This is one of the hardest things that I have ever tried to write, somewhere in the deep and dim past I started writing this and had to stop.

I have at last found the courage to grieve.

Previous experiences within the Devon network of hospitals had left me very vary of many so called professionals.

The reason for me now writing all of this down is that I dread to think of the butcher of Plymouth being permitted unchecked to deliver my prospective grandchildren.

Our story is hard to pinpoint a beginning and as of yet, there is no end.

My teenage daughters were both born without event, arriving safely into the world.

Unfortunately things went terribly wrong very early with our next child, who was born 3 months prematurely and who succumbed to a fatal massive infection when he was only a week old. He was our first experience in the all new singing and dancing Hospital recently built.

Our next daughter arrived at 33 weeks and required very little additional support and is a thriving 8 year old.

Our 4 th daughter arrived after an emergency C-section after her cord prolapsed(Though now I begin to think about it I do wonder if the midwife was more than a little heavy handed I do remember a very bizarre feeling lower down as she pressed) She is being diagnosed at the moment with an Autistic spectrum disorder.

Our last child had been a very problematic pregnancy, bleeding very early on and throughout the pregnancy, almost fortnightly ultrasound scans, We just knew that there was something not quite right from the off.

I couldn’t seem to go more than a week without a pronounced bleed, I gave up work very much earlier than I had intended to and found myself spending half of the entire time I was pregnant unable to do very much at all.

As I approached the dreaded 24 week viability target we started to believe that I would make it all the way. Our plans were abruptly halted when without warning my waters ruptured at 27 weeks. Hospitalised and totally depressed with the situation I could see what had happened in the past flashing through my mind.

I was scanned every other day and believed to have placenta previa (minimal).

As I went into full labour a few days later I was filled with dread.

I remember distinctly being taken to the labour ward early in the morning on the Wednesday, hubby arrived very quickly afterwards and the labour progressed, my other children were all born within 3-4 hours of arriving at the labour suite and this little one just would not budge a day later, then 2 days dragged on until very late Friday night when things began to take a turn for the worst. The baby’s heart rate had become more erratic and we were both starting to show signs of distress, and we were both showing raised crp levels.

I had really acute psoriasis at the time and siting an IV line was a total nightmare let alone keeping one in, I was told I was a baby as I yelled as another doctor tried on several occasions to site a line, there was no skin area that he hadn’t tried to jab me

Step in the Butcher.

After spending Wednesday, Thursday and Friday in that room, I just needed my baby to stand a chance and to be born and given a chance to live.

Even though I was heavily drugged by then I remember one of the midwives telling me to “come on push her out, she’s only a little one”. By that point I was freaking out, I knew something was really wrong, she was just a little 27 weeker there must be something stopping her coming, despite my protests I was knocked out

Frantically I was prepared for a c section and taken to theatre, not for one minute thinking that my life would be irrevocably changed in those unremembered hours.

I began to focus and remember thinking that it was strange that there were men in maternity, laying in beds and hooked up to every conceivable machine. I suddenly became aware of the lines, wires tubes and machines that I was hooked up to and the grave looks of the doctors and nurses, looking at me, tutting twiddling with something else and whispering to their colleagues. Drifting in and out of consciousness I couldn’t quite grasp the seriousness of the situation. I knew for certain that something was really not right and sought reassurance from my husband who had remained at my side for those first few days.

As the group of doctors came closer, I knew that there was something that I was about to be told that would change me forever.

“Mrs * Smith I am afraid that there have been complications.” My immediate thoughts were of my child, not thinking for one minute that they meant me.As the story unfolded it became apparent that there had been major problems , my husband was told within approximately 5 minutes on my being taken into theatre that “It was life or death”, Obviously he complied as anyone would who has been told the same. The next few minutes seemed to pass very slowly for him, the hours into days, until I was classed as fit enough to tell of the consequences to someone else’s actions.

The Dr concerned for the time being we will call Dr X didn’t hang around to see the result of his handiwork, he was jetting off to somewhere exotic, and I got the distinct feeling that I had somehow upset his holiday plans. What should have been a straightforward C section had turned into a scene from the Exorcist, during which time it became apparent to Dr X that he had bitten off more than he could chew. After damaging my bladder and attempting no other method he ran out to my husband and told him that “It was life or death”, and words to the effect of “call a priest”. According to my husband there were far more people than he had ever seen at a birth before, and they seemed to go off in small groups, ushering him away to look at our baby, whom we have recently discovered was born dead, and required resuscitation, they seemed to want him as far out of the way as humanly possible.

Pressuring him with the words “Its life or death what do we do?” and covered in blood he made way for the orderlies and other anaesthetists to go into the room carrying bags of blood, of course he listened to the DrX, and after being given no other choices agreed to a hysterectomy.

I was given over 12 units of blood during my operation and required considerable attention from several senior members of the staff, all paged at the last moment who came running and scrubbed up.

I spent some considerable time in the High dependency unit until I was finally transferred back to the labour ward in a single room, I can only assume that it was to keep me quiet.

I was finally transferred to the Transitional care ward, where the staff were either Jeckyl or Hyde, there seemed to be no in the middle, just plain nasty or nice.

Very little was said regarding who had done what, and why I was in such a state after only coming in to have a baby. Fortunately the nicer midwives made up for the not so nice ones.
There was one particularly nice Midwife who actually spent the time to speak to me about what had happened where she said that she had never seen anything like it before and that she had been in the job for over 20 years. She knew then that I was going to have a really time ahead of me, especially as she had been one of my nurses when my son had died, she saw the signs long before anyone including my GP of the years of distress ahead.

Essentially you don’t have a choice but to be okay with it at the hospital, as an older mum it was expected that I grinned and bore it until it became so big bad and ugly and all I could see around me was what I have missed and will never have and life as it was known ceased to exist.

Unfortunately I wasn’t able to leave the hospital for a further three weeks due to various infections I picked up, a fortnight after the delivery I found a small blue stitch which was ignored for a further 3 days until the most awful woman removed it with the grace and compassion of a liller shark, I swear she smirked as she removed the by now deeply imbedded suture.

The recovery is very slow and has been problematic, not only physically, but psychologically is has contributed to my demise and serious mental health issues and problems. I have been suffering panic attacks and have hideous nightmares waking in the night sweating and crying and hearing those words,”Mrs *Smith there has been complications.” I come out of it within a few seconds but totally freak myself out in the process. Life is simply an existence, how can I help but be affected by this.

Trust of Doctors has not been regained in full as yet although several have almost succeeded.

I felt that I was viewed as a kind of freak as I hobbled through the hospital with a catheter bag strapped to my leg. I didn’t ask him to give me a hysterectomy, and nothing was farther from my mind when I agreed to a section, no one at any point explained any of the consequences nor that I would feel so aggrieved at the deliberate removal of my womb and any future opportunity of bearing that elusive boy, we would have kept going until we had another son, this time he would have been for keeps.

No-one ever really offered a reason why several of the hospitals sonographers failed on over 6 occasions to spot what was blindingly obvious, to have at least offered me the chance of trying something else other than a hysterectomy, even to have had some warning would have been preferable to what in essence was pure butchery.

There was no time in between Dr X going into the theatre and performing the section and coming running back out panicking and freaking out, he could have tried something……

A week later he returned from his holiday and one of the other nurses from upstairs on the ward came to visit me and told me, “God, you really F*cked up Dr Xs holiday plans, he totally freaked out”. He did then on a couple of occasions grace me with his company, never once to explain what had really gone on, he did look rather tanned though, I know what he felt was more important that night to him, and it certainly wasn’t me.

The final insults are that I still have bladder problems and cannot wait more than 10-20 minutes to go to the loo without it making me ill for several days, I cannot tolerate hospitals and bleeping machines and that I relive the whole experience at least three times a week without fail either whilst sleeping or just waking up.

Need I say anymore

My husband has been trying for 3 years now to get me to pursue the Butcher through the courts, I think I now have the courage to do it, and to stand up and be counted as one of the many women needlessly butchered and left without what makes us feel like a complete woman.

This may be a difficult procedure as the three year limit has elapsed, but I do truly believe that I had been left so deeply traumatised that it is only now 3 ½ years later that I can even begin to discuss it, in my heart of heart I know that it made me ill and contributed to my nervous breakdowns in the last 3 years, how can a mentally disabled person be held accountable for the time frame, we can but try.

I was diagnosed 3 years ago with PTSD and clinical depression, I cant help thinking that it was all because of someones holiday plans.

My 3 year old daughter has faired well even after her 3 month early start, she has given us many tears of fear and anticipation, sorrow and despair, but more importantly the strength to fight. She may be epileptic, asthmatic and hyperactive she is rambunctious, vibrant, and full of life, she will never know the joy of a baby brother or sister, of the turmoil and trauma that her birth brought, nor I the wiggle and jiggle of another child growing deep within me.

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(Home page www.a-little-wish.org.uk)
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