Sometimes the headlines are hard to read. Sometimes the news is too much to take, and I have to switch over; switch off; turn away. Sometimes it’s just too real.
Right now 18 newborn babies are critically ill. One has died. All have been infected by what is believed to be a contaminated batch of feed, administered via drip to already vulnerable babies in neonatal units across the country.
The news flashed up on my phone; my computer screen; my tablet. It will call to me from newspapers folded in racks when I stop off for milk in the morning. I’m trying to shut it out, but I can’t. Because it’s too real.
I remember where I was when they rang to tell me Alex was ill. Sunlight streamed through the window onto the table, where I was sitting with books spread out in front of me, studying for a job interview that never really mattered. I remember the feeling in my stomach as the room span around me, and the sound of the phone hitting the floor as I ran for my car keys.
I remember running into NICU; into the unit I’d left just hours before. Where I’d been told how well things were going; how the boys would be home before I knew it. Did I have everything ready? Were the cots up? The pram bought?
I remember the empty space next to Josh’s incubator, and the guiding hand steering me left, into intensive care. I remember Alex’s inert body, under a mass of tubes, and the quiet efficiency of the nurses surrounding him.
I remember the days that followed, before we knew what was wrong, and I remember the doctor who broke the news that somehow – who knew how? – he had blood poisoning. I remember the lumbar punctures; the blood tests; the verdict of meningitis gently delivered yet received like a bullet to my heart.
And I remember the end. I remember the day when nothing more could be done. When we sat holding hands as the vicar baptised a child who never had a chance to live. When they brought him to us stripped of wires, to hold as his heart slowed first to a whisper and then disappeared. I remember the lullaby I sang for him; the book I read to him.
I remember it.
Today the news is too hard to bear, because the news is too real. The papers will point fingers and attribute blame, but none of it matters. What matters is there are parents sitting right now by the bedsides of their children, desperately hoping that tomorrow the news will be better.