Save Baby Alfie: The NHS in Britain claims parental rights over dying boy

The mechanical clank and whir of machinery hammers the air, pulsing like an enormous clock. Only this clock is counting down, not forward. The metronome beep of heart monitor fills the cramped hospital room. The miniaturized bed, with rails and buttons and knobs, is surrounded by flowers --- some fresh, others dry and wilted.

In the bed, a resting baby, sleeping in a nest of wires, thorny and prodded. His hand barely fits around your index finger. When you rest your hand around his little fist, his eyes open, wide but tired next to a smiling pale-blue teddy bear. He’s tiny and peaceful and quiet in his grey Mickey Mouse sweater.

Baby Alfie is dying. Not just dying. Withering. And if you look closer, the bed is occasionally stained with urine that the nurses haven’t cleaned. A dime-sized splotch of mold lines the tubing that helps Alfie breathe. Now 23 months old, Alfie has been here at Alder Hey Children’s Hospital in Liverpool England since December of 2016.

At the heart of the struggle is a terse, brutal, upsetting question: Who owns our children? Do we? Do you own your child? Or does the state own your child?

This is about a lot of things --- the sanctity of life, the importance of proper health care, the downfalls of a socialistic healthcare system, the preciousness of life. But what matters most is that this is about parental rights. Of course that's what matters most.

Let’s get this baby out of a hospital that has callously signed his death certificate while he’s still fighting for his life.

Doctors and health care officials have ordered that baby Alfie’s life support must be removed.

Alfie’s parents, Tom Evans, 21, and Kate James, 20, have tried everything. Doctors have said he’s unresponsive. Other than that, they cannot offer a full diagnosis. Maybe it’s a rare degenerative brain disease. What we know is that doctors and health care officials have ordered that baby Alfie’s life support must be removed.

Tom and Kate have tried everything. Regional Court, Court of Appeals, the Supreme Court. Every time, the judges have ruled in favor of doctors and health care officials --- in favor of the state.

There’s a fuming hopelessness to Tom’s eyes every time he leaves a courtroom in his white “Alfie = Life” t-shirt. At times, he’s angry. That desperate anger of injustice --- in utter disbelief. He's a 21-year-old father who cannot so much as touch his son. If he did, he could be thrown in jail for assault. His words rush along in his Scouse accent, so hurried and thick that many news sources include subtitles.

The National Health Service, Britain’s clogged, failing healthcare system, has no space or time for critically-ill children, even if the hospital’s maltreatment has largely contributed to the child’s conditions. Alfie’s struggle is reminiscent of the tragic case of Charlie Gard, an 11-month-old boy will a rare genetic order, whose parents fought to keep alive, only to have the National Health Service transfer him to hospice, where, despite his parents’ pleas to try different methods --- to try anything at all --- he died.

There are plenty more cases. It’s terrifying.

And there are plenty more cases. It’s terrifying. The NHS just can’t make room for possibilities. People in England are noticing it. Outside the hospital where Alfie’s fighting for his life, a band of protestors are passionate, at times to a fault. Tom and Kate have publically apologized for the disruptions protestors caused.

Have you ever seen a baby, a child, on life support? As you would imagine, it’s awful. It’s deafening. All the medical equipment looms massively over the baby’s little body. But those awful machines are helping fight for life. They’re buying time so that doctors can intervene and fight harder, and fight with all the vigor in their hearts. Fight until they're exhausted, to keep the flame of life alive. It’s far beyond the Hippocratic Oath. It’s far beyond duty.

Alfie’s parents have tried everything. They’ve had hospitals offer to intervene, only to have the NHS step in and say, “It’s time to say your goodbyes.” The Pope has offered to fly baby Alfie to Italy for treatment. There’s an ambulance on-call outside the hospital, and a private jet waiting, ready to take him to Bambino Gesu Paediatric Hospital in Rome.

The Pope tweeted, "I am praying for Alfie, for his family and for all who are involved.” Because they can’t hold their own son. They can’t save his life. His life doesn’t belong to them. His life belongs to the state.

Carter Page, a former advisor to Donald Trump's 2016 presidential campaign, found himself at the center of the Russia probe and had his reputation and career destroyed by what we now know were lies from our own intelligence system and the media.

On the TV show Thursday, Page joined Glenn Beck to speak out about how he became the subject of illegal electronic surveillance by the FBI for more than two years, and revealed the extent of the corruption that has infiltrated our legal systems and our country as a whole.

"To me, the bigger issue is how much damage this has done to our country," Page told Glenn. "I've been very patient in trying to ... find help with finding solutions and correcting this terrible thing which has happened to our country, our judicial system, DOJ, FBI -- these once-great institutions. And my bigger concern is the fact that, although we keep taking these steps forward in terms of these important findings, it really remains the tip of the iceberg."

Page was referencing the report by Justice Department Inspector General Michael Horowitz, which revealed that the FBI made "at least 17 significant errors or omissions" in its Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act (FISA) applications for warrants to spy on Page, a U.S. citizen.

"I think this needs to be attacked from all angles," Glenn said. "The one angle I'm interested in from you is, please tell me you have the biggest badass attorneys that are hungry, starving, maybe are a little low to pay their Mercedes payments right now, and are just gearing up to come after the government and the media. Are they?"

I can confirm that that is the case," Page replied.

Watch the video clip below for a preview of the full-length interview:

The full interview will air on January 30th for Blaze TV subscribers, and February 1st on YouTube and wherever you get your podcast.

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On Wednesday's TV show, Glenn Beck sat down with radio show host, author, political commentator, and film critic, Michael Medved.

Michael had an interesting prediction for the 2020 election outcome: a brokered convention by the DNC will usher in former First Lady Michelle Obama to run against President Donald Trump.

Watch the video below to hear why he's making this surprising forecast:

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On Thursday's "Glenn Beck Radio Program," BlazeTV's White House correspondent Jon Miller described the current situation in Virginia after Gov. Ralph Northam (D) declared a state of emergency and banned people carrying guns at Capitol Square just days before a pro-Second-Amendment rally scheduled on Martin Luther King Jr. Day.

Jon told Glenn that Gov. Northam and the Virginia Legislature are "trying to deprive the people of their Second Amendment rights" but the citizens of Virginia are "rising up" to defend their constitutional rights.

"I do think this is the flashpoint," Jon said. "They [Virginia lawmakers] are saying, 'You cannot exercise your rights ... and instead of trying to de-escalate the situation, we are putting pressure. We're trying to escalate it and we're trying to enrage the citizenry even more'."

Glenn noted how Gov. Northam initially blamed the threat of violence from Antifa for his decision to ban weapons but quickly changed his narrative to blame "white supremacists" to vilify the people who are standing up for the Second Amendment and the Constitution.

"What he's doing is, he's making all all the law-abiding citizens of Virginia into white supremacists," Glenn said.

"Sadly, that's exactly right," Jon replied. "And I think he knows exactly what he's doing."

Watch the video to catch more of the conversation below:

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Ryan: Trump Louisiana Finale

Photo by Jim Dale

Part One. Part Two. Part Three.

At the end of Trump rallies, I would throw on my Carhartt jacket, sneak out of the press area, then blend in with everyone as they left, filing out through swinging doors.

Often, someone held the door open for me. Just 30 minutes earlier, the same person had most likely had most likely hissed at me for being a journalist. And now they were Sunday smiles and "Oh, yes, thank you, sir" like some redneck concierge.

People flooded out of the arena with the stupidity of a fire drill mishap, desperate to survive.

The air smacked you as soon as you crossed the threshold, back into Louisiana. And the lawn was a wasteland of camping chairs and coolers and shopping bags and to-go containers and soda cans and articles of clothing and even a few tents.

In Monroe, in the dark, the Trump supporters bobbled over mounds of waste like elephants trying to tiptoe. And the trash was as neutral to them as concrete or grass. They plodded over it because it, an object, had somehow gotten in their way.

It did not matter that they were responsible for this wreckage.Out in the sharp-edged moonlight, rally-goers hooted and yapped and boogied and danced, and the bbq food truck was all smoke and paper plates.

They were even more pumped than they had been before the rally, like 6,000 eight year olds who'd been chugging Mountain Dew for hours. Which made Donald Trump the father, the trooper, God of the Underworld, Mr. Elite, Sheriff on high horse, the AR-15 sticker of the family.

Ritualistic mayhem, all at once. And, there in Louisiana, Trump's supporters had gotten a taste of it. They were all so happy. It bordered on rage.

Still, I could not imagine their view of America. Worse, after a day of strange hostilities, I did not care.

My highest priority, my job as a reporter, was to care. To understand them and the world that they inhabit. But I did not give a damn and I never wanted to come back.

Worst of all, I would be back. In less than a week.

Was this how dogs felt on the 4th of July? Hunched in a corner while everyone else gets drunk and launches wailing light into the sky? configurations of blue and red and white.

It was 10:00 p.m. and we'd been traveling since 11:00 a.m., and we still had 5 hours to go and all I wanted was a home, my home, any home, just not here, in the cold sweat of this nowhere. Grey-mangled sky. No evidence of planes or satellites or any proof of modern-day. Just century-old bridges that trains shuffled over one clack at a time.

And casinos, all spangles and neon like the 1960s in Las Vegas. Kitchy and dumb, too tacky for lighthearted gambling. And only in the nicer cities, like Shreveport, which is not nice at all.

And swamp. Black water that rarely shimmered. Inhabited by gadflies and leeches and not one single fish that was pretty.

Full of alligators, and other killing types. The storks gnawing on frogs, the vultures never hungry. The coyotes with nobody to stop them and so much land to themselves. The roaches in the wild, like tiny wildebeests.

Then, the occasional deer carcass on the side of the road, eyes splayed as if distracted, tongue out, relaxed but empty. The diseased willows like skeletons in hairnets. The owls that never quit staring. A million facets of wilderness that would outlive us all.

Because Nature has poise. It thrives and is original.

Because silence is impossible. Even in an anechoic chamber, perfectly soundproofed, you can hear your own heartbeat, steady as a drum. A never-ending war.

I put "Headache" by Grouper on repeat as we glided west. We were deadlocked to asphalt, rubber over tarface.

And I thought about lines from a Rita Dove poem titled "I have been a stranger in a strange land"

He was off cataloging the universe, probably,
pretending he could organize
what was clearly someone else's chaos.

Wasn't that exactly what I was doing? Looking for an impossible answer, examining every single accident, eager for meaning? telling myself, "If it happens and matters the next year, in America, I want to be there, or to know what it means. I owe it to whoever cares to listen."

Humans are collectors and I had gone overboard.

Because maybe this wasn't even my home. These landmarks, what did they mean? Was I obvious here? When I smiled, did I trick them into believing that I felt some vague sense of approval? Or did my expressions betray me?

Out in all that garbage-streaked emptiness — despite the occasional burst of passing halogen — I couldn't tell if everything we encountered was haunted or just old, derelict, broken, useless. One never-ending landfill.

Around those parts, they'd made everything into junk. Homes. Roads. Glass. Nature. Life itself, they made into junk.

I cringed as we passed yet another deer carcass mounded on the side of the road.

As written in Job 35:11,

Who teaches us more than the beasts of the earth and makes us wiser than the birds in the sky?

Nobody. Look at nature and you feel something powerful. Look at an animal, in all of its untamable majesty, and you capture a deep love, all swept up in the power of creation. But, here, all I saw were poor creatures who people had slammed into and kept driving. Driving to where? For what reason? What exactly was so important that they left a trail of dead animals behind them?

So I crossed myself dolorously and said an "Our Father" and recited a stanza from Charles Bukowski's "The Laughing Heart"

you can't beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.

Out here, nothing but darkness. Needing some light, by God. Give me something better than a Moon that hides like an underfed coward.

Jade told me about some of the more traumatic things she'd seen while working at the State Fair.

"Bro, they pull roaches out of the iced lemonade jugs and act like nothing happened."

"All right but what about the corn dogs?"

"You do not want to know, little bro."

She looked around in the quiet. "Back in the day, the Louisiana Congress refused to raise the drinking age from 18 to 21," she said. "They didn't want to lose all that drunk gambler money. So the federal government cut off funding to highways."

We glided through moon-pale landscape for an hour before I realized what she had meant. That there weren't any light poles or billboards along the road. Nothing to guide us or distract us. Just us, alone. And it felt like outer space had collapsed, swallowed us like jellybeans.

Like two teenagers playing a prank on the universe.

In the cozy Subaru Crosstrek, in the old wild night, brimming with the uncertainty of life and the nonchalance of failure, we paraded ourselves back to Dallas. Alive in the river silence that follows us everywhere.

New installments come Mondays and Thursdays. Next, the Iowa caucuses. Check out my Twitter. Email me at kryan@blazemedia.com