A Life Worth Living

Today

Along with the rest of the nation, I was grieved to hear of the violent end to the life of little Brandon Muir. The news presenter described the ferocity of the attacks on his two -year old body. They also described the life lived by his prostitute heroin-addicted mother and showed scenes from around where she lived. The flats were grubby, dismal, sprayed with graffiti, windows boarded up. And I wondered about the kind of life he would have had, had he not been beaten to death. Another kind of death, I guess.

I felt ashamed that we allow people to live in these places and in such squalor. We have the means to improve things; where is our will?

Unfortunately, Brandon is by no means the first, nor the last little child to suffer in this way.

In My Day

In 1973 we were living in Brighton when the story of Maria Colwell broke. She was taken to the Royal Sussex Hospital in a pram, her little undersized 7-year old body a mass of bruises, her little stomach empty of food.

The hounds of recrimination were let loose. Social Services, not for the first or the last time, took all the brunt of the criticism and sweeping changes were promised.

At that time we were living at Belmont and Lizzie was a baby. The repercussions from the Maria Colwell case reverberated throughout Brighton for a long time, as we were to find out.

I suppose Lizzie was about twenty months old and we had commenced on the task of toilet training. This was not going well. Lizzie didn't really seem to want to understand what it was all about (with hindsight - how we worried as though it's not something all children learn to do eventually). On the evening in question, once Liz had been bathed we left her to trot about without a nappy, potty invitingly placed on the living room floor. Liz wasn't yet very steady on her feet and she suddenly fell in such a way that she landed, bottom down, on the potty. I picked up the screaming child and nearly screamed myself when I saw just how much blood was pouring from her little underneath.

We bundled her up and off to the the Royal Sussex A&E. As usual, they were busy. A tired intern prodded at Lizzie, rather scaring her, and said that she needed to see a paediatrician. As it was now nine at night, they had to call one in.

At about ten pm we were ushered into the presence of the paediatrician. He looked briefly at Lizzie's injury, then began to ask us a lot of personal questions. While he did this he looked all over Lizzie, testing her for fractures, bruises and other signs of abuse. I guess he was also looking for signs of intimidation. Fortunately, Lizzie, the pain forgotten, was at her sociable best, chattering to the consultant and trying to grab his stethoscope. Eventually he said "you're a nice little baby" and indicated that we could go. "And the injury?" we ventured. "Oh that," he said "Just keep it clean, it'll clear up in a day or two." Which it did.

While we understood the need for him to carry out this scrutiny, it's sad that all this still doesn't prevent the real tragedies from happening. Little Brandon, I am so sorry for you, alive or dead.