Nothing to Say?

I really have nothing to say. I’ve hit a wall. Too many stories in such a short time, I guess. It seems I’ve run right out of inspiration. No, don’t go away. Please stay. Maybe I could just tell you about a memory that popped into my head this morning. Is that okay?

I was thinking about a very learned professor who is an expert in diaphragmatic hernia babies. His name is Prof G. I went to see him when I was pregnant with Thomas. He was so pleased to meet me, excited perhaps. How many opportunities does one professor have in a year to see a mother with an unborn baby who has a diaphragmatic hernia? Not many. I was a very interesting case.

Prof G’s eyes lit up when he saw me. He looked over my head and began his lecture. He flung facts and figures this way and that. I was supposed to be impressed. Did I realise I was a rare statistic? Did I know how fortunate I was to have all this attention?

 “But there is a chance my baby will live?” I asked, when Prof G finally stopped talking.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Prof G, shaking his head. "These babies hardly ever survive.”

“But I know two babies with the same condition that did live,” I persisted.

Prof G shook his head again. “They couldn’t have been as badly affected as your baby. No, this is an extreme case. I wouldn’t get your hopes up of your baby surviving.” Then he looked at his watch, stood up and opened his office door, “I’ll see you in a month’s time. Make another appointment." Our time was up.

I headed towards the reception desk with my husband Andy and our five children in tow. No one said a word. What was there to say?

The receptionist was a large woman with short wiry iron hair and hard matching eyes that peered through steel frames. An upside-down smile was etched deep into her face. "Yes?” she barked.

“I need to make another appointment.”

“Have you got your hospital card with you?”

My hospital card? “No… I didn’t think to bring it.”

“Didn’t think!” the woman cut in. “How can I do my job properly if you don’t bring along the right paperwork?”

How inconvenient. What a nuisance I was. And I was about to make things worse. I just couldn't help it. Tears burst forth from my eyes and slid down my face. I heaved in air and let out a noisy sob.

The receptionist stopped shouting at me and asked rather gruffly, “Are you okay?”

“No. I’ve had a bad morning. My baby is going to die.”

“Oh! I’m sorry. Forget about the hospital card. It doesn’t matter. I can make that appointment for you without it.”

I sobbed quietly while the woman wrote out the details of my next appointment on a new card, and I thought, “I’m never coming back here again.” A few minutes later, halfway to the car, I screwed the card into a tight ball and threw it away. 

I never saw that receptionist again. I never kept the appointment she made for me. I didn’t see Prof G until the night I was in labour with Thomas. He was so annoyed with me: “Why did she stop attending her appointments? I have no details about her case.” I could hear his loud commanding voice, even before he entered the delivery room. I guess I'd been a nuisance again.

Why didn’t I keep my appointments with Prof G? You know, I do have something to say after all. I want to say everyone deserves compassion. No one is just an interesting case. I’m a person and so was my baby.

Have you ever heard the words, “If only I’d known, I’d never have said that”? I think of that receptionist and her change in manner, once she heard my distressing news. I know I should make excuses for her. She might have been having a bad day. But I'd still like to say:

Shouldn’t we always treat others with compassion, dignity and politeness, regardless of what we know of their circumstances?

Nothing to say? It seems I have plenty to say after all.