I remember staying in hospital as a child. One of the local doctots thought I might have tuberculosis. Why he did not admit me to the sanitarium further south I have no idea. Be ause of a lack of room in the children’s ward, I was placed with bedridden old ladies. I was both conused and frightened by the whole event. When i saw the ugly sore covering the lower back of the woman in the next bed, I wanted to come home at once.
The first day, a nurse asked me if I had moved my bowels. I simply stared at her until she realised I did not undestand and used more kid friend.y words. For some reason, i was confined to bed and had to use bedpans which I really disliked. The old ladies would throw candy at my bed and when it missed, which was often I skiddled across the floor to retrieve my booty. We were all in trouble if tbe dragon of a ward sister caught us. My grandparents did not accept the TB diagnosis and arranged for me to see doctors in another town. They said I had glandular fever.
Apart from admissions to bear children, my longer stay in hospjtal was when I had back problems in my 30’s. I needed stronger pain relief than I could get at home. The innjections were givenio to me every 4 hours and I was comfortable until the 3rd hour. Then I waitec for a nurse to arrive feeling like an addict in search of the next fix. To judge my current state, my husband asked when he visited at night if I was reading. When I shook my head, he knew matters were serious. Traction did not help but surgery eventually did.
A recent stay in a new hospital was a revelation. Instead of lying in a white iron bed in a long ward, i occupied a private room in a bed that moved in all directions except sideways. My own bathroom replaced a bedpan. And of course I had a television set and a pull out bed for guests as well as a chair. However a hospital cannot compare with my own house and I was equally glad to leave it as I had been many years ago.
p, but surgery did.