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 tohelp 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.”’
Creswen only had to look at Christopher to be convinced he would pull through. ‘He was lying there on a huge bed big enough for a fourteen-year-old, and he was screaming his lungs out. He was hungry. I fed him a bottle and I couldn’t believe it. We’d lost Michelle, we’d expected the worst, and there he was safe and well.’
Three days later Christopher had recovered sufficiently to go home. In the weeks that followed Creswen would wonder at her baby’s lucky escape, and ask herself: ‘Why was he dying one minute and OK the next?’
On the day Creswen took her baby home from the Queen’s Medical Centre, still counting her blessings, another baby, seven-week-old Patrick Elstone, was admitted to Ward Four. Like most of the parents, Hazel and Robert weren’t unduly worried about their baby’s arrival at the hospital.
Patrick and his identical twin brother, Anthony, were their first children. There had been no problems until Patrick developed a cold and stopped taking his feed; at this point the family doctor had suggested a check-up at the hospital. It was aroutine precaution, simply a case of keeping him under observation.
But within forty-eight hours Patrick nearly died too. He stopped breathing without warning and was so ill that he, too, was baptised as he lay fighting for his life.
At first there had been no cause for alarm. Robert and Hazel spent two-and-a-half hours by their son’s bedside, then went home to put twin brother, Anthony, to bed at 9pm, satisfied that little Patrick couldn’t have been in better hands.
They sat by his side throughout the next day as Patrick lay in a maternity cot, seemingly doing so well that it wasn’t going to be necessary to put him on a drip. On the third day Patrick’s temperature went up slightly and staff suggested Hazel should take Anthony to the doctor for a check-up, in case he was suffering from something too.
Hazel left the ward at 2pm when Patrick was laughing in his cot, kicking and cooing.
But when her taxi-driver husband Robert phoned the hospital at 8pm he was told by a nurse that staff had been trying to reach them. Patrick had been ‘sort of playing up’, and the nurse said they should go straight to the ward.
Hazel bundled Anthony into her arms and the couple dashed to the hospital, a mile from their terraced cottage near the town’s railway station. ‘As soon as we got in we got the shock of our lives. We sat there and a nurse called Mary told us Patrick had stopped breathing at 8pm.
‘I said: “What’s happening, will he live?” Shesaid: “I cannot tell you one way or the other. We’re hoping to have him moved to Nottingham.” I just broke down in tears.’
Sue Phillips had been sitting with Katie near the cubicle where Patrick lay. She remembered watching Nurse Allitt come from Cubicle Six carrying Patrick in her arms, shouting that he had stopped breathing. She’d just gone in to check him, she had said, and found him already turning blue. The night sister, Jean Saville, helped, and Patrick quickly began breathing again.
Upstairs, in the canteen, Hazel and Robert met Sue and Peter Phillips, who, as much as anyone, knew what the Elstones were going through. They had already lost Becky and were still waiting for Katie to be allowed home.
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 tohelp 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.”’
Creswen only had to look at Christopher to be convinced he would pull through. ‘He was lying there on a huge bed big enough for a fourteen-year-old, and he was screaming his lungs out. He was hungry. I fed him a bottle and I couldn’t believe it. We’d lost Michelle, we’d expected the worst, and there he was safe and well.’
Three days later Christopher had recovered sufficiently to go home. In the weeks that followed Creswen would wonder at her baby’s lucky escape, and ask herself: ‘Why was he dying one minute and OK the next?’
On the day Creswen took her baby home from the Queen’s Medical Centre, still counting her blessings, another baby, seven-week-old Patrick Elstone, was admitted to Ward Four. Like most of the parents, Hazel and Robert weren’t unduly worried about their baby’s arrival at the hospital.
Patrick and his identical twin brother, Anthony, were their first children. There had been no problems until Patrick developed a cold and stopped taking his feed; at this point the family doctor had suggested a check-up at the hospital. It was aroutine precaution, simply a case of keeping him under observation.
But within forty-eight hours Patrick nearly died too. He stopped breathing without warning and was so ill that he, too, was baptised as he lay fighting for his life.
At first there had been no cause for alarm. Robert and Hazel spent two-and-a-half hours by their son’s bedside, then went home to put twin brother, Anthony, to bed at 9pm, satisfied that little Patrick couldn’t have been in better hands.
They sat by his side throughout the next day as Patrick lay in a maternity cot, seemingly doing so well that it wasn’t going to be necessary to put him on a drip. On the third day Patrick’s temperature went up slightly and staff suggested Hazel should take Anthony to the doctor for a check-up, in case he was suffering from something too.
Hazel left the ward at 2pm when Patrick was laughing in his cot, kicking and cooing.
But when her taxi-driver husband Robert phoned the hospital at 8pm he was told by a nurse that staff had been trying to reach them. Patrick had been ‘sort of playing up’, and the nurse said they should go straight to the ward.
Hazel bundled Anthony into her arms and the couple dashed to the hospital, a mile from their terraced cottage near the town’s railway station. ‘As soon as we got in we got the shock of our lives. We sat there and a nurse called Mary told us Patrick had stopped breathing at 8pm.
‘I said: “What’s happening, will he live?” Shesaid: “I cannot tell you one way or the other. We’re hoping to have him moved to Nottingham.” I just broke down in tears.’
Sue Phillips had been sitting with Katie near the cubicle where Patrick lay. She remembered watching Nurse Allitt come from Cubicle Six carrying Patrick in her arms, shouting that he had stopped breathing. She’d just gone in to check him, she had said, and found him already turning blue. The night sister, Jean Saville, helped, and Patrick quickly began breathing again.
Upstairs, in the canteen, Hazel and Robert met Sue and Peter Phillips, who, as much as anyone, knew what the Elstones were going through. They had already lost Becky and were still waiting for Katie to be allowed home.
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