Last summer began with the vibrant energy of youth for my 13-year-old daughter, Martha. Her days were a kaleidoscope of park hangouts with friends, playful phone videos, and teenage games. She was immersed in books and song lyrics, musing about futures as an author, engineer, or film director. Her life was a canvas of possibilities, brimming with the promise of tomorrow.
But as summer drew to a close, Martha was gone. A series of devastating errors within a leading UK hospital stole her future.
This is the story of how Martha was let down by the very system meant to protect her, a stark reminder of the dangers of unquestioning faith in doctors. It’s a lesson learned too late, a truth I now feel compelled to share, hoping Martha’s story might spark change and even save another life.
I believe deeply in the principles of our healthcare system and acknowledge the countless dedicated doctors within it. The tragedy that befell Martha, as the hospital itself confirmed, was not a consequence of strained resources or overworked staff. It wasn’t about systemic failings or funding cuts.
Despite repeated assurances that Martha was in the best hands, a chilling truth haunts me: had I been more informed, more assertive, my daughter might still be alive. The hospital has acknowledged their breach of duty, labeling it a “catastrophic error.” Yet, the weight of what I didn’t know, the system I didn’t fully understand, leaves me perpetually broken.
Another parent, also navigating the unbearable landscape of child loss, described life afterwards as existing on a separate island, isolated from the “normal world.” A world I desperately yearn to return to, but can never reach again. Forever stranded on this island of grief.
We had sought refuge in a quaint cottage nestled on the edge of Snowdonia National Park. An old farmhouse, cozy and rustic, with no digital distractions. Even parking required a trek up a sheep-grazed hill, our luggage ferried by wheelbarrow, much to the amusement of Martha and her younger sister, Lottie. Our first day unfolded in sunshine. Bodyboarding at Barmouth beach, painting the valley from our cottage window, a relaxed pub dinner, card games – pure, effortless holiday joy.
Martha smiles from the doorway of their Welsh cottage, a poignant image from the eve of the bike accident in July 2021.
The next day, bikes were rented, and we embarked on a family-friendly cycle path, a scenic nine-mile route along an old railway line leading to the beach. Martha cycled beside me, our conversation light, touching on teenage concerns like body hair. We swam, savored crab sandwiches, and started our return journey. Then, in an instant, Martha’s bike slipped on a patch of sand that had drifted from the beach onto the path. She was cycling cautiously, our “Captain Sensible,” but the fall winded her badly.
Cyclists filled the path. Martha crawled to the edge to recover. Another family with a young child passed; their daughter wobbled on the sand but stayed upright, continuing without a second thought. A moment they’d likely never recall.
Martha remained unwell. We took her to a minor injuries unit. Lifting her t-shirt revealed a red ring on her stomach, the imprint of her handlebars where she’d landed. No cut, just the circular mark.
The nurse described the injury to a doctor over the phone. He deemed it internal bruising, prescribing paracetamol without seeing Martha. A flicker of doubt crossed my mind – should I insist on a doctor’s examination? I didn’t. We returned to the cottage. But by 2 am, Martha was vomiting, writhing in pain. Hospital was now unavoidable. “I can’t walk to the car,” she whispered. Paul, her father, carefully navigated the wheelbarrow down the bumpy hill, Lottie illuminating our path with a phone torch. Gently, we eased Martha into the car.
At Bronglais hospital in Aberystwyth, tests were run, and Martha was admitted for overnight observation. Still, I believed it was a precaution. But dawn brought a doctor with grave news: pancreatic trauma. The force of the fall had compressed her pancreas against her spine, causing a tear.
I knew instantly it was serious but placed unwavering trust in the system. The pandemic years had instilled in us a deep appreciation for our healthcare system. Martha and Lottie had painted rainbows emblazoned with “Thank You” in our window. We’d joined the weekly clapping, Martha banging a pan with a wooden spoon in gratitude.
Confident in her recovery, I started taking photos, envisioning them as anecdotes for her summer story. The first captures her asleep in the blue-tinged hospital room. The next, outside the helicopter that would transport us to the University Hospital of Wales in Cardiff, a cheerful wave shared with the paramedic.
Martha in her hospital bed in Aberystwyth, shortly after the bike accident, July 2021.
Cardiff’s intensive care unit was a world of beeping monitors, a scene straight from television dramas. Martha had constant nursing care, a nurse stationed at the foot of her bed. Fear gripped me, but a doctor reassured me, “It’s going to be tricky, but she’ll be fine.”
I turned to the internet, researching pancreatic trauma. In adults, it’s often associated with severe accidents. In children, bike injuries are a common cause. Early diagnosis is critical to prevent damage from digestive enzymes leaking from the pancreas. Our midnight rush to the hospital felt like a crucial decision.
From Cardiff, Martha was airlifted to King’s College Hospital in London, a specialist center for pediatric pancreatic injuries. Rays of Sunshine ward became our new reality. Nurses spoke of its funding, a mix of NHS resources, donations, and private patient fees.
Martha had a private room with a TV. The ward boasted new equipment and a playroom, catering to children with extended stays. “You are in the best place,” we were repeatedly told. Posters for the Great Hospital Hike, a fundraiser for King’s, lined the walls. I resolved to participate, a gesture of gratitude. “We are so lucky to be here,” Paul and I reassured each other.
But fate had a cruel twist in store. Martha’s injury, though treatable, became tragically fatal. She became the first child at King’s to succumb to it, a consequence of declining care. A hospital official’s clinical phrase, “poor outcome,” couldn’t capture the catastrophic loss. Decades will pass, and I will still grapple with the question: why my child?
At 29, pregnancy with Martha felt rushed, uncertain. I loved my career, my freedom. Motherhood felt daunting, potentially limiting. But the moment she arrived, bruised from a difficult birth, I was transformed. Love hit me with an undeniable force.
She was an easy baby, earning us undeserved praise as parents. Truthfully, she was simply born that way, naturally happy and content. “I’m as jolly as a jolly-bird,” she’d say, perfectly capturing her sunny disposition.
On Rays of Sunshine, Paul and I took turns staying with Martha around the clock, sleeping on a foldaway bed beside her. Daily assurances of her recovery were given. Weeks passed. Martha was walking, friends visited. A doctor optimistically said, “I’m going on holiday, and I hope not to see you when I’m back.” We settled into the ward routine: observations, morning blood tests, the boy in the next room with a similar injury. We decorated her room with pictures of our cat.
One day, seeking a snack in the hospital’s ground floor, I encountered two women shouting angrily. “Fackin’ murderers,” one yelled. “Let’s get away from the fucking killers,” screamed the other, heading for the exit. I recoiled, instinctively siding with the doctors.
Merope and Martha, a cherished memory from November 2015, capturing Martha’s joyful spirit at eight years old.
Martha, nil by mouth, received formula through a nasal tube. Food became a phantom, she’d longingly stare at lasagne and roast potato photos on her phone. During breaks from her feeding tube, I’d draw her a bath, adding bath salts from home, a small indulgence. She’d relax in the warm water, her brown hair fanning out, the blond tips from a summer dip-dye I’d given her. I washed her hair, a familiar ritual from her childhood.
Consultants changed daily. We wondered about overall responsibility for Martha’s care, a question we regret not pursuing more forcefully. Each morning ward rounds brought a flurry of questions from us about her treatment. We aimed to be articulate and appreciative, wanting to foster the best care possible. Medical notes later revealed: “Mum and Dad pleasant and helpful.”
Consultants swept in, junior doctors deferring to their authority. They were confident, talkative, grand figures. One, “Prof Bow Tie,” boasted of a research paper presentation in Athens, posting luxury hotel views on Instagram shortly after Martha’s death.
Junior doctors managed Martha’s day-to-day care. They seemed young but confident, I assumed knowledgeable. Naive, I didn’t realize they were still in training.
Get Well Soon cards and gifts arrived, including a reversible octopus toy, happy on one side, sad on the other. Martha used it to signal her days. A few weeks in, the weekend of August 21-22, fever struck. The octopus frowned. Martha expressed fear. I offered empty reassurances, “This is a great hospital.” She shivered, endured constant diarrhea, retching into cardboard bowls.
Antibiotics were prescribed, promising infection clearance within 72 hours. “What if they don’t work?” Martha asked. “They will,” was the reply. “But what if they don’t?” “They will.” Ice packs for fever, hot water bottles for back pain. She’d stand under the corridor air vent, seeking relief. I’d guide her back to bed, arm around her shoulders.
Martha in 2017, a portrait of her growing independence and vibrant personality.
We knew infections were possible. But by Wednesday, fever persisted. Worse, bleeding began from her arm line and abdomen tube, soaking bandages, pajamas, sheets. This bleeding, we later learned, is a rare but critical sepsis sign.
Though doctors knew of the sepsis, the word remained unspoken to Paul and me. Just “infection.” Had they used “sepsis,” I would have researched, understood. Instead, I was told Martha’s “clotting abilities were slightly off,” a “normal side-effect of infection.”
Hospitals use the Bedside Paediatric Early Warning Score (BPEWS) to assess child patients. Martha’s BPEWS on Wednesday was six, a high score warranting intensive care consideration.
But Martha remained on the ward, bleeding continuing. Medical notes mention my “distress,” but doctors only offered reassurance of a “turnaround.” A scan revealed fluid around her heart, another sepsis sign, unnoticed. Action was delayed past the bank holiday. We were told nothing.
Severe sepsis demands intensive care, powerful drugs, and interventions. Pediatric intensive care (PICU) was nearby, beds available. But consultants preferred to avoid PICU.
Living with a child for 14 years creates an unbreakable bond. A year after Martha’s death, the habit of her presence remains. Her joyous reaction to a simple gift of underwear, throwing them in the air, her infectious laughter.
She loved teasing her dad, recounting his bike-in-canal mishap. A romantic, she loved our engagement story. Her cello playing, her poems, her novel outline – “The Story of Nothing.”
At Martha’s memorial, a friend spoke of “two Marthas”: the fun-loving dancer and the quiet, supportive friend. “She would always be there for me, and I would be there for her, too.”
Martha’s bleeding stopped Friday morning. But fever persisted. Reading, Minecraft, even Lin-Manuel Miranda, held no appeal.
The infection source remained unknown. The bank holiday weekend loomed. Weekends shifted the ward’s atmosphere, quieter, consultants gone after rounds, on call from home. Weekend plus persistent fever – a worrying mix.
We connected “infection” and “septic shock,” a major hospital mortality cause. I found that day’s consultant, voicing my fear of septic shock over the bank holiday, with consultants away. She dismissed my concerns. “I’m not worried about sepsis.” Martha overheard, “I heard you talking about septic shock.” “Don’t worry, my love,” I reassured her, “Just making sure they’re thinking of everything.” The consultant’s parting words: “It’s just a normal infection.”
Reassured again by the head consultant’s blase “infections come and go” on Saturday morning. But Martha’s fever persisted, dizziness followed. Paul alerted junior doctors, “This is new.”
Sunday of the bank holiday. Ward round. Consultant “Prof Checked Shirt” spoke hushed tones with a surgeon outside Martha’s room. Later, we learned she was far worse than they conveyed. They revealed nothing, disappearing for the day, leaving Martha to two junior doctors, “Dr Blunder” and a less experienced colleague.
Prof Checked Shirt left early. His on-call decisions would prove fatal. By lunchtime, unexplained sepsis, high fever, low blood pressure, racing heart. King’s Serious Incident report later stated PICU transfer was needed then.
But Prof Checked Shirt never considered it. The report revealed senior consultants on Rays of Sunshine (“level sevens”) looked down on PICU colleagues (“level fives”), hindering proper care. Ego played a role in Martha’s death.
Sunday afternoon, a red rash erupted across Martha’s body. A sepsis red flag. Dr Blunder, inexperienced, convinced himself it was a drug reaction, dismissing my sepsis concerns.
Desperate, I sought a nurse, sharing my online research. She stopped me, “Don’t look things up online, you’ll only worry. Trust the doctors.” Worst advice of my life.
Martha possessed quiet confidence. Starting secondary school, trousers were optional for girls, yet skirts were the norm. “Insurance skirt?” I offered. “No, just trousers.” Meeting classmates, skirts were the agreed uniform. Martha quietly stated, “I like trousers.” She wore trousers, soon others followed.
Martha never had a first kiss. A classmate shared her love of “defenestration.” Another boy she liked. Hospital brought conversations about gender, sexuality. “Might you be gay?” I asked. “Pretty sure I’m straight. But maybe I haven’t met the right woman yet.”
Dr Blunder’s rash misdiagnosis was “such a mistake,” the coroner stated. Mistakes happen, but rarely so catastrophic. What followed remains mystifying.
5 pm, Martha’s BPEWS: eight. Dr Blunder called Prof Checked Shirt at home. No hospital visit considered. Despite uncertainty about his diagnosis, no mention of sepsis. Further calls, no change in care. Hierarchy silenced ward staff. No transfer.
Prof Checked Shirt’s evening call to PICU head painted a partial picture, omitting bleeding, rash onset. “Information only,” PICU bedside visit “categorically” not needed, increasing my anxiety. Hospital policy: parental worry is escalation reason. He decided the opposite.
PICU head simply noted bed availability. At inquest, asked if full information would have changed things, he stated, “Without a doubt, 100 per cent.”
After Martha’s death, Prof Checked Shirt resisted “mistake.” Hospital report cited multiple missed PICU transfer opportunities. No doctor conveyed Martha’s critical state. We were kept uninformed, condescended to. Focus on my “anxiety” felt misogynistic.
Unbelievably, we didn’t know intensive care was needed. Lacking knowledge to argue, insist. We failed to protect our child. Guilt endures.
Evening shift brought a new junior doctor, alongside Dr Blunder. “Constant monitoring” was ordered. (Handover notes vanished from King’s system.) Vital blood test omitted. One-to-one nursing unfulfilled.
“Dr Do-Nothing” never saw Martha, despite nurse’s concerns.
“You’ll get through this,” I promised Martha. “Meaningless,” she whispered. Unquenchable thirst tormented her. “Water,” she gasped. “Crazy water intake,” I told the nurse, unaware of its significance. Dr Do-Nothing remained absent.
5:45 am, Martha needed the toilet. Seizure struck. Body stiffened, eyes rolled back. Convulsions, diarrhea. Sepsis’s organ damage, brain blood deprivation.
Panic erupted. Screaming. She regained consciousness. Nurses fussed. Senior nurse dismissed my fears, “Pull yourself together.” Washing my face, I returned. Martha’s hand hovered over her torso, fear in her eyes. “It feels like it’s unfixable.” Words that haunt my nights.
Merope and Martha during their time in Yosemite in 2016, a precious memory from their two years living in California.
Blood test finally done. Dr Do-Nothing realized critical illness. PICU transfer, too late. Septic shock cycle unbroken. Last-ditch transfer to Great Ormond Street, heart-lung bypass machine. Failed. Martha died early Tuesday morning.
Volumes could be written about that final day. Martha’s transfer from Rays of Sunshine, finally happening, should have occurred sooner. PICU clinicians filled her room. “Better by Saturday,” I pleaded, “Her birthday.” Oxygen mask, she thought anaesthetic. “This isn’t working.” Tube forced down her throat. Gagging, arching back. Sedative took hold. I love you, I love you, I love you. Coma. No return.
The report, questions, inquest revealed the failures: missed warnings, delayed PICU transfer. Hospitals have “duty of candour,” transparency about errors. King’s was better than some, but limits remained, questions unanswered.
Apology issued, legal team present. “Systems” improvements discussed, avoiding clinician accountability. Institutional condolences, “lessons learned.” Hospitals protect their doctors.
Consequences unfathomable to them. Their lives continue, mine stopped. (Dr Blunder promoted consultant within a week.) Daily nausea, misery, disbelief. Father’s death at ten, unprepared me for this grief. Many walk in shadow, “normal” life distant. Deaths differ, grief differs.
Martha’s preventable death, one of 150 weekly in the NHS. Our culture talks of grief, but shies from medical error deaths, especially children’s – the ultimate fear. One card: “It is what we all dread – and it has happened to you.”
Envy, absurdly, for other children’s death circumstances. Father of child lost to cancer found solace in knowing a famous figure faced the same. “Nothing could be done.” No such solace for me.
“No-blame” NHS arguments exist. But trust in doctors has limits. Medicine, like any profession, has varying levels of talent and dedication. “Doctor” is the title even for the last in medical school. Arrogance, complacency exist. Some doctors are heroes, not all.
Challenge decisions. Don’t be cowed. Most hospital doctors are training. Ask about experience. Ensure consultant responsibility.
Ignore “don’t Google” advice. Educate yourself, question, insist on second opinions. “Managed,” “reassured” may mask truth. We were.
Weekend care is often less thorough. Hierarchical systems hinder. Things going wrong? Shout. Our silence cost everything. We trusted too much, were fools.
Now, the island life. Martha’s grave, our destination. Nearby headstone inscriptions, “Philosopher, Teacher, Nudist,” “International Man of Mystery,” “Forever Loved, Always Right.” Long lives lived. Martha should have lived. Lottie’s empty room, park bench plaque: “To my sister.”
I imagine a world where Martha lived. 14th birthday celebrated. Praises sung for her doctors and nurses. Fundraising walk completed. Exams aced, university achieved. Student life embraced. Career, children envisioned. Weekend visits home, hospital weeks a distant memory.
Oh, how I yearn for that world.
