Photo: by Cawa Cokoroba/Pexels

It is amazing how vivid some memories remain decades later. From age ten my mother was aware something was amiss with my posture. Regularly asked to stand straight, I would carefully put my feet together standing as erect as I could, but the outcome was always the same. Perplexed she would adjust my shoulders which felt lopsided.

Eventually, a junior school medical identified I had curvature of the spine which an orthopaedic consultant corroborated as scoliosis. When exercise proved ineffectual a spinal-fusion operation was considered a necessity to halt further curvature, which was inevitable with the onset of my growth spurt and considered better undertaken sooner rather than later, before menarche being in early adolescence.

Admitted to a children’s orthopaedic hospital, waking from the operation the pain was excruciating. Left at my bedside an anaesthesia inhaling gas offered instant pain relief and experienced what I later learned were hallucinations. Not fully asleep I saw great expanses of shallow pebbled, glistening iridescent pools and fields of beautiful colourful flowers.

Back on the ward and sufficiently recovered, I was told I would be fitted with a caste. This turned out to be an upper body plaster caste cupping my chin and neck, circling the back of my head, covering my torso and ending just above my right knee. Adjusting to the caste was challenging, but learned to move around the bed, to dress, undress and undertake school lessons with a tutor. But was told I needed to complete full rotations which proved difficult, not only because of the caste above my right knee hindering the turn, but the narrowness of the bed and fell off one day. Replaced in bed, the usual pressure normally felt where the plaster molded my hips had eased due to a crack in the plaster.

On the consultant’s next weekly visit with his entourage, as they discussed my case I became hysterical when I heard I was to be placed on a traction bed. Being the last on a row of about ten beds, I was both sympathetic and horrified at the sight of my neighbour patient on my right who was on a traction bed with what appeared to be a metal contraption from her skull that hung down with weights at the end and was rotated regularly upwards and downwards. However I was assured I was simply being placed on the traction bed temporarily without the skull implant, until a decision was made whether to replace the caste in its entirety or plaster over the crack. The latter thankfully was the decided option. Next came the placement of teeth braces which initially were painful, but was essential to keep my teeth in alignment due to the pressure of the caste to my jawline.  

The saving grace of being perpetually horizontal was the adjustable mirror at the head of the bed, which was the only way to see beyond my two neighbours and see the ward at large. The row I was part of all had scoliosis, the middle row were patients with dislocated hips and the row at the opposite end of ward I never did find out what their infirmity was. I stayed on the ward for six months and was transferred to the convalescence home in the grounds of the hospital for a further six months.

The convalescent home was amazing, it offered freedom in the form of what was referred as a Belson. This in effect is a gurney with large wheels that can be rotated much like a wheel chair. With the brakes applied you are able to slide from your bed onto the gurney and navigate the very wide corridors and visit other wards to meet fellow patients. Here I saw patients older than myself with incredibly severe scoliosis, much like the character from the film ‘The Hunch Back of Notre Dame’, realising for the first time, without early intervention this could have become my fate.

In readiness for my return home, the caste had to be removed. Placed on a sling system and lowered over a bath tub a male nurse approached with an electric saw in hand. Terrified I longed for my mother to be at my side, but thankfully a female nurse held my hand which was incredibly reassuring. Closing my eyes I prayed to God for his protection as the male nurse started cutting the front of the caste from the neck down. When the caste fell away from my body I was immensely relieved, but no longer being cocooned felt strange. Hoisted up to clean the tub, it was filled with warm water and had my first proper bath in a year. I was filthy and my right leg to my knee covered with the caste was incredibly hairy.

Dried and placed to sit up, another strange experience, I was fitted with a Milwauke brace. With two posterior bars and one anterior attached to a pelvic girdle made of leather. The neck ring had a chin mold and posterior pad which fit behind the head was held together by unsightly screws either side of the neck (the Milwake had to be removed at night). Placed in a wheel chair and returned to the ward, my continuing convalescence began the following day with 20 minute sessions to learn to walk again. This felt most peculiar, whereby though my feet felt the ground, my eyes indicated the floor was much farther away, resulting in a lumbering, tottering gait which normalised after three days.

It was good to be finally home, but school was an awful experience. I felt like a freak as fellow students stared, some curiously others in horror. Even to me the screws at the neck of the Milwake looked horrific. Sent to the shops people equally stared curiously, some even had the audacity to ask what injury I had sustained to my neck. But my mother bless her, eventually brought a cotton scarf with a zip that covered the unsightly screws. One day however, I had what I later learned was a panic attack. About to cross the road, I was struck by terror, what of, I didn’t know. Confused, heart pounding and sweating, I was heckled by drivers who had stopped to give me way, but was rooted to the spot unable to move. I eventually gathered myself and ran home sobbing.

I am eternally grateful to my mother, plus enduring the year-long journeys for follow-up consultations, made all the more pleasant taking me to afternoon teas at a lovely tea shop with white table cloths and staff in black & white uniform with white caps; my junior school; orthopaedic surgeon; orthopaedic hospital; convalescent home, senior school in tandem with hospital and volunteer tutors enabling me to continue my schooling and Social Services for providing transport to and from school.

Only someone with a discerning eye would detect my posture is not symmetrical. Yet it is ironic I am often asked if I am a dancer, most likely as a result of my erect deportment due to a Harrington rod positioned the length of my spine to prevent it curving further. I wholly appreciate and respect the value of gratitude and return it in kindness to anyone I encounter with a disability.