HOPE BORN OUT OF HORROR
BEFORE Melissa Mead’s second son Arthur was born, she grappled with the fear — groundless, of course — that she wouldn’t be able to love him as much as her firstborn, William. ‘I cried when Arthur was born. To have him here and healthy was all we could have wished for,’ she says. ‘I just sat and looked at him, drinking in all his little features. We couldn’t believe he was ours.
‘When I was pregnant with Arthur I was too scared to allow myself to love him, because I’d loved William so much and he was taken away. I was worried, too, that in giving love to Arthur I’d be taking it away from William. It wasn’t until Arthur was born that I realised I was just adding to the basket of love.’
Photographs of William — the baby they lost — as a newborn show how uncannily alike the two brothers are: the same shock of dark hair, the cute, upturned nose and dark eyes.
Arthur, now four weeks old, is a contented baby. As we talk he sleeps peacefully in his Moses basket at the side of the room, yet Melissa and her partner Paul often find their attention distracted by the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. Each in breath a treasured gift. Each out breath reassurance.
You can understand their nervousness. William died in December 2014 when he was just 382 days old.
He was killed by sepsis — also known as blood poisoning or septicaemia — which claims 44,000 lives a year.
It occurs as the body’s immune system goes into overdrive when trying to fight an infection and can be overlooked or misdiagnosed by medical staff because of the multitude of symptoms that sufferers can exhibit.
Melissa and Paul’s grief is compounded by the fact that they know their son’s death could have been avoided.
Had it not been for a catalogue of errors and missed opportunities by doctors and the NHS 111 helpline, he could still be alive, sharing their joy at Arthur’s arrival, relishing his role as a big brother.
Diligent, loving parents, the couple called the helpline repeatedly and had taken their ailing son to see doctors, but vital warning signs that he was grievously ill went unheeded.
In all, a staggering 15 failures in his care contributed to his final fatal illness: pneumonia, fluid and an abscess on his lung, which led to the sepsis that eventually killed him.
Knowing that a simple course of antibiotics could have saved him is something his parents will have to live with for the rest of their lives.
‘That’s the worst thing in the world,’ says Melissa. ‘And I will never come to terms with what happened. It was needless, a chronology of mistakes. We were let down, with the most catastrophic outcome.
‘But I do not want my life to be consumed by hate, anger and regret.
‘I hope that those involved in William’s care will not make the same mistakes again. I’ve fought hard for answers and they have been given.
‘William’s legacy is the recommendations that have been made to improve the systems that failed him.’
Since his death, Melissa has channelled her grief into raising awareness of, and funds for, sepsis research. So far more than £160,000 has been raised in William’s name.
And his legacy has been even more far-reaching. Thanks to her lobbying, Health Secretary Jeremy Hunt has launched a public awareness campaign, backed by the Daily Mail and the UK Sepsis Trust.
Leaflets and a social media video about the disease have been distributed to doctors’ surgeries, hospital A&E departments and walkin medical centres.
AND MELISSA received a standing ovation when she told the Conservative Party Conference about William and the NHS report into his care that she precipitated.
Every parent of a newborn now receives a pack that contains a leaflet bearing the message ‘Could it be sepsis?’ and featuring a photograph of William.
Melissa opened hers in Treliske Hospital, Cornwall, two days after Arthur’s birth. She recalls: ‘It was bittersweet, a moment of sorrow and pride. William should be here with us and he’s not. But he’s our little hero. He’s helping to save others’ lives and that is a comfort.’
When Melissa became pregnant with William after she and Paul, 32, a fibre telecoms engineer, had been together for ten years, it seemed little short of a miracle.
A raft of gynaecological problems had left Melissa, 29, PA to the director of a finance company, with only half an ovary.
She also has a heart condition and, quite understandably, did not believe she would ever conceive.
LITTLE William was a delight. She recalls: ‘He was such a lovely, contented baby; cheeky and giggly. Every moment with him was a pleasure. He made being parents easy. He made love easy.
‘I couldn’t believe he was mine. He’d taken his first steps the week before he passed away. He’d already learnt to clap his hands and he was starting to express himself by babbling.
‘He was just beginning to change from a baby to a toddler. He was so happy with life.’
But when he celebrated his first birthday in November, with a cake decorated with farmyard animals, he seemed off-colour, Melissa recalls.
‘He had the beginnings of a cold. He was pale,’ she says.
Over the next six weeks, the cold deteriorated into a persistent chesty cough and frequent vomiting.
His parents, conscientious and alarmed by his worsening symptoms, were told during multiple visits to doctors and the A&E unit of their local hospital that he was suffering from a virus and that his condition was not serious. Rest and plenty of fluids would cure him, doctors insisted. ‘We were reassured by the medical experts in whom we invested our trust that there was nothing to worry about,’ says Melissa.
‘In the final 24 hours of William’s life we visited an emergency doctor and called the NHS 111 helpline and an out-of-hours doctor. The prognosis was the same, that there was “nothing grisly”.’ Yet on the morning of December 14, 2014, she walked into William’s bedroom to be confronted by the unimaginable.
‘It was dark because the blackout blinds were drawn. I stroked his cheek. It was warm. He didn’t move.
‘I put my arms through the bars of his cot and his arm was cool to the touch. He didn’t move. I stroked the side of his body and it was stiff. He was gone.
‘I screamed and screamed to Paul: “He’s dead!” Paul lifted him out of his cot. We phoned 999 and they talked us through CPR (cardiopulmonary resuscitation). The ambulance arrived in three minutes.
‘They treated us with the utmost dignity. I cannot give them enough credit. They tried their best and then one of them said: “I’m sorry, love, but he’s gone.” And that was it.’
Tears choke Melissa. The flashbacks to that awful morning continue. Thereafter, she and Paul lived through a waking nightmare.
‘At the hospital we were allowed to sit with him for a couple of hours, then they said they were taking him to the mortuary. I said I’d take him and I carried him through the hospital.
‘I asked the mortician to look after him. I don’t remember much after that.
‘One of the hardest things was typing “baby coffins” into Google, then choosing one for our child. It had to be beautiful; worthy of him. It was just 30in long; white and satin-lined.