Carole E. Rogers - A Midwife is Born

A Midwife is Born

Carole. E. Rogers

Copyright 2016 Carole. E. Rogers.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-4907-7784-9 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-4907-7783-2 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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Trafford rev. 11/09/2016

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Contents

T here are several people I must thank for the final version of this book.

The first person to thank is my cousin, Mark Fairbairn. Mark (a published author in his own right) has dragged me kicking and screaming into this 21 st century. Yes, I can say with some confidence, this book has materialised itself through cyber-space between Canada and England on numerous (!) occasions without too many crashes or formatting difficulties.

Naturally, my first hurdle along this journey was the purchase of an alien object called a computer (laptop really) and the accompanying hardware and software to allow me to utilise its advantages. Mark flew 3,000 miles to help me procure the essentials and guided me through the options (the good-looking chap at the store had nothing to do with the sale!).

Anyway, instead of utilising my Dictaphone and magnetic tapes to inform Mark of my memories, I had electronic mailOooh magic!

I will take this opportunity to offer my sincere thanks to my grandson-in-law Charles Teeple. Charlie-to-the-rescue was a somewhat frequent call-to-arms when my logic and that of my computer were aeons apart!

Luckily for me, Charlie has a keen eye and meticulous skill for recovering certain lost texts which saved me many times (to numerous to mention) thank you Charlie!

To my dear friends the Romboughs Andrew, thank you so much for typing some of my notes so quickly and accurately. To my special friends, Charlotte and Mike, thank you for proof-reading my work before it was presented to the publisher and thank you for listening to the numerous recitals (and offering your counselling services!).

I can assure you, I fought my addiction and won (well, sort of won). I have produced this book using modern techniques with which I am very proud but, as a recovering addict, to the golden-oldie method, I must admit the production of my first book was a hell-of-a lot easier for me.

When I am on the verge of flinging the said computer through the window of my front-room, I take a deep breath; count to ten; place my Dictaphone next to my ear; listen to the therapeutic little cogs buzz and whir; inhale the purity of mechanical oil that tickles ones nostalgia it is pure bliss!

I have also shed a tear for my beloved Posties - their vigorous services have not been employed with this book.

My final heartfelt thanks is saved for my best friend and husband - Ted.

Not only has Ted had to run up and down the stairs of our house re-setting the router and feeding the wireless printer with forests of paper, he has endured and shared (I hope with some fun!) many of these precious memories that are tucked-up neatly in this book.

Ted, you are the wind beneath my wings!

Carole Ena Rogers, 2016

S.R.N., S.C.M., R.N. (Retired?!)

P.S. a little note to myself

I wish to leave behind me more than an urn of ashes.

T hank you for buying my second collection of precious memories.

My first book, Born to be a Nurse, gave you a glimpse at the early stages of my life in the North of England; my education; my passion for music as a budding violinist; my general nursing training at the famous Royal Victoria Infirmary (R.V.I.) in Newcastle upon Tyne; my marriage to a dashing member of the (British) Royal Air Force (R.A.F.) and the birth of my darling girl; Catherine.

All was bright and rosy until a terrible medical complication forced my husband back from his posting in Kenya to R.A.F. Ely and our tranquil home in Wicham, rural Cambridgeshire.

With my parents running their business up north, I was left to support my husband during his convalescence with the help of my landlords, Bob and Joyce, and their friends, Geoff and Peg.

Catherine was thriving amongst the dirt, grime and excitement of a working farm with hens, cows pigs and sheep transferring some useful life skills to her ever-increasing vocabulary and knowledge.

As my husbands medical emergency resolved I was able to sit my finals to become an esteemed State Registered Nurse (S.R.N.), I had been forced to put my career on hold and devote myself to his recovery.

Fortune, however, was smiling on me as I had obtained an excellent reference from my matron; She who must be obeyed, at the R.V.I. and was able to secure a job at Newmarket General Hospital where I was able to complete my training.

I was so proud to be able to sign my autograph and write the letters S.R.N. after it.

My dream was complete; loving husband, adorable daughter, spacious home, friendly neighbours and a flourishing career ahead of me.

What could possibly go wrong?!

All the streams run to the sea; but the sea is not full;

unto the place from whence the rivers come, thither they return again.

Ecclesiastes 1:7.

H aving applied for and then securing the position of Night Supervisor at the Tower Hospital in Ely, the beginning of my new life-of-learning had begun.

The hospital was found at the end of the Tower Road, just off the main (A10) road between Ely and Cambridge. There, nestled behind a huge gas tank and water tower to serve the city, were several buildings that made up the body of the hospital. Complete with a bell tower no longer in use.

The hospital had been constructed in the 1830s; it was a classical Victorian building that was now in need of some TLC. Its original purpose was to serve the local parish as the workhouse housing parishioners who were destitute and unable to care for themselves.

Financed by the local churches and wealthy benefactors, people who lived there often said they were living off the parish, in other words the parish church was supporting them.

Once you went to live in a workhouse you were expected to work from sunrise to sunset; no wage only the security of a roof over your head, bed to sleep on and a meagre meal to survive on.

By 1948 some of the buildings, including the big bell tower, had been closed-up or restricted. The remaining buildings had been converted into a geriatric and mental hospital - a term which wasnt considered derogatory or politically incorrect then but is now a term which one usually describes the administrators rather than the patients!

Anyway, when I joined The Tower Hospital towards the end of 1963, all the buildings which were in use were joined together by a series of corridors. Naturally, as a hospital, all of the utilised space was pristinely clean.

The grounds had fresh, manicured lawns and attractive flower beds that could quite easily pass for a public park. In fact, with several garden benches dotted about, it was quite a pleasant place to visit.

Unfortunately, I wasnt there to paint, photograph or admire the exteriors beauty - I was there to help the folk consigned to the interior; a much more challenging calling!