My son had a tummy ache. The next day he died after being discharged from a London hospital
One morning last July, my son, Finlay, had a tummy ache. We took him to the GP who suggested A&E if things didn’t improve. Later that afternoon we took him to the Whittington Hospital in north London where, over nine gruelling hours, we ticked off the increasingly familiar list of deathly NHS misery and systemic failure.
Paediatric A&E was described as “exceptionally” busy by staff. At that time the Whittington’s internal policies judged their staffing levels “unsafe”, though this wasn’t communicated to the A&E department. The conditions were filthy, we spent most of our time in the corridors where Finlay was repeatedly examined on my knee. Throughout the nine hours, no complete set of observations was ever taken, which no one seemed to notice. We asked to move to Great Ormond Street Hospital on a number of occasions but were rebuffed.
Key diagnostic resources — an ultrasound and an in-house surgical consultation — were not available. The few tests they managed were botched: an X-ray was misread, and a wildly anomalous blood test remained unexplained.
Still with no observations and no clue as to the blood test, we were discharged around 1am. When we woke up at 8am, Finny wasn’t breathing. I tried and failed to resuscitate him on his play mat. A dozen ambulance crew and police came and similarly failed. He was then taken back to the Whittington where he died.
In the face of this life-deranging calamity, the Whittington’s response was awful: cold, confused and incompetent. We had to beg for a referral for grief support. We repeatedly insisted that the Whittington could not investigate itself. This was just one piece of the wider NHS approach: sloppy correspondence with spelling mistakes and incorrect details, including our name.
Ultimately, the coroner wrote a “narrative” verdict. After putting the boot into the Whittington’s ineptitude, she concluded: “However, it is unclear whether, if all care had been delivered as it should have been, Finlay’s life would have been saved. He would have had a chance.”
At the time of writing, the coroner is still considering whether to issue another PFD notice.
Systems should be defined by what they do, not what they are supposed to achieve. The PFD system, it seems to me, exists more to document repetitive disaster than prevent it. And so, tomorrow, or next month, or next year, another family will learn that their child died in reasonably preventable circumstances, from causes already flagged by coroners, through institutional failures long documented in previous PFD reports. They will sit through the same ceremonial farrago, learning that their devastating loss was neither inevitable nor unforeseen, but recorded, bureaucratically forgotten, and condemned to repeat.
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Source: The Times, 22 June 2025
