by John Askill
Sister Saville, who was forty-nine and one of the most experienced nurses in the hospital, had brought up two children herself and had a reputation for dedication and skill. She stayed until 10pm looking after Katie.
As Peter waited the hospital’s chaplain, the Rev. Ian Shelton, approached him. He suggested to Peter that, in the circumstances, it might be advisable for Katie to be baptised. He thought it should be done there and then, where she lay in the cubicle on Ward Four. When Peter agreed, he went off to the chapel to change into his robes and returned to baptise Katie. By the time Sue arrived, unaware of the scare, the short service was already over.
All the next day Katie recovered, still linked to the resuscitaire. She also had a special Apnia Alarm, fitted to her chest, that would sound if she stopped breathing. It went off several times on false alarms, triggered because Katie was sleeping so quietly it couldn’t detect the minute movements of her breathing. It terrified Sue and the nurses although, deep down, Sue was comforted by the thought that the hospital was taking no chances.
Nurse Bev Allitt was on duty that Saturday and again nursed Katie all day on a one-to-one basis. Katie seemed to be ‘her baby’.
Relieved, Sue and Peter popped upstairs for a snack with the chaplain, leaving Nurse Allitt and another young nurse to look after her.
They were just returning to the ward when they heard the sound of a woman’s voice shouting: ‘Resus. Resus.’ It was Nurse Allitt calling for help because Katie had stopped breathing.
Peter said: ‘When we got down to the ward we saw a nurse running across the end of the corridor, clutching Katie to her chest, shouting. We hadn’t been gone that long and I couldn’t believe it was happening again.’
Doctors and nurses poured into the treatment room and began the battle to save her little life. Their efforts were rewarded when finally, after just a few minutes, they managed to bring Katie round.
Peter said: ‘We were just so thankful that she made it. Neither of us could have taken losing her too. When we knew she was all right we were just grateful to Bev. She’d acted so quickly that she had saved Katie’s life.’
Sue asked Nurse Allitt what had happened and she told her she had seen nothing like it before.
Nurse Allitt went home at the end of her shift, leaving Sue and Peter to battle with a mixture of emotions, partly grief over Becky and partly worry over Katie.
The Rev. Shelton, who arrived to comfort them, took the brunt of Peter’s anger and grief. ‘Some God you’ve got,’ snapped Peter. ‘I don’t think your God’s very fair, do you?’
The Rev. Shelton replied: ‘Not very fair at all, Peter.’
Peter said: ‘Isn’t He satisfied with all He’s got? He’s got Becky and now He’s taking Katie, too.’
Later, bound by a bond forged amongst the heartbreak of Ward Four, the Rev. Shelton was to become a trusted friend and Katie’s godfather.
Still battered by events, Sue found comfort in the reassuring presence of her new friend; Nurse Allitt was, by now, always referred to as ‘Bev’. She was always there, assigned almost like a fixture to Katie’s bedside. She was hard to talk to, said Sue, not one who gushed with words or feelings but, during her eight-hour shifts, they talked a lot.
Worried Sue was anxious when doctors took away Katie for a lumbar puncture, to test for meningitis, and Bev told her: ‘Don’t worry, I will be with her all the time.’
During the night Katie was ‘perking up wonderfully’.
But, three days later, Katie took a sudden and massive turn for the worse. She’d seemed to be fine but then, suddenly, she stopped breathing. The hospital’s ‘crash team’ rushed again to help. Dr Nanayakkara and Sister Saville jointly led the battle to save her life. The Rev. Shelton, who was on the ward, joined in too by running for extra equipment.
Peter remembers Nurse Allitt telling him Katie was in a bad way. He saw Dr Nanayakkara, who had put on green overalls, with Katie’s head in his hands, cradling her face. He told them he couldn’t understand what had happened because he said he had never seen anything like it. This time, he said, Katie was so poorly that he warned them he might have to call for the flying squad to rush her to Nottingham City Hospital.
As they waited Sue and Peter were told that the doctors and nurses were trying to bring her back. She was ‘dead’ but they were using every piece of equipment – oxygen bags, electric paddles – desperately willing her back to life.
Sister Saville stayed at the machine, refusing to give in, just hoping, trying for that little bit longer, waiting for a miracle. Sue believes that Katie was dead for an incredible thirty-two minutes. Certainly, long, long after Katie ‘died’, Sister Saville spotted a flicker of life. Then another one, and another. Her shouts signalled that Katie, incredibly, was coming back to life.
Out of heartbreak there was sudden joy. Peter and Sue hugged each other, tears rolling down their cheeks. Perhaps God had a heart after all, thought Peter.
‘We’re not religious but we went to the hospital chapel to ask God to give her strength to see her through,’ he said.
The flying squad, with police escort, raced to Nottingham with Katie, her parents trying to keep up behind them in their own car.
Sue and Peter stayed with Katie, maintaining a vigil of love and hope at her bedside, refusing to leave her. The only break they were forced to make was to return to Grantham for Becky’s funeral.
Life or, rather, death had to go on.
The whole community was overwhelmed with compassion for Sue and Peter as Becky was buried at St John’s Church, Manthorpe, on Wednesday, 10 April. The church was packed with relatives and friends, and nurses from the hospital. Lovingly, Sue said her farewells in the chapel of rest where she gently placed two of Becky’s little teddy bears and a rose in the coffin.
They were told they couldn’t have a hearse because Becky’s tiny white coffin was too small to rest in the back of a vehicle which had been designed for much bigger coffins. Instead, they had a huge black limousine in which Sue and Peter could sit in the back; Becky’s white coffin was placed in front of them on a seat.
They chose a wreath in the shape of a heart, with white and pink carnations and red roses. Their card read: ‘In loving memory of our beautiful baby, Becky. We will love you for ever.’ It was signed: ‘Mum, Dad, James, Katie, Nicola and Emma’.
There were about thirty people in the quiet village church on the outskirts of Grantham. Mourners included some of the nurses from the hospital’s Accident and Emergency department who had shared their moment of horror as they had burst in, in the middle of the night, with Becky’s body in their arms. Sue’s new-found friend Bev Allitt was not amongst them.
Sue and Peter were told that Becky had officially died from Infant Death Syndrome – a ‘cot death’ – and Sue couldn’t hide her feelings of amazement. How could they say that Becky had died of cot death when she had watched her eyes rolling round in her head and heard her screams? Surely, ‘cot death’ babies died without warning in their sleep?
But there wasn’t time to question, or challenge, the findings of the doctors because they had to drive straight from the funeral back to Katie’s bedside. It was Katie who needed them now. At the hospital, nurses and doctors couldn’t have been kinder, providing them with a family room with all facilities, including a TV, so they could be near Katie.
She was still very poorly and continued to have fits. Peter and Sue almost feared she might be ill because of a psychological bonding that exists between twins; in some strange way, could Becky be calling Katie to follow her to the grave?
But Katie was a battler and, slowly, she began showing signs of recovery. She was gurgling, feeding, occasionally smiling. At last they really could start thinking of a future for their little girl. Becky had died but Katie was alive and kicking.
Twelve days after Becky had died Katie was well enough to leave Nottingham where she had recovered so wonderfully well. She wasn’t strong enough to go home, however. Instead, Sue and Pe
ter were told she would be returned to Ward Four at the Grantham and Kesteven Hospital.
5. A Run of Bad Luck
Ward Four had always been a happy place; morale had been high and nurses had enjoyed working there. This was a ward where the real reward was seeing sick children get better and then go home. The worst of the emergency cases were transferred to bigger hospitals in Nottingham, thirty miles to the west, and in Grantham nurses would tell new members of staff that ‘nothing much happens on the children’s ward’.
It was a friendly hospital where people knew each other, where patients knew nurses because they’d probably gone to school together, or knew their families.
But now, after the deaths of Liam Taylor, Timothy Hardwick, then Becky Phillips, some of the younger nurses were finding it hard to cope with the increasing number of emergencies. More and more children suffered cardiac arrests, respiratory failures and fits. To them, it was still a run of ‘bad luck’ and there remained no real suspicion, no nagging question that anything untoward was happening.
Five-year-old Bradley Gibson was the next victim of Ward Four.
Blonde-haired Bradley, who had gone into hospital suffering from pneumonia, suffered a massive, unexplained heart attack. His heart stopped beating for thirty-two minutes as ‘crash team’ nurses and doctors battled for his little life, refusing to give up as the minutes ticked away. Then, quite miraculously, there was a flicker of hope, the sign of a heartbeat and Bradley was brought back to life.
His parents, self-employed builder Stephen and wife Judith, were so overjoyed that their son had been saved that they went to their local newspaper publicly to praise the hospital, doctors and nurses. The story of how he survived made the front page of the local Grantham Journal with the headline: Our Miracle.’ Three national newspapers followed up the story of Bradley’s great escape and it featured also on four television stations.
Mother Judith told reporters: ‘It’s a miracle. There is just no other word for it. If it were not for the crash team at Grantham Hospital, he would not be here today.’ She added: ‘We never really gave up hope. We did some serious talking and were prepared for the worst but I knew he would make it. I suppose it’s maternal instinct.’
The cause of his heart attack, however, was ‘baffling’ doctors, Judith said. She couldn’t explain why her son had suddenly collapsed. She could only say: ‘He’s had a number of tests. He’s been on drips and ventilators and had all sorts of needles put into him, but they don’t seem to know why he had the heart attack or how he recovered so quickly.’
Within three weeks Bradley was well enough to be back at his desk at the Gonerby Hill Foot Primary School, apparently unaffected by his experience.
His mother Judith, an intelligent, articulate woman, would much later become the backbone of a Parents’ Support Group, formed to unite all the families of Ward Four children. Among them was Belinda King who worked as a nurse on a different ward at the same hospital. Even she was not to be spared; her month-old baby son, Christopher, was the next to follow, though he too survived.
The toll of children continued and staff were now reeling from the scale of it. Some were beginning to suspect that something was wrong, alerted only by the fact that there had never been so many emergencies, rather than by any medical proof.
One young nurse remembers: ‘We weren’t prepared for what was happening. You’d go off duty at 9pm, leaving one of the children perfectly OK, then, when you went in the next morning at 7.30am, you’d be told so and so had suffered a heart attack and been transferred to Nottingham. When it happened once or twice you didn’t think much about it, but it was happening more and more …’
Becky’s death had come as a blow to them. One of the nurses said: ‘I remember her going home. She was a lovely little thing. She was perfectly OK when she went home in the afternoon. The next day when I went on duty I said good morning to one of the staff nurses. She said: “It’s not a good morning, it’s just morning.” I said why, and she said Becky had been brought into casualty dead on arrival. I couldn’t believe it. It was so ridiculous.’
Little more than seven weeks had passed since the death of baby Liam Taylor, the first victim, but by now the emergency crash team were frequent visitors to the ward. They had brought several children back from the brink of death.
Two-month-old Christopher Peasgood was to be the next. He’d been born at the hospital on 17 February, weighing 61bs. His birth had been a special blessing to mother Creswen and father Mick who had lost their ten-month-old daughter, Michelle, in a cot-death tragedy two years earlier.
There had been the worry that Christopher could die, just like Michelle, in his sleep, but, as the weeks went by, his parents began to feel that everything was going to be all right. At seven weeks Christopher developed a nasty cough, lost his appetite and began to struggle for breath. Antibiotics had no effect so, on Friday, 13 April, Christopher was admitted to Ward Four.
After Michelle’s death Creswen and Mick were taking no chances. ‘We insisted they took him in,’ recalls Creswen.
Specialist Dr Nanayyakara was quick to reassure Christopher’s mother. Her baby was suffering from bronchiolitis, but little children were durable and, given a couple of days, he would be fine. They put an oxygen mask on Christopher’s face, which seemed to help him breathe, and Creswen and Mick were content enough to go home that night, leaving their son in the care of Ward Four.
When they returned the next day, Christopher was inside an oxygen tent which they were told was nothing to worry about, a routine measure because he wouldn’t settle with the mask over his face.
From time to time Nurse Allitt popped in and out of Cubicle Two to check on Christopher who was being fed by tubes. When it was time to give him some medicine Creswen called in Nurse Allitt; she remembers the nurse telling her: ‘Why don’t you go for a drink, and a cigarette? He’s all right. He’s fast asleep. Don’t worry, I’ll look after him.’
Reassured, Creswen and Mick took a break. They were only gone ten minutes but, as they returned, Creswen saw the ‘crash team’ rushing to the ward. Instinctively, she knew it was Christopher. ‘Something clicked in my brain and I suddenly thought: “He’s dead.”’
The doctors and nurses were already beside Christopher’s bed when she looked inside Cubicle Two.
It was a horrifying sight, she said. ‘The oxygen tent had gone and he was laid on the bed, totally blue. His face was the colour of a nurse’s blue hat. They were trying to bring him back, but I thought he had gone. I knew what a dead baby looked like because I’d carried Michelle to the ambulance in my arms.’ The realisation of what was happening to her little boy was just too much for Creswen, who became hysterical, screaming to doctors: ‘Bring him back – don’t you dare let him die.’
It was Nurse Allitt who led Creswen from the room. Creswen remembers the nurse trying to comfort her. ‘She said, “Come on, he’s all right, they’re bringing him back. We’ll get you a cup of tea.” She took me to the tea room with her arm around me and she seemed ever so concerned.
‘They carried Christopher out, he was just limp, and they took him to the treatment room. Nurse Allitt came into the parents room where she told us: “Don’t worry, he’ll be all right. He’s in the best hands.”’
By mid-afternoon Christopher’s condition had stabilised and doctors said they were sure he was going to be all right. Creswen asked what had caused her son to stop breathing; she was told that sometimes children suffering from bronchiolitis had mild cardiac arrests. ‘We accepted what they told us.’
But then, suddenly at 8pm, it happened again. Christopher suffered another cardiac arrest and, this time, it was worse. The ‘crash team’ was doing its best, but Creswen feared it would not be enough. ‘We really thought we were losing him. The doctors and nurses mentioned we ought to get him christened, and we agreed.’
Creswen would never forget the scene. Hospital chaplain, the Rev. Shelton, was summoned again to the ward. A gentle man with a stro
ng sense of faith, he had become a frequent visitor to the ward. The number of calls from the hospital had been unusually high. In the space of a few months he had been summoned nine times to comfort parents on the ward, mostly in the middle of the night. Other ministers had answered two other calls.
He had tried to console Chris and Joanne Taylor after Liam’s death, and had conducted the funeral service at the crematorium on 1 March. He had also shared Peter and Sue Phillips’s grief and had buried Becky in his churchyard at Manthorpe on 10 April.
Now here he was, four days later, baptising little Christopher whose life was also threatened. It was all over in a matter of minutes. There was no time to choose godparents, only time to pray that Christopher had the strength to pull through. ‘Christopher was on the machines and there were tubes everywhere. We gave him the name Christopher William Stephen Peasgood.
‘The minister took two photographs of him just lying there. It was all so weird.’
It was decided that Christopher would have to be transferred to the Queen’s Medical Centre in Nottingham, but he was so ill that they were warned he might not survive the journey.
It was their decision but Creswen asked one of the nurses what she ought to do. ‘She told us, “Move him.” I’ll never forget her words. We thought we had nothing to lose.’
There wasn’t room in the ambulance for Creswen and Mick. Convinced they were going to lose their second child they drove to Nottingham, stopping off en route to collect two friends to help them face the battle that lay ahead. When they arrived at the intensive care unit, however, they found that Christopher had made a remarkable recovery. ‘He’d had two arrests at Grantham and we’d been told he would die unless he got to a respirator, but when we got to Nottingham the doctor was full of hope. The doctor there said: “He’s not going to die, he’s perfectly all right.”’
