I'm Sorry, Oliver

By Alison M. Tomlinson

Sylvie Keighley is an ordinary child born in the midst of an extraordinary spiritual battle. She’s in ill-health from the day she’s born. The doctors assure her and her overbearing mother that there is no specific cause for Sylvie’s poor condition. She simply drew the short straw. But, help is at hand. The 1950’s have seen wonderful advances in medical science, and the doctors will be able to manage Sylvie’s asthma and constant infections with effective pharmaceuticals. Nobody pays any attention to Sylvie’s bent in heels or the muscle weakness that causes that strange phenomenon. Nobody, that is, except the angels who have been sent to lead Sylvie to the truth about disease and real health. Their job is not an easy one. They are opposed by forces of darkness and by a society that places more faith in the medical industry than in the LORD. Sylvie must journey through her own pain and, worst still, the pain of her beloved child, Oliver, before she can find the truth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alison M. Tomlinson
• Release date: Jun 15, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463746578

Alison M. Tomlinson

I was born in Yorkshire, England in 1959, and I was in ill-health from day one. At the age of twenty-three, I gave birth to my son, Timothy, who was born severely handicapped and died at the age of nine. I continued to struggle with my health. By the time I was fifty-three, I was in crisis. I was bent over to the left, I could barely walk and I was in constant pain. My left leg was almost useless. I couldn’t bend my ankle or toes, and the muscles on my left thigh looked like those of a ninety- year-old. Life was daily trauma, and I wanted to die.I prayed and, for the first time, I started to see my health struggle as a spiritual battle. I searched my King James Bible and started to call on the Lord Jesus Christ to deliver me from the destructive schemes of the enemy. After months of this, I felt God tell me that I had broken through, and I would now find the answer.Then I discovered Dr Joel Wallach and started his nutrition and diet programme. I took the ‘Mighty 90’, the ninety essential nutrients our body needs to maintain optimal health. Within five days I knew I’d found the answer to health. Within six months, I was standing straight and was substantially out of pain. After being on the programme for a couple of years, I was walking 95% better, and I felt well for the first time in my life.So, what was I to do with my new lease of life? I still couldn’t run a marathon, but I now had margin. I could do more than just survive. I had my brain back. I could concentrate, think, analyze, reason, create.So, I started writing novels.My first novel is I’m Sorry, Oliver. The protagonist, Sylvia Keighley follows my own health story.My second novel is An Untimely Birth. My aim is to examine the spiritual roots of modern medicine through an exciting adventure story.I have plans for more novels and short stories. I hope you enjoy reading my books. Please feel free to contact me.God bless you.

Book preview

BOOK 1

Chapter 1

Mr. Spencer, Dr. White sent me to tell you the equipment is fully installed and operational, the mother’s in labor, and he’s arranged for a trainee ODA to operate the video.

The hospital porter held the car door for Mr. Spencer as he retrieved his briefcase from the back seat.

I’ll take that, said the porter, taking the briefcase from him. It’s really exciting, isn’t it? He bounced alongside the consultant as they crossed the carpark to the Park Dale Hospital main entrance. I mean, we’re going to be the first hospital in the whole of Yorkshire to do the procedure, right?

You seem to take a lot of interest in the actual medical work at the hospital. The stony expression on the doctor’s face made it clear that, in his opinion, porters should confine themselves to porting.

Of course I do. We’re all on the same team, right? You can’t do your job properly unless I do mine. And I always wanted to be a doctor. You doctors are my heroes. It must feel wonderful when you save a life. You’re going to save this baby, aren’t you? Here you are at the forefront of advancing medicine into the 1960s. Every time you’re on TV, I tell everybody that the famous Mr. Archibald Spencer works at my hospital.

Your hospital.

Well, our hospital. You know what I mean. My wife thinks you’re wonderful. Wait ’til I tell her I got to talk to you today. She’ll be so jealous. Of course, we’ve had our three kids so we won’t be needing your professional services. I wish we’d known about you before. The doctors really mucked up the last caesarean. Helen got an infection. She was in and out of hospital for months.

Problems can occur, even with the best of us.

Yeah, and I guess you feel terrible when a baby dies, and it’s your fault, right? Well, I shouldn’t say your fault, but you know what I mean. It must put a lot of pressure on you. You’re the best, so you can’t afford to make the slightest mistake, right?

Thank you for the reminder. I’ll take my brief case now. They had entered the building.

No, no. I’ll carry it to your office. It’s my job.

It’s really not necessary.

No problem. Of course, everybody’s watching you on this case, right? There’s an article in the hospital newspaper about the new equipment. I saw it. Did it make the regional NHS news?

Oh, yes. There was even a brief mention on a local TV channel.

That’s fantastic. We’re so proud of you, Mr. Spencer. That little baby girl is so lucky to have you.

Mr. Spencer stopped walking. How do you know it’s a girl?

Just a feeling, said the porter, looking slightly embarrassed. I’ll get the lift. He ran ahead and stopped the lift doors from closing just in time for Mr. Spencer to step in. It’s good we caught it, isn’t it? Sometimes you have to wait ten minutes for a lift, and you must be in a real hurry, right? You’ve got to make sure all your team are up to scratch. The mother’s already in labor, so another doctor must be delivering the baby right now. How do you feel when you have all the responsibility and you have to carry the can for other people’s mistakes? I guess you’d better hurry up and get in there before they really muck things up.

I have full confidence in my team, said Mr. Spencer, but he slightly lengthened his stride as he spoke.

They arrived at the office. The porter handed Mr. Spencer his briefcase and said, Good luck. I know you won’t let us down.

The doctor took the briefcase without a word, entered his office, and slammed the door.

The porter walked back through the hospital with a satisfied smile on his face. A nurse called to him to come and help with a patient, but he shouted back, Sorry, I’m on an important errand for Mr. Spencer.

When he exited the main entrance and arrived back in the carpark, he was met by a tall, handsome, blond-haired man in a designer suit. Hi Joo-gy. Were you watching? asked the porter.

Of course, said the man, Not bad, but you could have pumped up the pride even more.

Oh, come on. I was brilliant. Did you like the bit about it being his fault if the brat dies?

You were brilliant, all right. So brilliant you knew the sex of the baby when the consultant obstetrician himself doesn’t know it yet.

Yeah, but I bluffed my way out of it OK. I’ve got to get out of this, he said, indicating the blue uniform he was wearing. He looked around to make sure no one was watching and then ducked down behind a Volkswagen Beetle. He re-emerged one second later wearing jeans and a fairisle jumper.

I must say, Pa-gwe, I’ve never developed your taste for human impersonation, said the tall man.

And I’ve never developed your taste for simply using our little, demonic minions to plant ideas in people’s heads. How boring. Direct Intervention is so much more fun.

And so much more illegal, said a quiet, firm voice behind them, Not that you Defectors ever concern yourselves with such matters as righteousness and goodness. Joo-gy and Pa-gwe turned to face two short, unassuming men of Middle Eastern appearance.

Leave it out, Chee-oo. You do your share of Direct Intervention when it suits you, countered Joo-gy.

On the contrary, we have direct contact rarely, and only when doing so glorifies the Lord, and when faith levels allow.

Get out of here and take your sermons with you. This is our domain, said Pa-gwe.

It is not your domain when it involves followers of The Way, The Truth and The Life.

The little urchin’s family do not follow That Man. She is ours. We destroyed the mother’s last progeny. You couldn’t stop us then, and you won’t stop us now.

I am here to inform you that the child has been chosen to be one of myriads who will rise above your health deception and be part of a healing revolution. Go-chee and I are assigned to protect her.

You’re throwing down the gauntlet, are you? Shall I remind you of the situation in case you’ve forgotten? You’re stepping into our territory. This is a place of sickness and torment and death and horror and wretchedness. He said it as if he were reading from a gourmet menu. This war has never been so much fun before.

I suggest you read the end of the book again, said Go-chee. You know, the bit where you get thrown in the lake of fire.

Joo-gy’s face turned to granite. He said quietly, And how many homosapiens are we going to take with us? We have deceived the whole world, and you have been powerless to stop us.

On the contrary, said Chee-oo, you will find that your weapons of pride and deception and fear will not prosper against—

Won’t they? We’ve got a pretty impressive record so far, don’t you think? We allowed the discovery of antibiotics—

You take credit for that? said Go-chee.

—so we could raise up modern, scientific medicine as a god, never to be questioned, always to be worshipped. Joo-gy spoke in an ethereal voice as he lifted his head and raised up his arms in mock ecstasy of admiration. Granted, our job is not as easy as it was when we wiped out 200 million people with the black death. But the current climate allows us to exercise our craft with a subtlety and skill that makes it so much more enjoyable. Don’t you agree, Pa-gwe?

Absolutely, though unfortunately this case doesn’t present much of a challenge. We’re talking about a chronically undernutrified mother who lives on Yorkshire pudding and apple pie and custard.

The two fallen angels guffawed, looked at each other, nodded and vanished.

He has a point. We do seem to have our work cut out for us this time, said Go-chee.

Let’s check on the current situation.

The two angels of light gazed upwards for a moment as if plane spotting.

Then Go-chee said, Aunt Agnes is still on her arthritic knees storming the heavens on behalf of her unborn great-niece or nephew.

Sandra is battling under extreme pressure, said Chee-oo, Let’s see if we can help her.

Chapter 2

Hand me the forceps. Hurry, woman.

Dr. Sandra Hotton hesitated for just a second. Should she object?

What are you waiting for? barked Mr. Spencer.

Sandra spoke to the exhausted mother, who was lying on the birthing bed. Mrs. Roundhill, we need your permission to use forceps. You should be aware that there’s always a risk—

We have no choice, Mrs. Roundhill, interrupted Mr. Spencer. The baby’s stuck, and with your history we need to get this baby out as soon as possible.

Just save my baby, Doctor. Do what you have to. Just save my baby Mrs. Roundhill’s face was contorted with fear and exertion.

Sandra reluctantly picked up the forceps but immediately dropped them on the floor. Had she meant to do it? She wasn’t even sure herself.

You idiot. Where’s the nurse? he said looking around. Why don’t people do their jobs round here?

She’s just very busy.

You’ll have to go get another pair. On second thought, I’ll do it myself. Mr. Spencer stood up quickly from the stool at the end of the bed while removing his gloves. He stormed toward the door. If you want something doing properly, do it yourself.

As he said it he caught his foot on the leg of the equipment table by the door, lost his balance, and slammed into the wall. He let out a yelp of pain. When he regained his balance, he doubled over, holding his right wrist.

Are you all right? asked Sandra.

From the stream of expletives which came from his lips, she deduced he was not.

I don’t believe it. I’ve sprained my effing wrist. Go get the forceps, now. Hurry.

Mrs. Roundhill— Sandra wanted to offer some comfort and explanation to the terrified mother, but Mr. Spencer shouted, Now.

She hurried out of the room. Oh, Lord. Please help me. Please let this baby be born safely.

She returned quickly with the forceps.

You’re going to have to do it yourself, barked Mr. Spencer.

What?

I can’t use my wrist. Hurry, sit down and get that baby out.

Sandra donned her gloves, sat down between the stirrups holding the mother’s feet, and carefully inserted the forceps.

Hurry, said Mr. Spencer.

Sandra was careful to position the forceps correctly around the baby’s head and started to draw the baby out.

Get a move on, girl, whispered Mr. Spencer through clenched teeth.

I feel like I’m using maximum pressure as it is. I don’t want to damage this baby’s head.

Better a baby with a damaged head than a dead baby.

Sandra hoped Mrs. Roundhill had not heard this.

We need to get this baby to theater, now, continued Mr. Spencer.

By this point Mr. Spencer was standing over Sandra and speaking directly into her ear.

That baby is going to die, and it’s going to be your fault.

Sandra knew that it was driving Mr. Spencer insane not to have hands on control. She took a deep breath and tried to remain calm. It’s coming. I’m nearly there.

Move it, girl. His voice was getting louder. He grabbed Sandra’s right hand with his good left hand and pulled.

Lord Jesus, please get him off me, prayed Sandra.

At that moment the door opened, and a young doctor stuck his head round. I was wondering how it was going.

Mr. Spencer let go of Sandra’s hand and stood up as he replied, Fine. Nearly there. Are we set?

The theater is ready, and the team are on standby waiting for the result of the blood tests.

Mr. Spencer turned his attention back to Sandra just in time to see the baby born. The baby’s head had been somewhat distorted by the pressure of the forceps, but not seriously.

It’s a girl, Mrs. Roundhill. Sandra lifted the baby to show to her mother.

What’s wrong with her head?

Mr. Spencer answered, Nothing to worry about, Mrs. Roundhill. The head is a little misshaped due to the forceps, but such distortions normally correct themselves within about six weeks. He turned to Sandra. Take it straight to N.I.C.U. and get the blood tests done.

——————————

Mrs. Roundhill was lying on a metal frame bed in the maternity ward, tears streaming down the sides of her red, sweaty face. Is she all right? she asked as soon as she saw Sandra approaching.

"She’s being prepared for theater just in case it’s necessary.

So you don’t know yet if there’s a problem.

Sandra hesitated, but she knew she had to tow the party line. Mr. Spencer feels strongly that your daughter has all the clinical signs of rhesus disease, and, given your family history, we should err on the side of caution. But, no, we don’t know for sure yet.

You haven’t done an operation like this on a newborn baby before, have you? Is it safe?

There’s a level of risk with any operation, but the 1950s have seen wonderful advancements in blood transfusion procedures.

I heard some of the medical staff talking about it. They sounded really excited, but I’m not sure I like the idea of my baby being the first guinea pig.

Careful Sandra. She knew they were treading on dangerous territory here. She bought herself some time by pretending to check the clip board on the end of the bed. Finally she said what she had to say, I assure you, Mrs. Roundhill, we will only do the procedure if it’s in your baby’s best interests.

Her name’s Sylvia. And please call me Gladys.

OK. Gladys.

What about Sylvia’s head? Mr. Spencer said it would get normal in six weeks, right?

It was true. The baby had escaped serious damage from the forceps, thank God. But she was suspected of having another, more serious problem. Sandra hadn’t wanted to tell Gladys about it yet. She didn’t want to add to her stress. After all, the immediate issue was the transfusion. It was possible the baby wouldn’t make it, in which case, why worry the mother about other potential problems? But here was Gladys asking her directly. Sandra always tried to be as honest as possible with her patients. However, doing so always generated questions she simply couldn’t answer.

Yes, the damage from the forceps is minor. However there’s something else we should talk about. Sandra sat down on a chair next to the bed and took Mrs. Roundhill’s hand. Gladys looked at her with an expression of horror on her face, obviously expecting terrible news.

We carefully checked Sylvia’s head, and we suspect she might have what we call coronal craniosynostosis.

What?

Sandra berated herself. Why could she never learn to explain things without using those ridiculously long Latin words from medical school?

Usually when a baby is born, the bones at the top of the head are not yet fused together. We suspect the bones on the right side of Sylvia’s head are already joined. Sandra ran her finger across the top of her own dark hair, from the middle to the right hand side.

What does that mean?

The fused bones may hinder the growth of Sylvia’s head.

Are you telling me she’s going to be a vegetable?

No, I’m not saying that.

So, what’s going to happen?

Here we go. This is where Sandra, as the doctor, was expected to be able to see into the future with miraculous clarity. There are too many variables to predict. She had resorted to medical language. But it’s very likely the right side of Sylvia’s head will not have room to grow, and the body will compensate by enlarging the left side causing a misshapen skull. Her vision and hearing may be affected.

Can’t you just separate the bones again?

Sometimes Sandra thought the medical profession brought on itself the unrealistic expectations of their patients. Doctors loved to trumpet their successes and give the impression they were invincible. Sandra was getting fed up with feeling she spent her whole life trying to explain that a lot of the time, doctors were working on educated guesses.

It’s not that simple. Recently a man called Moss showed that simply separating the bones doesn’t work. He postulates that the problem actually originates from the base of the skull rather than the top of it. We simply don’t know enough about it at the moment.

Gladys threw up her arms in apparent defeat. So we’re screwed. My husband nearly left me when the last baby died. He’s not going to hang around if I present him with a deformed freak. I’ll have to bring up my other daughter Joy on my own.

Gladys said this as if it were Sandra’s fault. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, said Sandra, trying to sound calmer than she felt. First, let’s hope and pray that the transfusion is not necessary.

Oh yeah, I forgot. She might die on the operating table, and then we won’t have to worry about misshaped heads, will we? She rolled herself away from Sandra and abandoned herself to pitiful wails and sobs.

At that point a nurse approached Sandra and handed her a piece of paper. Sandra looked at it, felt a surge of hope, and jumped up, saying, "There’s some good