Illness Brings New Meaning for Me My education was interrupted shortly afterwards, when I had to leave the safe, disciplined familiarity of the school. My physical condition had worsened if anything, and I put on weight, to become more or less confined to a wheelchair. The vague diagnosis was that I was probably suffering the consequences of poliomyelitis. My father's army career took him around the country, and he and Mum usually made a point of taking me to visit medical specialists in each area. After one such visit, the Consultant was hopeful that his particular physiotherapy treatment might get me walking. With no little trepidation, I entered a children's hospital at Bath, but after a year of hard work on everyone's part, there was still no improvement in my condition. What is more, I received no education whatsoever, and had no books with which to amuse myself. The venture was more than an anticlimax to us all, yet it was nobody's fault. However, my parents now returned to Norwich, their home town, taking me with them. The next step was taken out of our hands, and before long, I was admitted to a children's convalescent home at Great Yarmouth. My experiences there were very unpleasant, and certainly not worth relating. Suffice it to say that much has been written about such places in which mental cruelty was inflicted on young patients by misguided and unhappy individuals. Here, my only education was that unfairness and cruelty did indeed exist in the world. And I still saw no books. Finally, at thirteen years old, any hope of getting me to walk was abandoned. I arrived home again with my family, now very overweight, and ignorant in many ways, though too knowing in others! I had precious few belongings – just a handbag and a small battered case. There was little opportunity to accumulate possessions in hospitals, and I was now amply accommodated, bed and all, in what had hitherto been called the breakfast room. Dad had left the army, and was now working as a bus conductor. He found that the shiftwork enabled him to assist Mum in looking after me, and he could also be present when the physiotherapist called to administer my continued treatment. It was a difficult stage for us all. My brothers Michael and David were seven and six years old respectively, and almost strangers to me. The small council house seemed packed with all of us, compared with the accustomed spaciousness of the hospitals, I became quite hysterical when left alone indoors, and preferred sitting in the garden, even for hours on end. But gradually, I learned new disciplines, and easily made friends with the neighbours' children. I was even pushed to the cinema on occasions, if wheelchairs were admitted. My schooling consisted of one two-hour session a week, and the home teacher set me homework for periods in between. But somehow, my thirst for learning had now deserted me. I was more interested in watching games in the park, listening to 'pop' music, or hearing intriguing whispers of boy friends from other girls. I was blending nicely into the new domestic scene by now, to the extent of reluctantly darning socks! As a teenager, life seemed good to me. I was happy in my own way, and the better for being treated as "normal" by the family. I had a deep interest in people, and was quite curious about their lives. My interest in men was non-existent – except in love stories and films. I was blissfully unaware off all those things which I was supposed to be missing in my life. Through St Raphael Club, I was now learning to play chess with a younger male helper. Len and I became firm friends, but that was as far as it went. Marriage was not for me. Fortunately for me, I had an optimistic disposition, and was quite easily pleased. I knew no jealousy of my able-bodied friends, and readily accepted that they could have new clothes, while I persevered with my old ones. My parents were far from rich, and Mum had precious few things herself. My friends could earn money – I could not. That was sufficient reason for me. I derived satisfaction from the fact that I was warm, and well fed. What disputes I did have with my parents never concerned new possessions. But I jealously guarded my bed table which held my books and other bits and pieces, hotly insisting that no one should touch them – least of all, my brothers. "I don't want my things interfered with," I protested. "They were doing no harm," Mum defended the boys. "I know, but I want things left alone." "You must learn to share." This last rejoinder usually left me red in the face, and I fell sullenly silent. On other occasions, disputes arose when I would insist as forcibly as possible on going out with my friends, and whatever the weather refusing to have a blanket over my legs. "That's for old people in bath chairs'" was my indignant reminder. Indeed. I had my vanity, despite my physical drawbacks. My brown, wavy hair usually behaved well whoever snipped at it, family or friends. I liked it short, as was the trend in those days. With some considerable effort, I would brush it over and over again, secretly admiring the chestnut-coloured highlights. Make-up was beyond my purse, but I enjoyed hearing people say "Isn't she pretty?" I had become friendly with Jack's sister Sheila on my club nights, when we laughed a lot, and sang around the piano. She told me that it was getting physically more difficult for her to live at home, and she was soon to be admitted to a ward in the same hospital as her brother. At the time, I thought little of it. To me, Jack was still a distant figure in the clubroom, always looking serious at his playing cards. Sheila always seemed happy, and usually surrounded by boy-friends. If any rivalry existed between us two girls, it was about our appearance only, since I did not feel the need for boy-friends. But I enjoyed hearing about Sheila's amorous exploits! Vanity was to prove my downfall, however, when during that November I contracted influenza. Going out in the bitter winter evenings wearing just a thin jacket and skirt was asking for trouble. With my history of chest infections, I was taking an unforgivable risk, and Mum despaired of trying to make me see sense. But I had my way. I can still recall that awful penetrating cold weather. And later that month, 'flu worsened to pneumonia. Modern antibiotics were not readily available then, and by Christmas I was critically ill in hospital. The night I was rushed into hospital remains a hazy memory. It had been a desperate struggle to keep me alive during the previous few weeks. I could not cough by myself, and Dad had repeatedly turned me face downwards on the bed, performing some kind of artificial respiration. I had to be watched day and night. Poor Mum could not handle my helpless body as easily as dad could, and at times she was frantic. So it was a great relief to us all when the hospital took over. I remember that my mother was with me, and I heard the doctor say: "She won't last the night. Better fetch your husband." Coming to, later on, I was relieved to find myself still in the land of the living, though encased in what is commonly known as an iron lung, I had seen polio victims in these fearsome-looking contraptions many times. The long metal box is connected to an electric pump by means of a large tube at one end, while the patient's head protrudes through a port-hole padded with rubber and cotton wool at the other. Pumping air in and out causes alternate pressure and vacuum which helps the patient's chest to fall and rise in normal breathing action, and various dials are set to regulate air-pressures to the individual breathing rate. I had seen how these machines could save lives, and I was confident in relying on one now. It felt marvellous to have all the responsibility for breathing taken away. While aware of having blocked lungs, and aches and pains everywhere, I knew that I was not going to die. I beamed the reassurance to my father, sitting near to me: "Hello, Dad. I'm going to be all right now." I shall always remember the visible change which came over Dad's face! The Ward Sister nodded compassionately: "I should go and get some rest now". During the weeks that followed, I vaguely recall phrases like "collapsed lung", and "postural drainage" being mentioned in my hearing. I was placed with my head and shoulders hanging over the side of the bed, while a patient physiotherapist pounded away on my back. It was a triumph when I could declare to her "I've coughed some up today." I remember learning to feed myself again, scarcely able to hold a spoon at first. Gradually, I recovered sufficiently to return home. I was still very weak, weighing under six stone, and uncommonly subdued. Needing most of the time in bed, I did not even care about being kept indoors. I welcomed my own little room again, all neat and clean, with the familiar old bed table still nursing my books and pens and puzzles. In all, my battle for survival had lasted four months, taking me past my seventeenth birthday. It had been a traumatic experience indeed, yet one which I respected, somehow. A new calm descended upon me. I loved gazing out of my window to the woods bordering on to the back garden. I preferred the birdsong to my radio. As for darning socks, I actually asked for work, and enjoyed doing it! I rediscovered pleasure in poetry, and found self-expression in writing some of my own. All in all, life had taken on a new meaning, and I valued it wholeheartedly.