Nostalgia from the past.

[johnh]

Sorry, it is raining, I am bored and reading something, somewhere, about Walton Hospital reminded me.

Up to age 70 I had only been in hospital once, Walton hospital in 1943/44, I was 7 or 8 years old. I was playing football in the street and a lorry came by. We all stepped on the pavement but the ball, an old tennis ball, was on the other side of the road. I was determined to get there first and as soon as the lorry went past I shot over the road and ran straight into a man riding a bike. The handlebars hit me in the face and opened a big cut over the cheek bone and just below the eye. Blood everywhere. They took me to a nearby house and the man there went and got a bottle he opened it and poured the contents into the cut, it was iodine and hurt more than the impact! The man on the bike, in RAF uniform was also there and the iodine man's older son volunteered to take me to Walton Hospital. The RAF man gave him the tram fare and also gave me sixpence. (Even though I lived nearby, there was no point in going home as my parents were out - they only went out about once a year, sod's law - and the only people home were my baby sister and the baby sitter.) We got to A&E at Walton Hospital and the lad left me there and went home. I finally got seen and they tried to stitch the wound, no anaesthetic and it took three to hold me down. After what seemed like an age they decided they couldn't do it so I was admitted. There was no room in the childrens' ward so I went in an adult male ward. Some time later, they took me to the operating theatre (no anaesthetic again) and spent what seemed like forever, stitching me up. I finally got back to the ward and had a visit from my parents. I didn't sleep much the first night as the man in the bed opposite groaned all night. Next morning two men came in with a trolley and put the man on it, covered him with a black cloth and wheeled him out. Didn't make me feel much better! The man in the next bed was in traction. He had two broken arms, two broken legs, two black eyes and a face that was swollen and badly marked. He called me over and told me to get the tin mug off his bedside locker. He instructed me to hold it to his mouth and then gobbed into it. That was to be my job for the next 10 days. He told me that he had fallen off his motorbike. A short time later, the man in the next bed on the other side told me that he hadn't fallen off his motorbike, he had upset some nasty people. Even at that tender age I had a good idea what that meant. The upside to being in the adult ward was that at visiting time all the mothers, wives and girl friends visiting the other patients used to dote on me and bring me loads of sweets and chocolates. The hospital arranged for a lad, a bit older than me, to come up from the childrens ward and keep me company. By this time I was allowed out of bed. This lad had been in the hospital for a few weeks and knew his way around. He was also well in with the nurses and most of the patients. He took me to see a man who had had his foot amputated above the ankle. The nurse was changing the dressing on the 'stump' and we were let in behind the curtains to watch the proceedings. After 10 days they removed the stitches, another painful experience which took place sitting on a chair in the middle of the ward. I was glad to get home but had to admit that I had some interesting and enjoyable experiences.

 

Postscript: The RAF man reported the incident to the police. I was visited in hospital by a policeman to take a statement. Being an honest lad, I admitted to the policeman that it was my own fault!

Edited October 19, 2015 by johnh