A mother’s instinct and why I changed my mind on Charlie

WHEn the Charlie Gard case first came to light, I confess I took the side of the Great Ormond Street doctors. these people know their onions, I reasoned. they would never let a child go if there were the slightest scintilla of hope.

then I heard Charlie’s mother, Connie Yates, being interviewed on Monday’s today Programme. And I began to have doubts.

It wasn’t just Connie’s calm eloquence. It was what she said about trusting the instincts of a parent. About how she, as his mother, knew Charlie better than anyone else. And that, when it came to what was best for their son, she was the true expert.

that really struck a chord. not because I don’t have faith in the medics treating Charlie, but because of something that happened when my own son, Will, was very small.

At around four months, his behaviour suddenly changed. not in a way that most people would have noticed, but I did. Having been an enthusiastic feeder, his appetite decreased and he began waking often during the night.

His crying changed, too. Again, not anything obvious, but the pitch, to my maternal bat-ear, was just that little bit off.

this went on for several weeks. Each time I took him to see the midwife, she would look him over and tell me not to worry. He was just growing. Probably teething. Had I tried Calpol? But I was convinced something was wrong.

One morning, after a bad night, I woke early. He was lying next to me, sleeping at last, his long dark lashes flickering as he dreamed.

As I stroked his fat cheek, I noticed something strange. His right ear appeared to have moved. It was rigid to the touch, and sticking out at a slight angle.

this time I didn’t bother the midwife. the GP had no appointments but I lurked until the end of morning surgery and then nabbed him on his way out. Could he please just take a look at my boy. Silly, I know, but one of his ears seems to have moved …

Carefully, quickly, he examined him. then he picked up the phone and rang the hospital. He couldn’t be certain, he explained, because he had never actually seen a case, only studied it at medical school; but he thought Will had something called mastoiditis.

Relatively common before the advent of antibiotics, it occurs when an infection spreads to the mastoid bone behind the ear — a honeycomb structure that amplifies sound. If left untreated, an abscess forms between the bone and the brain, causing pressure and, ultimately, death.

that was why Will’s ear had moved: the abscess that was pressing on his brain had pushed it out of place.

THE infection was too advanced for intravenous antibiotics, so we were transferred to St George’s in tooting. A paediatric surgeon drilled a hole in the side of his head to drain the fluid, and packed it with antibiotics. then it was just a question of waiting.

those weeks at St George’s were some of the most difficult of my life — but I was one of the lucky ones. Sure, it was agonising watching the nurses trying to fix a line in veins that were too small for even the finest needle, but they did it. And the medicine was working.

Once Will was better, they set about investigating the cause of the infection, with endless scans, blood tests and screenings.

they needn’t have bothered. I knew precisely what had caused it: the health visitor’s insistence that Will was too young to have antibiotics for an ear infection.

An infection that I had spotted and, mindful of my own family history of serious ear infections, had wanted to treat aggressively.

But she wasn’t having any of it. I was breastfeeding, he had my antibodies, so it would mend itself. After all, she was the expert — and I just a neurotic mother.

She meant no harm, of course, and I am sure she was only following best practice. As, no doubt, are the doctors at Great Ormond Street. But for all their expertise, they are not Charlie’s mother. they will never know him — or love him — like she does.

that is why Charlie must be allowed his treatment, however unlikely (on paper) the chances of success. Because if his mother thinks he can make it, then maybe — just maybe — he can.