BLOOD, SWEAT AND TEARS

We went back to hospital with Billie this week; it was her final visit as an outpatient following her pneumonia. It all seemed to go quite well: Billie sat quietly, allowed the doctor to examine her and even cracked a smile when she got her "Bravery" badge.

Just as we were leaving the doctor remembered that Bill had not had a follow-up blood test and asked if we’d mind hanging on to have it. We were duly summoned to see the nurse, and I went up there on my own with Bill, leaving Steve in the waiting room with Olly, presuming they would first of all apply some anaesthetic cream as they’d done before. They didn’t: the nurse went straight for the vein. Naturally, Billie started wailing but I thought that I should stick with it, as the procedure had already begun. When she finally got the needle in the vein the nurse realised that she couldn’t draw any blood, so she pulled it back out again, and without any consultation with me began squeezing the blood out of Billie’s arm.

As it was just me with Billie, I couldn’t hold her still and at the same time prevent her from straining round to witness the blood now streaming from her arm into the vials and all over her and me into the bargain. It was dire. Billie was completely hysterical. The nurse explained rather blankly over Billie’s howls that she had no alternative other than to squeeze the blood out unless I wanted her to inject Billie again. So I just sat there and let her continue to squeeze.

When Countess Dracula had had her fill we were despatched from the room after a rough wiping of Bill’s arm with a wet green paper towel and a ruffle of my now traumatised child’s hair. It took TWENTY-FIVE MINUTES before Billie stopped screaming and two hours before she stopped shaking. It has been a week since this happened and Billie still refuses to let us touch her arm. She goes crazy when we have to change her clothes as she doesn’t want her arm exposed so we have to re-dress her immediately, while she screams for her clothes to be put on. And Billie will not wear anything now other than long sleeve pyjama tops even when we go out.

Everyone I tell this story to immediately tells me to complain. Then they ask me why I didn’t stop the nurse when she was taking the blood. I don’t know why I didn’t stop the nurse. I think that I, like thousands of other people, am uncomfortable questioning the methods of the supposed "experts"; without meaning to be trite, I am the woman who sat and had eight inches of her precious hair cut off because she couldn’t find a voice to say no to the hairdresser. At the time, I presumed the nurse had done this procedure lots of times before and therefore she knew best. As far as complaining is concerned, I think, again like thousands of other people, that a complaint against a hospital or staff member won’t be properly acknowledged and no action will be taken.

But it’s not right is it? She shouldn’t have hurt and terrified my child, and I should have some explanation and apology from her department. But do you know the worst thing about this? It is that I did nothing to protect Billie; I just sat and allowed it to happen. I feel I have let my baby down, and every time she flinches when I take her top off, and every time she starts at a loud noise, or just cries for no reason I think of last Tuesday and what she was put through and I wonder how I let this happen.

Juliet Jones lives in domestic chaos with husband Steve, son Oliver (aged 3) and daughter Billie (aged 2) in Hertfordshire.