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Death of my baby.

1981; BMJ; Volume: 282; Issue: 6257 Linguagem: Inglês

10.1136/bmj.282.6257.35

0959-8138

W V Harman,

Contemporary Literature and Criticism

The only reason for the existence of this account of the horror that followed the sudden, unexpected death of my 10-week old son, a death, is the knowledge that if I cannot write it it is highly unlikely ever to be written. At feed time, about 6 pm on Monday 16 November 1979,1 found Charles dead in his cot ?I knew instantly that my adorable baby was dead. He did not stir when I entered his room, he lay motionless on his tummy, with his head face down and white. I picked up his small lifeless body; his eyes were closed and puffy, and he was cold. I tried mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and banged his chest but nothing would coax life back into his blue-grey little face. I knew he was gone for ever. My baby was now a statistic : the one in 500 live births who die silently and without warning. He had hitherto been an apparently normal, healthy, happy, and responsive baby. I was overwhelmed by total disbelief coupled with an obsession to know why he had died?I now know that I shall probably never be any wiser. My doctor came hurriedly in response to my call and con? firmed that Charles was indeed dead. He used the telephone several times and asked if he could take my baby to the hospital for tests. He explained that these tests should be done as soon as possible. I agreed, and Charles was taken away. Later that evening, when my husband Bob had returned from work and his parents had arrived to take care of our 3|-year-old son, we drove to the accident and emergency department of the hospital where our doctor had taken Charles. We were there for the final goodbye, and when approached by a porter we explained the situation. He told us to sit in the waiting-room, where there were at least six people. We were extremely shocked and distressed and sobbing loudly, so could not face being stared at by bemused strangers; nor did we feel that our grief would cheer up these people, who were presumably awaiting news of their loved ones. Instead, we shuffled about in the corridor for a considerable time until we were eventually put into a vacant room, where we were sensitively quizzed by a young doctor. I recounted the events of the past 24 hours, and he recorded them. We were then told that we would be able to see our baby as soon as the escort had arrived. We were much impressed by this apparent show of consideration by the police. I remember thinking how thoughtful it was of them to provide two officers to ensure a safe journey to the mortuary and then home for two obviously distraught parents. We waited nearly two hours and were utterly horrified to discover that the police were there for two reasons only : to take a statement from me and to officiate at the identification of the body. After the ghastly formalities, during which we had seen Charles through a glass screen after the grotesque drawing back of purple curtains reminiscent of a puppet show or unveiling of a plaque, Bob asked if he could hold the baby. He was told that he could not because he was somewhere else and there was no one to bring him back. Lines like that belong in black comedies, not real mortuaries. We were, however, assured that we would be able to see him at the undertaker's; we were in no mood to argue. Had we known what was to come, we would have. The necropsy was performed the next morning. We later went to the funeral parlour to see Charles, and we wish we hadn't. His skull, which was covered only by a very fair down, was lopsided and his mouth was crooked. He had very obviously been chopped open; he was also as cold and white as marble when we kissed him goodbye. He was unrecognisable, no longer our baby, not even visibly or tangibly flesh and blood. This was a never to-be-forgotten sight, a most distressingly hideous farewell, the more so as it would have been easily avoidable. A further blow was the appearance of a local reporter, who turned up on our doorstep within 18 hours of the death; what is more, she knew the result of the necropsy before we did. Inquiries about this most distasteful event showed that as a matter of course the police release daily information concerning sudden deaths and crime to the press. There are occasions when the police are most grateful to the media for co-operation and any newsy items not supplied are seen as being deliberately hushed up and therefore all the more worthy of investigation. The freedom of the press is such that they can print anything they want. This particular reporter said that she would print her story whether we spoke to her or not. She, like all journalists, believes that she has some god-given right to inform, at whatever the cost to the individual, irrespective of the value of the information. She must have been thrilled to see her story make the front page of our local paper, with no attempt at explaining death whatsoever. The bias was towards sensationalism, and the article was billed as mystery death? she printed full details of our names and address. Do reporters sleep at night ?