Dr Phil Hammond

The baby was 32 weeks and not breathing It was the toughest time of my life, trying to put drips, drains, tubes and catheters in the tiniest babies. Luckily, the nurses saw me coming and when it was quiet, we’d swap red roles. They’d do all the high-tech fiddly stuff and I’d fetch the HobNobs. But when it was busy, I’d be called into action. In 1988, the training mantra was “see one, do one, teach one”. As one consultant advised: “If you’re not sure what you’re doing, put on a mask of relaxed brilliance.” But no mask can calm a premature birth and the dash to special care.

The baby was 32 weeks and not breathing. The unit sister was busy with another baby. I’d done six successful intubations (passing a tube into the trachea to allow ventilation) but never on my own. I chose a tube, picked up the laryngoscope and prayed my glasses would stay on long enough to see the vocal cords. I eased the tube in and fate directed it to the correct hole. As the tiny lungs inflated, the mother placed some amethyst next to her baby “for the healing energy”.

This baby was in limbo for weeks, unable to come off the ventilator but hanging in there. I’d take blood and fiddle with the ventilator, willing him to thrive with science, while the mother brought in healing beads, horse’s hair, homeopathic creams. Nothing worked. Then one morning, she stuck a picture of the Pope on the incubator and went for a coffee.