13March2025
StThomas Hospital, London
Tonight I finally put pen to paper after a week of turmoil in the paediatric ward. The day began with a young woman, Emily, perched on the edge of a hospital bed, her legs tucked under her, muttering with a sharp edge to her voice:
Andrew is all I want. He told me he doesnt want a child, so I dont need this one either. Do with him what you will it makes no difference to me.
The matron, MrsHargreaves, tried to reason, Emily, abandoning your own baby is brutal even animals would not act so.
Emily snapped back, I dont care what beasts do. Discharge me at once, or Ill make a scene youll remember.
MrsHargreaves sighed, Youre being foolish, child. May God have mercy on you. She knew from experience that medicine alone could not solve this.
Emily had been transferred from the maternity ward to our childrens unit just a week ago. She was volatile, refusing to breastfeed the infant, Thomas, despite every plea. She would only agree to express milk, but then discovered there was nowhere for the milk to go.
DrSusan Patel, the junior registrar, tried desperately to calm her. Emilys tantrums were ceaseless. When Susan explained the danger to the baby, Emily threatened to run away. Susan, flustered, summoned MrsHargreaves, who spent a frantic hour trying to persuade the irrational mother. Emily insisted she had to see her boyfriend, Andrew, and that if she didnt go south with him, he would take Kate away.
MrsHargreaves, seasoned by years of dealing with desperate mothers, decided she could keep Emily under observation for three more days, hoping she might come to her senses. The very mention of three days sent Emily into a frenzy.
Are you mad? she wailed. Andrews already angry about this cursed baby, and now youre tossing me another stone. If I dont go south with him, hell snatch Kate. She broke down, shouting that everyone was foolish and that Kate only wanted to pull her boyfriend away. The child was merely a steppingstone for her to secure a marriage.
MrsHargreaves, weary, ordered a dose of valerian and moved toward the door. The senior registrar, DrSusan, followed silently. In the corridor, Susan whispered, Do you really believe a child can thrive with a mother like this?
MrsHargreaves replied gently, What else can we do? If we hand him over to a childrens home, hell be bounced from one institution to another. Both familiesEmilys and Andrewshave respectable means. Perhaps we should speak with the grandparents; they are adults, after all, and this is their first grandchild. Get their contact details, Ill arrange a meeting.
That very day Emily vanished. MrsHargreaves rang the grandparents, but the young mans family refused any contact. Two days later, Emilys father, a surly, unpleasant man named Geoffrey, arrived to collect his daughters belongings. When MrsHargreaves suggested a look at the baby, Geoffrey dismissed it, declaring he would send a letter of relinquishment through his driver. She insisted the mother must be present herself; otherwise the discharge would be illegal. Geoffrey, visibly agitated, backed down and promised his wife would handle it.
The next morning a frail, pale woman named Margaret arrived. She perched on a chairs edge and burst into tears, whispering about some dreadful fate. She explained that the childs parents had fled abroad, wealthy and with grand plans, leaving this tragic mess behind. Her own daughter, Emily, sobbed nonstop, hurling horrific words, claiming she hated the baby. Margaret said she would travel overseas to retrieve her child, wherever he had been taken.
MrsHargreaves, hoping to stir some maternal instinct, urged Margaret to look at the infant. Margarets eyes softened, but only briefly; she began crying louder, calling the baby beautiful and saying she would gladly raise himif only her husband didnt forbid it and Emily didnt refuse. She clutched a fresh handkerchief and wailed.
MrsHargreaves muttered, Well, thats that, and instructed a nurse to give Margaret a dose of valerian, remarking that such foolishness would soon empty the wards supply of calming tincture.
She then reported the situation to the chief paediatrician, DrHarold Finch. Finch, once a kindly consultant, brightened at the sight of the little boy and asked what they fed him. Hes a solid little fellow, a real bundle of joy, Finch chuckled, calling the infant Biscuit, a nickname that stuck.
Biscuits stay stretched over several months. Initially, the staff tried to convince his mother to return. She visited occasionally, playing with him, claiming she was saving money for a ticket to find Andrew. With nothing else to occupy her, she kept coming. She seemed to grow accustomed to the baby.
His grandmother also visited, doting on him, yet each departure was marked by tears and apologies for Emilys behaviour. The matron noted that what Emily called love was nothing but lust.
Despite the visits, no one signed any paperwork to take Biscuit home, and the child remained in our care. MrsHargreaves finally sat Emily down for a serious talk, explaining that the baby was ill and needed stable care. Emily erupted, screaming that the whole world was conspiring to keep them apart, that she hated everyone, especially Biscuit. She claimed that if the child were gone, she would be with Andrew, happy, and would persuade him to abandon this filthy baby and marry her.
Emily then slipped a written relinquishment into the chiefs office, placed it on his desk, turned without a word, and left.
The chief summoned MrsHargreaves. When she returned, her face dark, she announced, Its done. Shes handed in the paperwork. The chief has ordered us to process his transfer to a childrens home.
Susan, the junior registrar, broke down in tears. MrsHargreaves removed her glasses, rubbed them anxiouslya telltale sign she was nervous. All who knew her understood that when the matron polished her spectacles, she was trying to hide her own grief.
In that moment Biscuit cheered in his cot, his eyes brightening as a nurse entered. He squealed with delight, waving his tiny arms and legs. Suddenly he froze, as if listening for something, then fell silent.
The nurse approached, feeling a strange chill in her chest, tears welling up. She realised that the babys sorrow mirrored the mothers abandonment. She confessed later that it was the exact instant Emily signed the relinquishment that Biscuits small world shifted. The matron, irritated, brushed off the nurses lament, muttering about needless drama.
Babies, naïve as they are, somehow sense rejection. Whether its a whisper from some unseen spirit or an instinctual awareness, they become quiet, trying not to burden anyone, as if they understand the world will soon try to shove them into a bleak, grey institution. They learn to be unseen, because, in the eyes of a cold world, youre not needed.
No matter whether youre hungry or feverish, nobody will read you a bedtime story or pull a blanket over you. The world can be indifferent, yet some wise, discarded children know this. Their puppylike gaze holds a bleak resignation. A heartless world bestows favour on some and snatches it from others. The poor child spends years wondering why he was rejected, what he did wrong, why the world turned its back.
There are no answers. Indifference struck without reason, and the child is left to suffer for others cruelty. But hope remainshope that fate will intervene, that kindness will still surface in this callous world. Trust, little one, that someone will care, that the world, though harsh, still holds pockets of good.
Since that day Biscuit has lain quietly in his cot, no longer playing, his smile gone, his eyes solemn. I tried everything to cheer him:
Biscuit, want a cuddle? Look, I have some bright beaded braceletslets play?
I extended my hands, hoping hed reach back, but he stared blankly, unmoving. I returned, tears streaming down my cheeks.
Then, in a burst of fury, I shouted, Were betraying him, arent we? Those bastards gave him life, and now were the villains! He didnt ask to be born into this mess! I hate it!
I sat on the sofa, head in my hands, whining. MrsHargreaves rose, sat beside me, placed a hand on my shoulder, and said, Love, Im at a loss. I feel sorry for BiscuitGod, what a cruel job this is.
I answered, I wont just sit and wait; Ill act.
She snapped, Then stop sitting. Act, but dont think youll adopt him. Theyll never hand him over to you. Youre a resident doctorno family, no partner. I wont listen to such hysteria. How many Biscuits have I seen in my career? Too many to count. Lets make a deal: Ill give you time, and you find a proper family for him.
So I began the search for the perfect parentsan earnest quest that even the ward staff admired. Biscuit fell ill with a common cold, but discharge was impossible, as MrsHargreaves noted, For the first time in my life I almost felt relieved the child got sick. God forgive me!
At last, a couple emerged: Linda and Leo, both in their midthirties, childfree, who had long dreamed of adoption. Linda was a gentle, elegant woman with a soft smile and a melodic voice; Leo was a sturdy, militarytype man who adored his wife. Their home was bright and welcoming.
The matron welcomed them warmly, even whistling at the sight of Leos broad shoulders before apologising, Excuse my excitement; I dont see men like you every day. She asked, halfjoking, What was his birth weight, love?
Leo, slightly embarrassed, replied, Im not sure Ill ask the nurse. Linda laughed, Dont worry, well get all the paperwork sorted.
The matron explained, The weight isnt crucial for adoption. You just look like Biscuits future parents.
Linda entered the ward, took a deep breath, and stepped toward Biscuits cot. He awoke, his tiny hands twitching. He stared at her, then at Leo, and finally, his fingers clutched Lindas thumb with surprising strength. A murmur of amusement rippled through the staff.
Biscuit managed a faint smile. Linda returned it, nodding gently, while the baby let out a soft, highpitched squeak. The matron, suppressing a cough, said, Thatll be enough for today. Youll go home, discuss, and decide.
Linda, without turning to the matron, replied calmly, Weve already decided.
The matron raised an eyebrow, and Leo, puzzled, responded, Yes, weve spoken it through. We want this little fellow.
Linda smiled at Biscuit, pulling her hand back slightly. He held on tightly, refusing to release. A tense silence settled.
MrsHargreaves murmured, Bless you, Lord. Hes got a strong grasp reflex at this age.
Linda, still facing the cot, said, Hes afraid Ill be gone. She whispered tenderly, Please let me go now; I must leave, but Ill be back, I promise. You have to trust me.
Biscuit listened, then loosened his grip, flashing a wide, gummytoothed grin and letting out a delighted chirp.
The matron, adjusting her glasses, commented, Its just a reflex, but its lovely to see.
Now, looking back, I recognise that every frantic moment, every bitter word, and every tear was a lesson in how fragile hope can be when love is absent. I learned that even in a system that seems cold and bureaucratic, persistent compassion can carve a path for a child who otherwise would be forgotten. My duty is not only to treat illnesses but also to safeguard the humanity that keeps us all alive.
James Whitaker, senior paediatric consultant.
