I laid him carefully on the bed and lifted his tiny clothes to look at his diaper. What I saw made my heart stop. My hands trembled, a wave of fear washing over me. The baby screamed while I tried to stay calm enough to think.
The cab sped down the Castellana, but every traffic light felt like an eternity. I stroked his forehead, murmuring to him, trying anything to soothe the agony in his voice. The driver, hearing the desperation in his cries, accelerated on his own.
At the emergency entrance of San Carlos Clinical Hospital, I pushed through the doors, nearly out of breath. A nurse hurried over, alarmed by the expression on my face.
“It’s my grandson… he’s been crying for hours… and I saw something unusual… please help him,” I pleaded.
She took the baby gently and led me to an exam room. Two pediatricians arrived within seconds. I tried to explain what I’d noticed, though my nerves barely allowed me to speak coherently. They asked me to wait outside.
Those minutes were some of the longest of my life. I paced the hallway endlessly, guilt and fear weighing heavily on me. How had I missed this earlier? How could something have gone so wrong in the short time he was in my care?
