An excerpt from 47 Hours with a Prince I came across this morning: The paediatrician walked into the room. “Tell me why I’m here,” was his opening line. “I don’t even know why I am here. There is no hope for your baby.” I saw the anger rise up in Michael’s face, and it mirrored my own internal emotion. “You are here,” I began, “to tell us what sort of support would be offered to an otherwise healthy baby who would be born at thirty-four weeks.” “Why do you ask this question? It is irrelevant. There will be no support offered to your son. There is no point.” “What if the only help he needs is some oxygen to help him breathe?” “No. None. There is a 99.9 per cent chance of your baby dying right after he is born. It is likely that he will just gurgle a little and then die. I won’t even be present at his birth; there is no point.” I don’t know what made me angrier—that false statistic being rammed down my throat again as justification to not care for our son or the fact that he was being so overwhelmingly rude. Then there was the clincher—his closing statement. “Better luck next time.”
Posted on: Tue, 06 Aug 2013 22:28:06 +0000
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