“Thank you for seeing my beautiful daughter Kate…”
Medical training prepared me well for some things, poorly for many, and hardly at all for medical parenthood. Never before had I used the word beautiful in a referral letter. Now I cannot write a referral for Kate without it, far more important than details of her gestational age or medications. Kate was born by emergency caesarean section. The operation, another commonplace miracle, was “uneventful” except for its outcome—a girl of 1480 g. She was intubated and whisked away. Neonatal intensive care was also uncomplicated, at fi rst. Apart from a lumbar puncture on day 1, we were spared the traumas that struck neighbouring families. The medical errors that are rife in hospitals somehow skirted us. Kate was an excellent baby, already irresistibly cute as tube-feed hiccups shook her whole body like some nano earthquake. We were lucky. Then came the head ultrasound. “Widespread periventricular leukomalacia, perhaps aff ecting all four limbs”: cerebral palsy was almost certain, and might be severe. No one could know its extent for months at least. Would we like to see the pictures? No. After months of congratulations about the pregnancy, our Hollywood happy ending had disappeared. Instead “Thank you for seeing my beautiful daughter Kate...”