My daughter Nicola was born on 4 October 1970. It was a normal birth – a one-hour delivery.
But she was soon extremely poorly, projectile vomiting. A major operation was carried out when she was three weeks old to investigate jaundice. We were told she needed a new liver and that we would be lucky to have her three months.
Liver failure causes the abdomen to fill with fluid, which has to be drained. Painfully and slowly. This was done numerous time in her short life.
In March 1971 I had to take Nicola to Professor S Sherlock at the old Royal Free Hospital. On my own, with a very sick baby, on a train. Terrifying. We were there a week – I spent one night in a Salvation Army hostel, the rest of time in Nurses Quarters. To earn my keep I waited tables in Nurses Dining Room, and visit my baby at visiting time. Visiting was always at visiting time – no exceptions.
But they couldn’t do anything, so we went home.
When it was nearly her birthday, her body was swollen with fluid. I made a deal with God: if He let me have her for her birthday, He could take her.
The last time I held Nicola, she knew me. But she was prised out of my arms by a nurse. Visiting was over – we had to go. She screamed “mummy, mummy mummy” – I could hear her for several minutes. It haunts me to this day.
The following day, Nicola deteriorated and was unconscious. I kept asking myself if it was my fault – did she think I didn’t love her? But the next day Nicola fell into a coma – her organs were shutting down. Visiting ended – and once again we were sent away. Nicola died a few minutes after we left.
My husband blamed me for Nicola’s death, and
The medical profession accused me of trying to get rid of Nicola. Then my husband blamed me for her death – suddenly I was an outcast in my family. I moved home in 1971 and have moved 40 times since.
But it wasn’t my fault – I took “two little white pills” to test whether I was pregnant.
My heart was ripped out, leaving a huge empty space ever since.
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