RNOH

One of the reasons we moved to England was so that I could get treatment for scoliosis that had resulted from my contracting polio when I was 13 months old.
Ever diligent, my mother tracked down and got an appointment to see one of the leading children’s orthopaedic surgeons. His name was Mr. Jones. It is an oddity of the British homage to Class distinctions that "doctors" who belong to the "Royal College of Surgeons" are not referred to as Dr. James by their colleagues. He is known as Mr. James RSC.
He turned out to be a brilliant surgeon, a man I cannot thank enough for giving me the ability to live an independent life as an adult.
However, back then in 1954 when I was 10, I had an operation known as a spinal fusion that required me to be in hospital for 10 months. The hospital was a world leader in spinal work for children, The Royal National Orthopaedic Hospital, (RNOH). It still exists.

Back then, in the immediate postwar years, the Brits had a strange view of children in hospitals. It was that visitors disrupted the business of the hospital and somehow delayed the children’s ability to heal.

It would be a reasonable assumption that the child in hospital particularly in the middle of the 20th century was likely to have siblings. However those siblings, if they were younger than 18 were not allowed to visit. Do not ask me what the rationale could have been but I did know that I was unhappy with not having my sister visit me; she was 14 at the time.
When I complained to my mother that it wasn’t fair,  my mother suggested that I,  personally, write to the head of the hospital's Chief of Patient Social Welfare, a position that had the odd title of Almoner. So I did. In my 10-year old scrawl. I told her that I could not imagine spending nine months without seeing my sister; much to everyone’s surprise the Almoner listened to me and gave my sister Suzy a letter permitting her to come and visit me regularly even though she was not 18. The only "child" visitor in the huge hospital wards.

When I say visit regularly, let me explain further: visiting hours in those days were a half an hour on Wednesday evenings from 7:30 to 8:00 pm and one hour on the weekends on  Saturday and Sunday  afternoons from 2:00 to 3:00 pm. 

In the  hour while the family were visiting, one of the "Volunteers" would go around the ward with a trolly selling cups of tea, sandwiches and little cupcakes. Of which we all indulged.
However, this is also the period of one of the great Lavalette family traditions. When we arrived in England the one thing my father requested from our days in India was that every Sunday mom would cook a curry and rice lunch. We were not going to have the traditional English Sunday Lunch of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. 
Oh, how I missed those curries in those months while I was in hospital. It was not long before each Sunday visit,  mom and dad brought me a curry sandwich. How I looked forward to that precious treat. Forget about full body plaster casts, 10 months prone in bed, sweet nurses, what remains with me most of all, is looking forward to the Sundays with curry sandwiches! And having my sister with me when no-one else did. What a smart mother we had.

Mother's Day telephone calls

How things have changed in the last few decades.

We have so many vehicles for communicating with each other:  Facebook , Instagram and still that old standby  - the Hallmark card. 

Except for the card,  or any other written communication,  we expect the message to be sent instantly. There is no delay between typing the message into the keyboard and hitting post, or send.

Things were very different when I first came to Canada 50 years ago. The main vehicle for communicating on Mother’s Day was the telephone. What a nightmare that was. 
On Mother’s Day, which the telephone company regularly told us was the busiest day of the year, you nearly always got a busy signal the minute you picked up the phone. I am serious.   The busy tone came on instantly you picked up the hand-piece off the cradle. The lines were so tied up.  I would be on the phone for hours before I could get through.
By the early Eighties, I had an arrangement with my mother whereby I would always phone her on the Saturday and wish her happy Mother’s Day. At least I knew we would get through to each other and could talk as long as we wished.

How long ago that all seems and how I wished I could do that now.