Part 6  – Health and  Welfare

As a child a visit to the doctor had little meaning to me, My grandma was the fixer of burns, scrapes, earache and most aches and pains.

Grandma’s remedies were of the home made sort, but they seemed to work. Cough syrup was made by boiling linseed, licorice and lemons in a big pot, it smelled good and tasted quite nice, which made a change from some of gran’s other concoctions.

A favourite tonic was cod’s liver oil and malt. The malt tasted good but could not mask the flavour of the fish oil, which would remain on my tongue throughout the day.

I was asthmatic as a child, not really bad but I wheezed in cold weather or in the wind. The cure for this was a camphor bag stitched to my liberty bodice. Were Canadian children inflicted with the dreaded liberty bodice or was it just a punishment for English children?

The liberty bodice was anything but liberating, it consisted of a strong cotton fabric, fleecy lined and had strips of satin sewn in vertical stripes. This gave it strength and the appearance of a striped, v necked, short sleeved vest. There were about twenty tiny, rubber buttons down the front that were a nightmare to fasten. They were made of rubber so they would not break in the rollers of the big mangle which was used to extract water, after washing.

To the inside of this item of clothing would be pinned my camphor bag. The smell would make my eyes water. When I dared to sneeze and show symptoms of a cold I would have goose grease rubbed on my chest and a sore throat would result in a strip of fatty bacon, wrapped round my neck and secured by one of grandma’s old lisle stockings. The resulting odor of my remedies must have been rather off putting for my school teachers, but many of my friends would be wearing similar cures, so it was not a big deal to them.

The presence of my aroma was probably the reason why I never attracted head lice, which were a constant bane of school children. Every few months the school had a visit from Nitty Norah, the bug explorer. This unfortunate title was given to the visiting nurse who came to the school and kept an eye on the general health of schoolchildren and also did a check for headlice. Children who were unfortunate enough to have lice were sent home, with a note. They were not allowed back to school until the problem had been solved.

Grandma was determined that I would not disgrace her by bringing home the dreaded note so every Friday night saw the zinc bathtub come in and be put in front of the fire. It would be filled with hot water and in I would get. After a thorough shampooing of my hair with carbolic soap, and a few minutes play time in the water, it would be time to dry off, get into my nightie, and kneel in front of my grandma for fifteen minutes torture with the nit comb.

The dreaded steel comb had very fine teeth that would catch any unwary visitors to the hair. Grandma would part my hair into sections and drag the comb through it and examine the teeth for nits. My head would feel like the scalp was actually coming off in the comb but no crying and whining was permitted during this event. I’m sure the camphor bag kept the lice away as I never got hitch-hikers, thank goodness. In later years I would watch my cousins go through this procedure and the awful consequences for catching lice.

There was special soap for getting rid of nits and it had to be applied and left on for a certain time, then the awful comb applied again. This would be repeated again a few days later to make sure everything was gone. Grandma would take offence at the appearance of nits and get really cross with whichever child dared to bring them home. We were often admonished not to sit with one child or another, as they were a frequent carrier. I guess everyone was not as careful as gran in dealing with hair.

My first experience with the hospital was on my first day of school when I fell down some steps and broke my arm. This happened during the lunchtime recess but no telephones were available to get messages home, so I sat at my desk and cried myself to sleep. By the time I got home the arm was swollen to a dramatic size and grandma took one look and took me to the hospital by bus.

At the hospital I was treated like a queen as the coat was cut away from my arm and I was taken for xrays. The doctor wrapping my arm in bandages and slapping on the plaster was so kind and kept on telling me what a brave girl I was. Everyone made such a fuss of me that I could have stayed forever, to my four year old mind it was like heaven with such kind people everywhere. My arm was tied into a sling and the coat wrapped around my shoulder for the trip home. On the crowded bus I was given special treatment and a gentleman insisted that I take his seat, while he stood. I had been brought up to always give up seats to an adult, so I felt very special.

My six weeks of special treatment were over all too soon and the cast came off. Everyone needs their fifteen minutes of glory and this had been mine. Grandma had not been nearly as thrilled with the event as my coat had been ruined. She tried to fix the sleeve but it was spoiled beyond repair.

Grandma had a special remedy for any ailment but surely the nastiest of all her concoctions was the hot poultice. My brother had a boil on the back of his neck so my mother brought him to grandma. An inch of milk was boiled in a saucepan and a thick piece of home made bread was soaked in the hot milk then dropped onto my brother’s neck. The resulting yell and tears were very satisfying to my ears as he was an awful bully. I don’t know if the poultice worked but, needless to say, my brother never came back for a repeat treatment.

Grandma was my doctor, nurse, therapist and grief councillor but, best of all, a pair of loving arms which made everything feel better.