Call the Midwife: A True Story of the East End in the 1950S by Jennifer Worth Page B
Book: Call the Midwife: A True Story of the East End in the 1950S by Jennifer Worth
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Authors: Jennifer Worth
Tags: General, Medical, Biography & Autobiography, Health & Fitness, Gynecology & Obstetrics, Pregnancy & Childbirth
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a positive affirmation of solidarity. The children gawped, and crowded in closer. With a shrill scream of laughter Lil kicked backwards, like a horse.
“Garn. Aint you seen this before?”
She roared with laughter, and the bottom wobbled so much it was impossible to inject it.
“Look, hold on to the chair and keep still for a second, will you?” I was laughing now.
She did, and the injection was over in less than a minute. I rubbed the area hard to disperse the fluid, as it was a large dose. I put everything into a brown paper bag to keep it separate. Then I washed my hands and dried them on her towel, just to please her. We carried our own towel, but I thought that to use it would be a conspicuous snub.
She came to the door with me, and out onto the balcony, all the children following. “See you tomorrow, then. I’ll look forward to yer comin. I’ll ’ave a nice cup of tea for yer.”
I cycled off with much to think about. In her own surroundings, Lil was not a disgusting old bag, she was a heroine. She kept the family together, in appalling conditions, and the children looked happy. She was cheerful and uncomplaining. How she had come to pick up syphilis was none of my business. I was there to treat the condition, not to judge.
The next day when I called, I was so pre-occupied with wondering how I could decline the offer of a cup of tea, that when the door opened, I stood staring awkwardly, stupidly, at Lil, who was not Lil. She looked a bit shorter and fatter, the same slippers, the same hair curlers, the same fag - but different.
A familiar screech of laughter revealed toothless gums. She poked me in the stomach. “Yer thinks I’m Lil, don’ yer? They all thinks that. I’m ’er mum. We looks like two peas, we does. Lil’s had a mis an’ gorn to ’ospital. Good riddance, I sez. She’s got enough with ten o’ them, an’ him in an’ out all the time.”
A few questions elicited the facts. Lil had felt ill shortly after I had left the previous day, and was later sick. She had lain down on the bed, and sent one of the children to fetch Gran. Contractions had started, and she was sick again. Then she must have become unconscious.
Gran said to me, “I’ll cope with a mis any time, but not a dead woman. No, sir.”
She’d called a doctor, and Lil was taken straight to The London Hospital. We later learned that a macerated foetus was extracted. It had probably been dead for three or four days.
RICKETS
It is hard to imagine today that until the last century no woman had any specialist obstetric care during pregnancy. The first time a woman would see a doctor or midwife was when she went into labour. Therefore, death and disaster, either for mother or child, or both, were commonplace. Such tragedies were looked upon as the will of God, whereas, in fact, they were the inevitable result of neglect and ignorance. Society ladies would have a doctor visiting them during pregnancy, but such visits were not antenatal care and would probably be more like social calls than anything else, because no doctor was trained in antenatal care.
The pioneer in this branch of obstetrics was a Dr J. W. Ballantyne of Edinburgh University. (Indeed some of the greatest discoveries and advances made in medicine seem to come from Edinburgh.) Ballantyne wrote a paper in 1900 deploring the abysmal state of antenatal pathology, and urging that a pre-maternity hospital was necessary. An anonymous gift of £1,000 allowed the first ever bed for antenatal care to be inaugurated, in 1901, at the Simpson Memorial Hospital. (Simpson, another Scot, developed anaesthetics.)
This was the first such bed in the civilised world. It is an incredible thought. Medicine was developing rapidly. The staphylococcus had been isolated; so had the tuberculous bacillus. The heart and circulation were understood. The functions of liver, kidneys, and lungs had been ascertained.
“Garn. Aint you seen this before?”
She roared with laughter, and the bottom wobbled so much it was impossible to inject it.
“Look, hold on to the chair and keep still for a second, will you?” I was laughing now.
She did, and the injection was over in less than a minute. I rubbed the area hard to disperse the fluid, as it was a large dose. I put everything into a brown paper bag to keep it separate. Then I washed my hands and dried them on her towel, just to please her. We carried our own towel, but I thought that to use it would be a conspicuous snub.
She came to the door with me, and out onto the balcony, all the children following. “See you tomorrow, then. I’ll look forward to yer comin. I’ll ’ave a nice cup of tea for yer.”
I cycled off with much to think about. In her own surroundings, Lil was not a disgusting old bag, she was a heroine. She kept the family together, in appalling conditions, and the children looked happy. She was cheerful and uncomplaining. How she had come to pick up syphilis was none of my business. I was there to treat the condition, not to judge.
The next day when I called, I was so pre-occupied with wondering how I could decline the offer of a cup of tea, that when the door opened, I stood staring awkwardly, stupidly, at Lil, who was not Lil. She looked a bit shorter and fatter, the same slippers, the same hair curlers, the same fag - but different.
A familiar screech of laughter revealed toothless gums. She poked me in the stomach. “Yer thinks I’m Lil, don’ yer? They all thinks that. I’m ’er mum. We looks like two peas, we does. Lil’s had a mis an’ gorn to ’ospital. Good riddance, I sez. She’s got enough with ten o’ them, an’ him in an’ out all the time.”
A few questions elicited the facts. Lil had felt ill shortly after I had left the previous day, and was later sick. She had lain down on the bed, and sent one of the children to fetch Gran. Contractions had started, and she was sick again. Then she must have become unconscious.
Gran said to me, “I’ll cope with a mis any time, but not a dead woman. No, sir.”
She’d called a doctor, and Lil was taken straight to The London Hospital. We later learned that a macerated foetus was extracted. It had probably been dead for three or four days.
RICKETS
It is hard to imagine today that until the last century no woman had any specialist obstetric care during pregnancy. The first time a woman would see a doctor or midwife was when she went into labour. Therefore, death and disaster, either for mother or child, or both, were commonplace. Such tragedies were looked upon as the will of God, whereas, in fact, they were the inevitable result of neglect and ignorance. Society ladies would have a doctor visiting them during pregnancy, but such visits were not antenatal care and would probably be more like social calls than anything else, because no doctor was trained in antenatal care.
The pioneer in this branch of obstetrics was a Dr J. W. Ballantyne of Edinburgh University. (Indeed some of the greatest discoveries and advances made in medicine seem to come from Edinburgh.) Ballantyne wrote a paper in 1900 deploring the abysmal state of antenatal pathology, and urging that a pre-maternity hospital was necessary. An anonymous gift of £1,000 allowed the first ever bed for antenatal care to be inaugurated, in 1901, at the Simpson Memorial Hospital. (Simpson, another Scot, developed anaesthetics.)
This was the first such bed in the civilised world. It is an incredible thought. Medicine was developing rapidly. The staphylococcus had been isolated; so had the tuberculous bacillus. The heart and circulation were understood. The functions of liver, kidneys, and lungs had been ascertained.
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