A heartfelt thanks

For a long time now, I’ve been meaning to formally thank the wonderful team on the pediatric intensive care unit at the Royal London Hospital. They cared excellently for MJB after he’d been miraculously resuscitated by the team at our local A&E. I suppose I ought to thank them too at some point - but that somehow seems even harder to get my head around. Considering how much I hated having to watch every invasive and necessary procedure and interference they inflicted on my poor, vulnerable baby to save his life - it’s no wonder really. It was by far the single most agonising, traumatic experience of my life which has left wounds I know better than to hope will eventually be fully healed.

My gratitude to all of the health care professionals involved though is vast. And complicated and raw and tarnished by irrational jealousy. When I was helpless, they helped. When I was broken, they held it together. When I was a blotchy-eyed snotty mess, they were professional in the kindest possible way. At the time, it was hard to distinguish if what I felt towards them was total admiration or bitter resentment, sometimes switching between the two for no apparent reason. I was so jealous of their knowledge and authority and insight. So uncomfortable to be so dependant on them. Now in hindsight, I don’t envy them that hefty responsibility at all. I am purely only grateful that there are people out there willing and able to do for my son, and indeed our whole family, what they did. Even on occasion when their poised composure momentarily slipped - just long enough for us to glimpse the intact human emotion lying not far beneath the strong exterior - it helped us to see that the sadness of our situation really was as pervasive and inescapable as it felt to us.

Having not long come from being the other side of the staff badge myself - I knew already that anyone opting to work in such a specialist and intense environment was doing so despite being grossly underpaid, under appreciated and motivated primarily by the goodness in their hearts to help those in need. The cruel irony of the fact that my job before starting maternity leave involved 3 years of nursing with a particular focus on care for the dying, had also taught me that sometimes it’s necessary to compartmentalise that motivation to do good and do only what you know is right. When I was pretty much begging for someone to allay the unbearable uncertainty and confirm all my worst fears - that my son was already as good as lost to us and any hope was futile - they all relented. That enabled a searing ember of hope to stay alight and fuel all of the small but mighty moments of interaction and connection with my son that I might otherwise have missed out on. That nuance of kindness is no mean feat and remains totally immeasurable.

Their skill and sensitivity, along with my husband’s incredible faith, the tireless support of our loved ones and the astonishing strength of my son, made that week of hell just about bearable. It made some of it even, dare I say, beautiful. That most grim and depressing of all human experiences - watching helplessly as a loved one dies an untimely, seemingly senseless death - was never going to be made ok, no matter how much human effort was devoted to it. But when there were a million potential ways for our burden of suffering to be made worse, they just did all they could to keep our son comfortable and healthy. A task they managed so well that, had his brain not been irreparably damaged when he first fell ill so suddenly, he probably would have made a complete physical recovery.

I genuinely don’t mean to exploit this expression of gratitude for any ulterior motive, but in a bid to be totally honest I feel I must say: That whatever the personal motivation, source of strength or justification for their choice of career, it’s my belief that the goodness we encountered in those individuals involved in caring for our baby against all odds, was and is a direct reflection of the good God I’m hanging onto my faith in. The moment I had to hand over the beautiful body of my peacefully deceased son, the grace and compassion of the nurse who took and carried him from me was nothing short of divine. What a task! What a way to finish a long and emotional night shift! Yet for her, it was simply another day at work. Another day she had to return home to her own young family, then go back later to take charge of the care of another poorly child. And that’s just one poignant example of the thousand glimmers of light that helped lead us through the darkness of that week.

I’m finally writing this, on what happens to be Good Friday, because as I reflect on the teachings of my faith, I’m starting to see where God was when I felt so abandoned by Him then. I see Him in the small mercies, the supernatural strength, the miraculous healing. I see Him in the selfless devotion, the compassion and sensitivity, the genuine concern. I see Him in the nuances of kindness, the relentless hope, the accommodating patience. I see Him in the beauty of my son, the comfort of my surviving son, the strength of my inspirational husband. He was there, present in and represented by the goodness of the doctors, nurses, therapists and staff of the Royal London Pediatric Intensive Care unit.

For the help that they were then, and the comfort this realisation has since been, I will forever be grateful. May God bless them as they continue to do the such difficult work they do - to remain lights in the darkness.