The Prison Doctor. Dr Amanda Brown
blow the place sky high.
The woman started screaming.
‘Get it out of me! Get it out of me!’
She must have meant her placenta because there, partially hidden by the bed, lying in a pool of blood on the cold prison floor, was a tiny baby girl.
I looked around, trying to see something I could use to wrap her up. The umbilical cord was torn, presumably ripped apart by her mother. The baby was so small I suspected she was a good few weeks premature. But was she alive? Was this poor, poor girl ali—
To my overwhelming relief she started to cry.
‘Has anyone got any clean towels?’ I asked.
‘Here you go, Doc.’ Becky, the prison officer, handed me the only clean thing she had to hand – a blue bed sheet.
I scooped her up into my arms, wrapped the prison sheets around her and held her close, desperately trying to warm up her fragile body. What a way to come into the world. She nestled into my chest and her crying settled a little.
I looked along the landing, desperately hoping for a sign of the ambulance. Both mother and baby needed to be transferred to hospital as soon as possible. The mother had clearly lost a lot of blood and as the placenta had not yet been delivered she was at risk of a postpartum haemorrhage, a major cause of maternal mortality.
While we waited, I checked for active bleeding. Thankfully there was no sign. But however relieved I felt, it was no comfort to her.
‘Get it out of me! Get it out of me!’ she continued to scream, over and over again, showing no interest at all in her baby. I worried she had not wanted the child, and wondered if she had been raped. I met so many women who had been the victims of gruesome sexual assaults.
The fear for the baby was that she may well have been subjected to drugs during the pregnancy. Any addictive substance that the mother may have used could also cause the foetus to become addicted. At birth the baby’s dependence continues, but as the drug is no longer available symptoms of withdrawal can occur. This is known as neonatal abstinence syndrome. Symptoms can begin within twenty-four to forty-eight hours and require very careful management.
‘Make room for the paramedics!’ someone shouted, and relief washed over me as I heard the thumping of boots.
They came into the cell and one of the officers handed me a white towel for the baby. It might seem trivial in such a horrific situation, but I found a great deal of comfort in knowing that beautiful creation – with a mop of dark hair plastered to her head, a mirror of her mother – would be wrapped in a soft, warm towel rather than prison sheets.
The paramedics placed a blanket around the mother’s shoulders and gently guided her into a wheelchair. She was still screaming ‘Get it out of me!’ as they started wheeling her away. She stared briefly at her baby in disbelief and disappeared from view.
Two prison officers would be needed to escort her to hospital, with one officer cuffed to the prisoner, just in case she tried to make a run for it. I didn’t think I’d ever get over the sight of that, however much I knew it was necessary. I’d been taught that no prisoner is ever too sick to make a dash for freedom. The story of a new mum who jumped from the first floor window of a hospital maternity ward still does the rounds.
One of the paramedics turned to me, opening her arms: it was time to hand over the baby.
I gave the little girl one last cuddle, gently stroking her cheek with my forefinger. She wrapped her whole hand around my little finger and I said a little prayer in my head, hoping for the best.
If she was allowed to stay with her mum they would be located on the Mother and Baby Unit, on return from hospital, for a maximum of eighteen months. If the mother’s sentence was longer, the child would then be taken into care. However, if it was decided the mother wasn’t fit to care for her baby they would be separated very soon after birth.
Being a mother myself, I can’t imagine what it must feel like to have your baby taken from you. To spend the days and nights in prison, imagining how she is growing up, what she looks like, who is taking care of her when she cries.
What would happen to the baby? I could look into it, of course. I could ask. I could follow the case through. But could I bear to know?
My contribution to the prisoners’ lives is limited. I can’t rewrite history for them, but I can take the edge off their suffering. I can help wean them off their addictions. I can be a listening ear.
My job is not to judge them but to care for them, and helping people, regardless of who they are and what they have done, is what I live for.
Everyone filed out and I was left alone, staring at the stained walls, the bloodied footprints. The claustrophobic grimness of the cell.
‘You all right, Doc?’ Becky asked.
‘Yes, mate,’ I sighed.
I followed her back downstairs and threw on my armour. It wasn’t just the prisoners who needed to be strong to survive being in there. If I took everything I saw to heart, I’d be a mess.
I had a job to do – other people were waiting for me.
HMP Bronzefield
2019
‘Wait up, Doc!’ I spotted Gary, a prison officer, running towards me.
Many of the gates in the prison are alarmed, and staff have about thirty seconds to lock them before the sirens start blaring. I held the gate open. He weaved himself through in the nick of time.
I pulled the heavy gate shut, the resounding clang ringing through our ears. I locked it with one of the five keys chained to my black leather prison-issue belt. I knew which key I needed without looking; I’ve locked and unlocked those gates so many times.
We were in the central atrium at HMP Bronzefield. The largest female prison in Europe. Home to seventeen out of the twenty most dangerous women in the UK. Some high-profile murderers have been locked up here. Serial killer Joanna Dennehy, Becky Watts’s killer Shauna Hoare, Mairead Philpott who helped start a fire that killed six of her children. Then there was Rosemary West, of course, also once a prisoner there – or ‘resident’ as they are referred to in Bronzefield.
The atrium roof is surrounded by windows; daylight, bright and beautiful, 60 feet above your head. In the middle of the room, five very tall synthetic trees reach towards the light. Even the plastic trees are trying to get out of there. It’s bright and airy, a far cry from the tiny cells where the prisoners spend so much of their time.
‘You’re looking tanned!’ I told him.
Gary grinned at the memory of his week of freedom.
‘Seven days and six nights in Spain. All inclusive, the missus loved it. I didn’t want to come back!’
But I knew that wouldn’t be quite true. The shifts can be long and exhausting, physically and emotionally, but for some reason we do still want to turn up for work. And it’s not just because it pays the bills.
It gets into your bones. The drama, the camaraderie, the highs and lows. I can honestly say I would rather spend a Friday evening working in Reception – meeting prisoners arriving from court, a diverse range of people, from different backgrounds, different cultures – than be out socialising.
But then, I’m not very good at