Jack Asks Himself – Is This Really Happening






We first met when I was fifteen, at one of the weekly meetings of the St Raphael Club for 
disabled people, in Norwich.  The Wednesday evening outing was the highlight of my 
week, being the only real social event I enjoyed.  But for Jack , it was not so much an 
occasion as the breath of life.

His father died as a POW in the Second World War, when Jack was thirteen years old, 
and his mother was left struggling to bring up a young family, one of whom, Sheila, was 
also afflicted with spinal muscular atrophy.

Although Jack's mother married again many years later, with all the will in the world she 
could scarcely cope with two handicapped children, and four other daughters as well.  
There were no hoists or gadgetry in those days, and money was very short.  Therefore, 
she had to steel herself to the fact that she had little chance in her already overburdened 
existence to give Jack anything like a normal life.

At the age of nineteen, Jack left a special boarding school for disabled boys, and his 
grandparents, rallying round in the true family way, cared for him for almost a year.  
Their pre-fabricated bungalow was quite convenient for his invalid chair, and his step-
father and uncle helped grandfather on a rota system with local ambulance men in 
looking after his needs,  Granny, a matronly little woman with red hair, delighted in 
serving him the food he enjoyed, albeit increasing his waistline!  She would knit 
cardigans for him, and took pride and pleasure in fussing over her grandson, whom she 
called "my Jackie".  Grandfather, for his part, taught Jack the skills of card-playing, and 
introduced him at the local on Sundays.

Jack was comfortable and well cared for, but he felt that this state of affairs could not last 
for long.

"I tried not to ask for too much, but I felt a real burden,"  Jack once told me.  "I hated 
leaving that school – I enjoyed English and Latin.  They gave us real hope, there.  I even 
felt I was Someone."

Many years later, Jack learned that when he left that school, his family was given to 
understand that he would live only about six months – such was the prognosis of the 
disease in those days.

In fact, eleven months had passed at the 'prefab.", when Granny reluctantly informed 
Jack that he would be going into hospital.

"Just for a month, to give us a little rest."

"I felt terrible", admitted Jack, "but I could hardly be annoyed, could I?  Sitting in that big 
ward full of old men on the first day, I could smell a mixture of disinfectant and stale 
urine.  I kept asking myself 'Is this really me?'  I kept repeating 'I am Jack Wymer' over 
and over again in my mind, because I couldn't believe it was happening to me."

The family visited him regularly, and after five weeks, Jack began to ask when he was 
going home again.  The question was evaded several times before his mother finally had 
to break the news.
"I hope you won't mind, but Nanny can't have you back again".

The words were stunning.  Jack knew that his grandparents, both in their middle sixties, 
could  not be expected to cope with looking after him indefinitely.  But the situation this 
left him in seemed so unreal.  The unimaginable had happened.  Jack's confidence took 
a steep dive.  Those on the ward saw only a morose character with a big chip on his 
shoulder.  No one seemed to know or care how unhappy he was.  But this earned him 
the reputation which was noted on his hospital case-sheets.  "Doesn't get on with his 
fellow men."

Jack had been in hospital for three years, when I first met him at the Club.  His short 
brown hair was dry and flaky from being washed in liquid soap, and not properly rinsed.  
With his grey flannels and hand-knitted cardigan, Jack already had that "institutional" 
appearance. It was difficult to describe.  Certainly, he was clean and cared for, but 
somehow, he had a dazed look on his face.  His eyes squinted in a pained fashion when 
viewing something only a short distance away.  He thought he needed spectacles, but 
he "didn't like to trouble anyone".  He was playing cards with some older club members, 
when I remarked to Sheila:  "Doesn't your brother look miserable?"

By contrast, at fifteen, I was very naïve and lighthearted.  Oh, but how little I knew then!  
Not that life had been too unkind to me.  Doting parents had rather reluctantly parted 
with me when I was five, to be educated at a school for disabled girls run by a 
Dominican order of nuns.

I accepted it all, and my interest in the new faces around me helped to compensate for 
the strange feeling of loneliness I had.  We were disciplined in the way of the Church, 
and even the most disabled amongst us were expected to share in the domestic chores.  
I well remember being encourage to clean the hand-basin, polish the boots and shoes, 
or clean the silver.  With only twenty-four girls, aged between five and sixteen, we all 
received ample care and attention.  I cannot recall ever feeling particularly unhappy, 
except perhaps when I was in bed with nothing to do, or in sick bay recovery from one of 
the inevitable childhood diseases!

I could not walk, or even crawl very well, but I soon learned the joys of reading.  
Something of a dreamer, I frequently left the everyday world, either with or without a 
book!  I eagerly devoured stories like The Water Babies, Black Beauty, Little Women, 
and many more.  By the age of ten, I was learning short-hand and typing, and was 
convinced by the school that this would probably form the basis of my career for later 
life.  Indeed, there was no doubt that this proved to be a good all-round education for 
me.