Visiting the Infant Jesus

As you can imagine, I’m sensitive to the privilege I’ve just enjoyed. I’ve been visiting the Infant Jesus. Or, as they say in Rome where I’m writing these words, il Bambino Gesù. English or Italian, it’s an honour.

The colleague who met me there drove into town. That’s never easy. First, there are the dreadful traffic conditions (I saw two small accidents in just an hour – it made me almost nostalgic: clearly, Roman driving hasn’t improving since I was a child in the eternal city). And there’s the parking: as in most major cities, spaces are scarce.

My colleague solved the first problem by leaving home far earlier than one might have thought necessary. And she solved the second by leaving the car in the Infant Jesus’s own car park. That seemed fine to me, since why would a child need a car park? After all, children aren’t even allowed driving licences.

It felt particularly appropriate to be making the visit the day after Twelfth Night. That’s the feast of the arrival of the three kings to worship the Infant Jesus, in the manger where he lay. I wouldn’t have wanted to get there before the kings – that would have been disrespectful – so the day after felt about right.

Adoration of the Magi by Gerard David
Nothing like my visit

Still, there was no ox or ass, no manger with a baby, no Mary or Joseph. I didn’t even see any gold, frankincense or myrrh, however hard I looked. Not that I’d have a lot of use for frankincense or myrrh, but a little gold never goes amiss. But, given the financial pressure on hospital budgets, I wouldn’t expect gold to last long in any of them – it would be immediately invested in more care, or for paying down debt (certainly the latter, in the UK).

In fact, we saw no child at all. The place was full of them but none, to my knowledge, made any pretence to possess messianic qualities. Those are only claimed by the present occupants of the White House or Kremlin. Or, I suppose, the holder of the post of leader in the British Labour Party, though in his case the claim is only made by his worshippers, Corbynism having done away with the milksop notion of mere supporters.

No, Bambino Gesù is a world-class paediatric hospital. For very ill children. Which means the staff frequently have to deal with distraught parents too. So it was still a privilege to be there. As it was invaluable to meet some of the people who have to deal with those harrowing difficulties.

We weren’t there to sell them anything. They weren’t buying. We were listening and learning. About how they’re trying to involve patients in decisions concerning their care, though often that means the parents rather than the patients themselves. It means informing them of the options before them, the risks of each and the possible benefits, to help them reach a choice. Sometimes it means making every effort to disabuse them of certain alternative-medicine notions: no, for instance, cancer really can’t be fought by using the patient’s own energy.

It was a good meeting. Though I was amused by the name of the hospital. In England, we tend to be less inclined to wear a religion on our sleeves. Yes, there’s St George’s in London but the Pope doesn’t even regard George as a saint any more. Even in England he’s more of a figure in exciting tales for kids, riding around and fighting dragons.

And no one calls St Bartholomew’s that any more – it’s plain Barts. Like St James’s in Leeds, fondly known as Jimmy’s. More secular, you see. Perhaps more detached.

Anyway, I’m pleased with the visit. And, in any case, I was pleased to be in Rome again. What a great city, what a joy to have an hour to wander around it in the winter sunshine…

Rome: always a delight to visit