The Science Museum’s new medicine galleries include a display on faith and its role in keeping us well

My first baby was born when I was 28 weeks pregnant, and in case you didn’t know, 28 weeks isn’t enough womb time. She was tiny (the same weight as a bag and a half of sugar); she couldn’t breathe on her own for at least a fortnight, and she was tube-fed for many weeks.

Home, for her and for all my waking hours for me too, became the neonatal unit of St Thomas’ Hospital. For the next two months the most important people in the world, apart from the baby and my husband, were the doctors and nurses who were caring for her. They were experts in the science of how to make a premature baby well enough to send home; they knew all about her immature respiratory and digestive systems, how much oxygen she needed in her blood, and how long she should be under the special lights that would stave off jaundice. When there were crises – and there were – they rushed into action, working away with the tubes and machines that would keep her minuscule heart beating.