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| "I dreaded my fist outing. Everyone at home was used to seeing me swim and dance. Only children were not embarrassed by my wheelchair ..." |
Don't Pity Me by Elisabeth Sheppard-Jones
The story of a girl who won her independence against the handicap of paralysis
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| "I've never lost my interest in clothes although my wardrobe is now full of 'tops'" "My greatest joy is in entertaining friends in my own home. Only then do I know my fight has not been wasted" continued overleaf |
I HAD been left a paraplegic paralysed from the waist down-when the Guards' Chapel in London had been destroyed by a flying bomb.
At first it seemed inconceivable that I could never hope to walk again, but the skilled care' I received at St. Mary's Hospital in Paddington helped me to adjust myself to my new circumstances.
I was there for many months, but at last the day came for me to leave. I was sad at leaving St. Mary's because it had become a sort of second home to me.
I had the kind of affection for it that its nurses and students must have; in a way I suppose I was a sort of student there myself, but when I left I was only partially qualified.
Stoke Mandeville was to complete my training.
In the meantime, plans had been made for me to go home for a few months while the Ministry of Pensions made the necessary arrangements.
The journey to South Wales was a nightmare. I was very sick all the way, but whether it was from nervous- ness or the bumping of the ambulance, I don't know. When we reached Cardiff I was in such. a state that I didn't much care if I lived to reach my home town of Penarth which is a few miles outside the capital.
The sight of the sea, which had never failed to excite me before, and has seldom failed since, now moved me not at all. My state of mind was such that I could only think of the many times I had swum in it-the only I sport at which I ever excelled-and how I should never, never do so again.
I find it difficult to describe how I felt when the ambulance drew up at my parents' house. This was a very different homecoming from the last time when, as a newly passed out ATS officer, I had proudly strolled up the garden path, my cap at a jaunty angle and my new pip glittering in the sun.
Preparations for my return home had been going on for a long time. It had first been a problem to know where to put me; obviously I should need a room downstairs but, as my father is a doctor, two of the downstairs rooms were already taken up for a surgery and a waiting room.
When I was carried in from the ambulance, I was taken along the side path and through French windows that had not been there before, into a room that was completely strange to me.
I would never have recognized it, except for its position in the house as our one-time large kitchen. It was now a delightful bed-sitting room, light and airy; the French windows led on to the garden; familiar pictures from my
oId bedroom were on the walls, and my books were arrayed on shelves I could reach.
A wheelchair, provided by the Ministry of Pensions, stood vacant in the middle of the room; but the bed-also provided by the Ministry-was not vacant long!
How glad I was to be lifted on to it! It was a fine bed-I still have it-with an overhead pulley to help me lift myself and a device that winds the back up for a back rest when I find it necessary.
I needed a lot done for me at that time. I tired very easily and seldom got up before lunch, or stayed up after six in the evening.
It must have been difficult for my mother at first not to show nervousness at what she had to do for me. But although she must have felt nervous, she certainly never appeared to be so. I can no more easily be hurt by movement or rubbing than can any normal person; but it is difficult for people without experience of paraplegics. to realize this.
Anyway, when Diana-the nurse who had come to Wales with me-returned to London, my mother easily took charge of me; and I began anew, if short, phase in between hospitals.
I shall not pretend that this couple of months was easy. It is one thing to be disabled in hospital, where no one has ever known you otherwise, and accepts you as such, and quite another to return disabled to a small town where everyone knew you as an able-bodied person.
My brother came home on leave, and it was to his credit that he behaved towards me as if nothing had happened. He had none of the over-protective, over-sympathetic attitude one might have expected. Friends, too, came to stay as they had done before the war; but nothing seemed to me as it had once been, and I could not accept the fact that nothing-for anyone-is ever the same.
In October I heard that final arrangements had been made for me to be admitted to Stoke Mandeville Hospital. Although I was elated at the prospect before me, I also viewed it with some trepidation and uncertainty. What would it be like?
I did not realize then that if I went without self-confidence, I was going to develop it there, and bring it back with me to help shape my future.
Although, nowadays, mention of Stoke Mandeville-a small village a few miles outside Aylesbury-is immediately associated with paraplegics, it had scarcely been heard of in this connection in 1945.
In the spring of 1944, Dr. Ludwig Guttmann was asked by the medical authorities of the British Government to start a new spinal unit there, to cope with the many war casualties who had sustained spinal injuries.
Dr. Guttmann was born in Germany, and held a leading position there as neurologist and neurosurgeon; but he is a Jew, and in the early part of 1939, he fled to Britain.
The hospital authorities had, of course, been notified of my arrival; but it seemed that they had not given much thought to it, for, after I had been carried in on a stretcher, there was sudden panic as to where I should be put.
I should have been admitted to the officers' paraplegic ward; but as this was an open ward, and all the patients in it men, it was out of the question.
As a military patient, I should have been put in a Service ward, but there was no female Service ward.
So I was admitted to one of the Middlesex Hospital wards. To be in a civilian ward was bad enough, but to find myself among a group of women who were not paraplegics, made me wonder if I was ever going to see Dr. Guttmann. I was absolutely numb with anguish.
I do not think that even in my most pessimistic months I had expected to be as miserable as I was that first day at Stoke Mandeville.
Once I was settled in bed, a young doctor came to see me and write up my case history.
He appeared to be cold, efficient, and disinterested. I am glad to say it took me only a day to get these things in the right perspective.
The doctor later proved tremendous fun, and shared many a cup of milk with me at night; and once, on return from a hectic party, he drew a Mickey Mouse on the white wall behind my bed - a misdemeanour for which Sister never forgave him.
My case history written up, I ventured to look around at the other patients. On my left was a young girl with dyed blonde hair, who passed me some magazines.
"Nice to 'ave someone else under 60 in the darn ward," she remarked. "My name's Millie. Wot's yours?" I told her.
"O.K., I'll call yer Betty," said she gaily.
I have never allowed anyone to call me Betty; it is the only shortening of Elisabeth that I don't like.
"I'd rather you didn't," I objected.
But Millie either didn't hear, or didn't want to hear.
Later in the day, a woman opposite demanded to know exactly what had happened to me.
I gave a few short replies, but Millie filled in the gaps with lurid, and incorrect details. I was amazed.
"How do you know all that about me, Millie?" I asked.
"News travels fast round 'ere," she said, with a wink of a saucer-blue eye. "No one ain't got nothin' to do but gopssip. Look out. 'Ere comes Poppa . . . to see you, I expect."
"Poppa?" I queried.
"Poppa Guttmann-all 'is patients calls 'im that." .
I saw a plump little man with moustache and rimless glasses approaching me. His manner was brisk and chirpy, and his eyes were kindly, even though his lips were unsmiling.
He asked me a, lot about myself, but told me little of what he intended to do with me. He then examined me and expressed his delight at the state of my back.
"We can do a lot for you here," he said, "but you'll have to work, you know. Of course, I cannot help you without your full co-operation.
"We can do nothing about the paralysis, but we can do a lot to enable you to live as normal a life as possible in the circumstances."
He left the ward after instructing the Sister to arrange for me to have physio-therapy as soon as possible.
"We can do nothing about the paralysis," the doctor had said.
This was not the blow it might have been, even though I had entertained some hope of a miracle.
Here, in this hospital, through my own determination, and Dr. Guttmann's inspiration, I was going to regain my independence, no matter how long it might take.
I had spent only a few days in the ward when the Medical Superintendent came to see me.
"I thought you would like to know," he said, "that we have decided to move you."
Even though I knew I should miss Millie's fascinating gossip, I brightened up at this news. .
"There is another officers' ward beside the, paraplegic one," went on the Superintendent, "and although that, too, is a male ward, it is composed of private rooms. We are going to admit you there. Will you mind being among all the men?"
I shook my head. Millie, who had overheard the conversation, cast envious glances at me.
When a few hours later I found myself in a tiny room right at the other end of the hospital, tucked up in bed opposite a window that looked on to the grounds, it seemed to me, quite like paradise.
Separated by what seemed miles of corridor from the other paraplegics, I had not much social contact with them, and only got to know them when we met at occupational or physio-therapy. My companions were the men of ward 15.
Dr. Guttmann came to see me again and, telling me that I ought to get up for a short time, asked how I managed to get dressed.
"I can't dress myself," I said.
He looked shocked. "Have you ever tried?"
"Well, no, not actually."
"Sister," he said, "give her her clothes." Then, taking out his watch, "Now let's see how long it takes you to get into them all, Elisabeth."
Top clothes were easy, but getting panties and slacks over my useless lower limbs was a Herculean task.
I wasn't very strong, and certainly hadn't developed any of the knacks I now have for dressing myself. I eventually found myself dressed, although I must have looked a sketch with some of my garments on inside out, and others back to front.
Crimson with the effort, I gazed triumphantly at Dr. Guttmann and Sister O'Shea.
"You took ten minutes too long at least," Dr. Guttmann said. When he had gone I lay back on the bed, exhausted and helpless.
Dressing myself was the first step on the road to rehabilitation, and therefore a milestone to be noted. When I had recovered my breath, Sister helped me into a wheelchair and pushed me to the anteroom. It was tea time, and the trolley had just been wheeled in.
Sister introduced me to four men who were grouped around the fire. I had my tea and enjoyed the chatter of my companions. They were great fun!
I went back to bed soon after, feeling that at least I was going to enjoy the social side of my life in Stoke Mandeville Hospital.
The next day I was to begin my treatment in earnest. It was the first time I had been in a physio-therapy. department. The activity there was terrific. Men were staggering about on crutches; being pummelled and massaged, and having heat treatment; some were barging around on wheelchairs, others were heaving weights and throwing medicine balls to each other.
Women, apart from the glamorous collection of physio-therapists, were scarcely evident at all, although there were one or two lying on couches, idly doing exercises.
My physio-therapist helped me on to a couch surrounded by light framework, rather like builders' scaffolding. Canvas slings were passed under my shoulders, waist, buttocks and knees, arid then attached to the framework.
When the physio-therapist hauled on ropes and pulleys, I was hoisted into mid-air, like the Union Jack at dawn somewhere in a far-flung colony.
Then, by dint of hard work by the muscles that were not paralyzed, I had to swing the lower part of my body as far out as I could, first to the left and then to the right.
Later on, when I became more proficient at this, orders were given to "hold it" as I swung to one side; and the amount of muscular strength needed to do this for even a moment, made me proud of the improvement I had made.
It had been explained to me that my working muscles must be made immensely strong, so that they might compensate, to some extent, for the paralyzed ones.
It is a slow business. Improvement was made so gradually, that for a long emit. I wondered if I were making any progress at all.
Then, suddenly, many months later, I realized that there were all sorts of little things I could do now that once I could not manage: like turning over in bed, reaching to pick up things from the floor, sitting up without support. I was taught to do the latter by sitting in front of a looking glass.
At first I could only exercise one arm at a time, as I needed one of my hands to keep my balance. As soon as I lifted two arms I toppled over sideways or frontways. But after a time, I managed to raise both arms, fluttering, like an Indian dancer.
And then, when I' became more adept still, my physio-therapist used to throw an enormous ball at me which I had to throw back.
It fairly knocked the wind out of me at first, and gave me some idea of what it must feel like to be a skittle!
The weeks, the months, went by without incident. I went daily to the physio-therapy department, but now had to push myself there and back.
One day, Dr. Guttmann had Caught me being pushed there by a nurse, and had angrily ordered her to go back to the ward.
To me he said:" There are rims for you to propel on the wheels, and there's nothing wrong with your arms. Don't ever let me see you being pushed again, unless you happen to be ill."
Soon I had to make another daily trek, after lunch, this time. The male paraplegics played wheelchair polo and wheelchair netball in the gym.
The sight of 14 men in heavy wheel chairs crashing and bashing their way up and down the gym was truly re markable and terrifying.
It was nothing for a man to fall out of his chair after a head-on collision, be hauled back into it by the instructor. and be off after the ball a second later at terrific speed.
No wonder I am amused when I hear folk refer to paraplegics as helpless invalids.
As more women paraplegics were admitted to the hospital, games were arranged for them, too. And as they were not in my ward, I met them only once.a day, after lunch, in the gym where we played a much milder net- ball of our own, and a form of wheel- chair badminton.
While I was at Stoke Mandeville, Dr. Guttmann had the brilliant idea that archery would be the ideal sport for paraplegics. With the superior strength they had developed in arms and shoulders, they could meet abler bodied people on almost equal terms.
Our archery lessons began, and I think everyone enjoyed them. I did. It is the only game for which I have ever had any enthusiasm.
I played netball and badminton because I had to and it was good for me. But I was always genuinely sorry when, for some reason Or other, I had to miss archery.
There can be no doubt that for men, especially, Stoke Mandeville's emphasis on sport has been a wonderful incentive towards complete rehabilitation; and it has proved a revelation to the outside world. Long after I had left the hospital, the first Paralympics were held there.
They have now become a yearly event; and each year brings more paraplegic participants from a wider range of countries.
Competition is intense, and the games played include, besides the original basketball and archery, fencing, swimming, and javelin throwing.
When I had been at Stoke Mandeville for nearly a year, Dr. Guttmann decided it was about time I got on to my feet.
You might think this to be an impossibility for anyone who is paralyzed from the waist down; but he already had paraplegics with higher lesions than mine struggling around on elbow crutches in the physiotherapy department.
The first stage in these acrobatics took place in the plaster room. My physiotherapist accompanied me there and, together with the man in charge of the plastering, she moulded plaster shells for my legs, from ankle to 'well above the knee.
Once the plaster splints were dry, lined and had had straps attached, they were ready for use.
My next visit to the physiotherapy department would be a momentous one for me.
I lay on the couch while the physiotherapist attached first the back shells, then the front shells to my legs, strapping the two pieces together into position. Springs; leading from a strap fastened around the splints, were hooked on to the laces of my shoes to keep my feet from dragging on the floor once I was up on them.
Then parallel bars were pulled towards the couch, and I was swivelled to the edge of it; my splinted legs stiff and straight in front of me. "I’ll" give you a hand," encouraged
he physiotherapist. "Grab hold of the bars, and heave yourself up on to your feet."
With a certain amount of trepidation, I did this, and for the first time. in two years, found myself in a vertical position.
I held on to the bars . grimly, and was surprised to find that my legs, knees locked and supported by the splints, were supporting me. I daren't, however, move an inch, lest I collapse in a heap on the floor. I felt strangely giddy, but not as elated as I had at first expected.
"Try to move forward a little," instructed the physiotherapist. "Move one leg at a time, using your stomach muscles. They should be able to do it after all the exercise they've had these past months.
"Don't worry if you slip; I'm behind you, and there are plenty of people here to help pick you up."
I moved one leg forward cautiously and very clumsily; taking all the weight with my arms and shoulders; then I lost my balance, and slipped slowly, and inevitably, to the floor. Rescue was at hand, and I was soon back on the couch.
Progress was very slow. Sometimes I managed to creep the whole length of the bars, but it took tremendous effort.
It was weeks before I managed the tricky turn at the end, crossing one arm over the other, and twisting my body round with the strength of my shoulders and arms alone. before making the journey back along the bars; balancing became easier and falls less frequent; but I was never very sure of myself, and every time I collapsed on to the couch or into my wheelchair, I heaved a sigh of relief that 'walking' for that day, at any rate, was over.
The splints were only intended as a temporary expedient, and the time came for me to be measured for calipers. I hoped that the greater support these would be likely to give would make walking easier. But I have to admit that I had my doubts all along.
When my calipers were ready, I received a message to go to the physiotherapy department one afternoon to have them fitted. The maker of the calipers was there to see they were all right, and Dr. Guttmann was going to inspect me in them.
I gazed with utter distaste at the horrid metal things with their astounding array of straps and buckles.
The physiotherapist, aided by the caliper man, attached them first to my legs and then on to the shoes, which were new and had special fittings.
My legs lay stretched stiffly in front of me, looking like caged animals whose energy is too spent to attempt to escape.
Dr. Guttmann arrived on the scene. The parallel bars were hauled up to the couch, and in a few seconds I was up on my feet.
The weight of the calipers was heavier than that of the plaster splints, but they locked my knees more firmly, and definitely made me feel more secure.
I gingerly took a few uncertain steps along the bars as Dr. Guttmann watched me closely.
"A few more steps, please," he said, rather more seriously than I had expected. I took them. He didn't look at all pleased with me, so I took a few more, trying hard to move my feet easily, and keep my balance with a straight back.
"Right, that's enough." He indicated that I sit down. "You can lie back," he said.
The physiotherapist lifted my heavy legs as I slid lengthwise on to the couch.
A short distance away from me, Dr. Guttmann and the caliper maker were in deep conversation. Then my physiotherapist was called over and the three of them discussed my case.
They came back to me," looking shifty, like examiners who have to break the sad news to a candidate who has failed.
"I'm very sorry, Elisabeth," began Dr. Guttmann and I felt sure he was going to say that the "calipers were wrong, and that I should have to wait some time before they were adjusted to fit me correctly. But it was nothing of the sort.
"I'm very sorry," he said again, "but I'm afraid the walking exercises will have to stop. Your knees are turtling in "badly, and you are there fore distributing your weight quite incorrectly.
"There's nothing we can do about it. You'll have to carry on with the other treatment; but no more walking for you."
I was sorry that the three of them looked so sorry for me! I hadn't had such good news for a long time, but I dare not say so.
Rules were not very strict at Stoke Mandeville.
Visitors were allowed at almost any time, and trips from the hospital to the village or to Aylesbury were never restricted.
Here, I should like to pay a tribute to the nurses who often made such trips possible.
It has never ceased to amaze me that women who have to tend, wait on, and put up with their patients for three-quarters of a long day, should voluntarily spend so much of that last quarter with them, for that is what often happened at Stoke Mandeville.
Romance, of course, was often the result of what was, in the first place, a kindness.
Many a male paraplegic in Stoke Mandeville married his nurse; a very wise move to make, for, apart from their good looks, they were all well trained. They must have made very capable, loving, but not over protective wives.
The routine of morning physiotherapy was rivalled by the routine of afternoon and evening occupational therapy, at which I was never very good, I'm afraid.
As a matter of fact, it was not unusual to find the anteroom full of men struggling with embroidery, weaving, knitting, felt work, and rug making, and I, the only woman, reading a book.
I gave them what little advice I could, but on the whole, they knew more about handicrafts than I did.
I did try once to point out to one man that threading a needle with the whole skein of silk at a time was bound to cause trouble. But he managed so well not to get the silk tangled or knotted, that I quite meant to try it for myself. It was most instructive!
When I had been at Stoke Mandeville for three years I began to get very restless.
Everything that could be done for me had been done. I had reached a peak of physical fitness, and it was time for me to move on again.
I recognized a danger that if I stayed any longer, I should be afraid to leave, in spite of the fact that the training I had received was intended to fit me for life outside the hospital.
Life in hospital relieves one of everyday worries and encourages one to be idle without having a guilty conscience about it, a frame of mind to be discouraged!
My departure from Stoke Mandeville was not the sad occasion it had been when I left St. Mary's. For one thing, it was not final.
I knew I should be called for a check-up in six months time, which would mean admission for at least a couple of days.
And I also knew that if I ever had any trouble at all with pressure, or spine or kidneys, I should have no difficulty in being readmitted to the hospital immediately.
It was (and still is) a comforting thought to know that I should always be assured of the finest specialist attention in what I think is the finest spinal centre in the world.
NEXT WEEK: I go home to Wales, and all my dreams come true
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