The ambulance had pulled up at the end of the close of 18 Ann Street, Dundee, and a small crowed of sympathetic gawkers had gathered around the wide open back doors awaiting the arrival of some ‘Poor Soul’ – In this case a wee seven year old Laddie. I don’t think I’d disappointed them as I was whisked past on the stretcher, covered in a red blanket, with only my wee face showing. The combined outpouring of compassion complemented my feeble performance -“Ah!! …. What a shame”.
I was admitted into ward 19, on the east side, top level, of the red brick building running parallel with Dudhope Terrace. This was probably the last large extension to the hotchpotch of connections and corridors stitched on to the original building since it was first constructed in 1855. Designated as a Children’s Medical Ward (as opposed to the Children’s Surgical, which was at the opposite end of the building in ward 18), it facilitated around 15 beds on each side, although this was sometimes augmented when required by putting a row down the middle. I remember a large rocking horse at the top as I was wheeled into the ward, sad to say, I wouldn’t be making much use of that in the near future. Nobody of course tells you anything when you’re ill as a kid, but Alice the cleaner approached my bed straight away to give her prognosis, “What have you got?” –“ Rheumatic Fever” I remembered – “You’ll be in for about six months” She said – She was right!!!
I was cured immediately however – One large needle in the rump (probably penicillin), and all pain had gone. In those days the syringes seemed enormous, or was it that my bum was a lot smaller? The Staff Nurse had a rather unusual way of administering the injection; she would remove the needle, place it between her fingers, slap your bottom, then attach the cylinder and press the plunger.
Perfect!! Pain free, and feeling fit again, I was ready for the off. Oh no!! It would appear that my heart was in danger, so the treatment was complete and utter rest until my blood corpuscles sorted themselves out. This entailed literally lying flat on my back (no pillows), and not moving a muscle. My food, for example, would arrive and be placed on the tray in front of me, awaiting an available nurse to commence feeding. Dependent on the nurses given mood, sense of urgency, and how long I’d waited, my gastronomic delight varied enormously. One meal I detested, and resisted obstinately, leading to a lot of frustration by one particular nurse, was mince and tatties. Then one-day shepherd’s pie was on the menu, I gobbled it up. “Would you like a second helping?” she said encouragingly. This was unusual, as the nurse had to chase after the catering trolley, by this time in another ward. Returning triumphantly and beginning to ladle it down, a victorious smile spread over her face. “Do you know what shepherd’s pie actually is? – Mince and tatties!!!”
I can still close my eyes to this day and evoke the vivid image of the ward ceiling. Every nook and cranny, scratch and paint blemish has been engraved in my mind from the long hours with nothing else to look at. I would create landscapes, and connect stories, probably fundamental in the development of my over zealous imagination as it materialised in later life.
Every day the Sister would appear in the ward to the delighted screams of the children, with an enormous jar of malt, which she would dispense on a large spoon like a lollypop. They all loved it, clamouring for more, the sticky black goo smothering their angelic faces. But not me – It made me physically sick, I was given the compulsory option of Cod Liver Oil, which I detested just a little bit less. Mind you, in comparison to my follow patients, this was the very worst I had to endure (apart from the odd enema), whereas most of the others were subjected to a horrendous series of surgical tests and perceived tortures. The procedure was always the same, screens would be put around the unfortunate’s bed, then the ‘White Trolley’, with instruments concealed under pristine white cloths, would appear at the entrance to the ward, then be squeakily wheeled by nurses to the designated enclosure, followed by the protagonist in a white coat. Victims would rely on reports from outside the screens for commentary on pre match events. “Is it the White Trolley? – What’s on it? – Is it (hopefully) just the nurses? Oh no!! is there loads of them?”. As far as I could observe peeping through the screens on occasions, the most dreadful ordeal was ‘The needle in the back’ (Lumber puncture). Fortunately, the patient didn’t see the length of the needle, or what was extracted – But I did – Euch!!! But my day was to come. The screens dually surrounding me, excited reports started coming through – “No trolley, but a man in a white coat coming along the ward carrying a large bag”. Oh no!! what am I in for? As one of the screens was pulled back, and the tormentor came through, it was a face I did recognise, but couldn’t immediately place. Of course, it was Joe Barton, who owned the barbershop along Ann Street; he’d come to give me a haircut. You can imagine the surprised look on the faces of the ‘Informers’ when the screens were removed, to see a beaming Patrick shorn to the wood.
In gradual stages of progression, as my blood count dictated, I was first allowed to sit by the bed for an hour, and then eventually allowed up. To start with, my legs wouldn’t support me, and then eventually, teetering like a child, my initial steps back to normality. This new freedom brought with it some sense of responsibility. In addition to riding on the Rocking Horse, it entailed fetching and carrying toys, exchanging messages, retrieving bits of puzzle of the floor, and relaying requests for bottles, bedpans etc. to the staff. The lad two beds down confided with anxiety one day, that he’d swallowed a nail. A bit of panic ensued, resulting in the doctor and two nurses hurrying to his bedside. “Where did you get the nail?” he was asked “I bit it off my finger”. From time to time, those that were mobile (four girls and myself) were herded into Staff Nurse Riley’s Room for a physical. “Right Patrick, you first, gown off and on to the scales”. To be honest, I wasn’t that embarrassed standing there naked in front of the girls. However, when they eventually trooped back into the ward giggling to all and sundry that “we’ve just seen Patrick’s willy”, my face was as crimson as a trainee nurse’s tunic.
Now having the freedom of the ward, I spent a lot of time gazing out the windows (heavily barred in case of accidents, or perhaps an inclination to jump). On the south side they had built a veranda, access locked, which seemed to be used for storage. I found out later that the hospital was used extensively for wounded military during the war, perhaps the fresh air facility was utilised then. The top of the ward looked over the nurse’s home, but you couldn’t see very much. Looking across Dudhope Terrace, a particular house on the corner would catch my eye. Who lived there? I imagined that one day it would be me. Many years later, working for Singer Sewing Machines, I had occasion to visit the house, it was strange looking out the window towards the ward from the opposite direction.
Postscript.
Sheila’s mother died around twenty years ago while on holiday with us at Butlins Holliday Camp in Ayr. Recently widowed, she enjoyed only two days at the resort, where, as a family, we had spent many happy times. A small Sherry, and a few ciggies during the Old Time Music Hall Show the night before, and she passed away in her chalet during the night. Not such a bad way to go perhaps.
According to a doctor friend of mine (Peter Semple), Rheumatic Fever is quite rare in Scotland these days. A case was recorded in a young boy from an Eastern European country recently, and received much attention from the medical fraternity as a unique example of this type of ailment.
I was to have two further bouts of Rheumatic Fever, all be it less virulent, one about two years later, and another when I was seventeen and in the Army. The Army? How did that come about with my medical history? They were particularly keen to enlist musicians (I played the clarinet) so they gave me the benefit of doubt by referring me to a Consultant Physician for a final decision - The verdict was affirmative, and by coincidence, that Consultant, Dr. Robert Semple, was the father of the aforementioned Peter.
