I’d have to agree with JD that the definitive piece on the Kate nurse tragedy was by Martin Kelly, so much so that I deleted my own from the schedule. Below is how it opens – you might like to read the rest over there.
“Everyone is shocked by the loss of a much loved and valued colleague” – John Lofthouse.
Next time any of you are driving westbound along the M8 motorway at night, near the Townhead interchange, keep an eye out for a five storey building on the left hand side of the road from which will be shining only one blue light. That blue light will be shining from the westmost window on the third floor.
That building is the Princess Royal Maternity Hospital, and the shining of the blue light means that its neonatal intensive care unit is, thank God, in all His infinite goodness and mercy, still open for business. If any readers of this blog are men living in Glasgow who wish to become fathers but have not yet done so, take it from me that it is the one room in this city you should not ever wish to enter. To have to do so means that you are living a nightmare, the most horrible experience of your life.
The only consolation of having to do so will be receiving the very great privilege of not merely seeing but also interacting with the people who work there, masters of the rawest, edgiest form of medicine there is, the care of critically ill patients who are completely unable to communicate. These folks aren’t just doctors, nurses and midwives; you must need the nerves of astronauts to be able to do what they do.
I saw my son for the first time in that blue-lit room, at a quarter to six in the morning, a perfect little human being covered in sensors and wires, his mouth visibly the same shape as his mother’s; and to my shame I still do not know the name of the surgeon who delivered him, that Indian maestro who saved both his and his mother’s lives.
What sort of person makes a ‘prank’ call to a hospital at half past five in the morning?