life? Harden our hearts, block them out? Or accept the pain that getting alongside someone’s grief brings.