At first, I didn’t realise they were working together. They were so different. One was aggressive and contemptuous; the other was tender and concerned. “Right, come on now, you need to start doing this properly. You’re giving up too easily,” the first one snapped. When she left the room I gave the other a pleading look. She raised one eyebrow, sympathetically. “Please,” I said. “Can’t you help?” Finally, she nodded. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
It felt like an interrogation room scene in a film. I was under the care of Good Breast Cop, Bad Breast Cop. These were the nurses I was turning to for help after yet another attempt to breastfeed my new baby had failed.
Soon, my paediatrician realised my daughter’s floppiness, her inability to suck, and the blueish tinge around the mouth and to her hands and feet, were signs that something was seriously wrong. We were whisked away. To the Special Care Baby Unit. Bad Breast Cop couldn’t look me in the eye.
(Video clip: Good cop, bad cop scene from L.A. Confidential)