Having fun in hospital sounds a contradiction, but for long-term patients in an orthopaedic ward, it can be. After the initial shock of learning that I was to be confined to a hospital bed for a year, and once the disease (a large abscess on my spine) had been halted, I felt well enough to enjoy my stay. I was put on a high-protein diet to increase my weight from under six stone, and part of it was a daily half pint of Guinness.
My injuries were my own fault. Like other 17-year-olds in the 1950s I wore what fashion dictated and put on three-inch stiletto-heeled shoes.The trouble was that wooden escalator steps had ridges into which the high heels fitted perfectly, and at the top of the escalator my shoe was trapped. Instead of tipping forward, I managed to bounce all the way down on my spine, and got an annual season ticket to the Royal National Orthopaedic Hospital at Stanmore.
To keep the spine immobile I was fitted into a plaster bed. A plaster mould was taken of my back from neck to knees, then a cast of my front. A wooden frame was fitted to the back half and, over the hospital bed, a metal frame with pulleys. Pull on one cord and the top half of the bed would raise you up into a rigid sitting position. Pull the other way and you settled down for the night. Once a month you were ‘turned’. After the front half of the plaster bed was strapped into place, four nurses turned you like a roasting spit. It was interesting to look at life from a different perspective for a day.
When I arrived in Hut 3,1 was slotted between Jackie, a pregnant polio victim, and Irene, an identical plaster bed twin. Opposite, and arriving just after me, came Joan, with TB ankles .This‘Gang of Four’
achieved fame the length and breadth of the hospital. It was very convenient having one half of the gang,
Jackie and Joan, mobile in wheelchairs. Irene and I persuaded the porters to wheel our beds out on to the solarium, where we could chat up the passing talent from Hut 1 .There were Don and Stu, ex-RAF types who had pranged themselves up in motor cars now they were no longer flying Spitfires,Tony, a polio victim but walking, and Ron, a polio victim in a wheelchair.
In the evenings, as Irene and I were stationary, it meant the chaps had to come to Hut 3.At home I’d had a portable gramophone, so on my next visit my Mum lugged in the machine and, of course, records. We would play these and chat. On my 18th birthday, Tony and Don exited the hospital grounds at the top and got to theVine public house to bring us a bottle of sherry, and it tasted great out of tooth mugs.
For a couple of weeks Jackie left us for the nearby maternity hospital.When she returned she progressed from the wheelchair to crutches, first with two leg irons and then just one. She promptly called it ‘Bloody Caliper’ and would call it like a dog when she got up in
the mornings, much to the consternation of the nursing nuns who often helped out on night shifts. Her‘Bloody Caliper’became an integral part ofher name.
Our parties so far had been just cold buffet style. Then Jackie and her‘Bloody Caliper’ had the most brilliant idea. She arranged to have her electric frying pan brought in and we’d have a fry-up of sausages, bacon and eggs.
Other than when a patient went for an operation, we weren’t really ill. So long as the patients at the other end of the ward didn’t object, the night nursing staff would turn a blind eye to our activities – except sometimes they’d join in.The word must have got out.
Both Irene’s and my charts were read several times a week.The young Registrar would whisper:“Let us know when you’re having the next party.”
Our ward sister got quite flummoxed with so much attention.
With the gramophone playing, night nurses dancing with Registrars, us lying in bed with a glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other- oh yes! I’d learned to smoke since my admission to Hut 3 – it was great fun.Then we’d have intermissions andjackie and her‘Bloody Caliper’would get busy with the frying pan.The nearest socket was by my bed, so it was put on top of my locker. By manipulating my pulleys, I could pivot sideways and, in my best chef’s style, turn the sausages and bacon.
I think at times my poor mother wondered whether her‘baby’ was in a hospital or a bed-sit! Visiting times were each evening (except Sundays) from six until eight, and onWednesday, Saturday and Sunday afternoons from two until four. Mother would visit me on aWednesday afternoon and I’d give her a shopping list as long as your arm. I’d ask her to bring it back to the hospital gates, where Tony would be waiting to take delivery. Sometimes he had to borrow a wheelchair to bring it back.
Christmas Day was the only time in my life when I got drunk. It had started well enough when I put on a gramophone record at five in the morning and Mel Blanc rendered ITaut ITaw a PuddyTat at full volume. There were a few irate cries, I admit. As there was no visiting that day, Irene and I had asked the ward sister if we could visit all six wards to wish patients a Merry Christmas. Against her better judgement, I’m sure, she agreed, and with the pulleys and cords released we were heaved up on to trolleys to be pushed by two very willing porters.
I do remember the children’s wards, but then we visited Hut 1. My dad had brought me a bottle of sherry, so I offered some guys a drink. Someone offered me a drink, then someone else gave me one -or two – or three? Apparently, as I left I was clutching a bottle and singing at the top of my voice One Green Bottle, which prompted me to dispose of the one I had in my hand, as it was empty. I missed Christmas dinner, but as a memento I have a copy of the menu.
I was banished to the recovery room, where they dried me out in time for family visitors on Boxing day. I do remember asking once in the night for water. There were two feeders at the table, one a mouthwash and the other water.The poor nun gave me the wrong one. Bubbling with laughter, I shouted:“She’s trying to poison me!”
Our New Year’s Eve party was the best ever. Music, wine (in moderation, of course) and the usual fry-up at intermission.There must have been about 20 people alongside Irene and me.We’d served sausages and eggs to about half of them when suddenly our look-out (we weren’t daft!) shouted that Night Sister was coming, accompanied by Matron.The doctors and off-duty nurses made a hasty exit by the solarium doors, pushing the fellas in wheelchairs at a speed which would have won the Grand National.The mobile half of the Gang of Four stowed unused food and utensils in lockers and tumbled into bed fully-dressed after putting out the lights.
‘The frying pan!” I yelled.
Jackie and her‘Bloody Caliper’loped across to unplug it. I reared up on my pulleys and she thrust it under my plaster bed.
My heart was pounding in rhythm with Matron’s solid step. I heard her exaggerated sniff.
“What is that smell?” she demanded in a hoarse whisper.“Has one of your gels brought in ghastly fish and chips?”
Still admonishing Night Sister about keeping her staff in order, she came close to my bed and I felt my pulley cords being released. I slowly sank down.
My plaster bed squelched on the simmering eggs.
Nearly 50 years on I can still smile at our antics in hospital. In today’s cut-throat business attitude at National Health Service hospitals, where they must grab fund-holding patients to balance their budgets, such a liberal attitude wouldn’t be tolerated – but I’m sure young people in similar circumstances would find ways of laughing at adversity.
It was a year out of my life but it taught me a lot -especially not to put your fried eggs under the bed!
Bertha Newbery
