Why is it that the more solemn the occasion the more hysterical I can become over the silliest of things?

First I was at a cremation last week, (yes, I’m keeping my one a month going) nearing the end, just at the point when the curtains discretely close around the coffin, - well they just didn’t. The Vicar was prodding away like a bad boy at the switch, the curtains made small jerky movements at each prod, then nothing, the connection had been lost.

The feeling I dread overwhelms me, first I feel my eyes widen, then there’s a sharp intake of breath then the terrible, terrible totally inappropriate giggle erupts. I do all manner of things to under-whelm it, like suddenly discovering that this is just the moment I have been looking for to search for nothing in my handbag, or look sightlessly through the hymn book but nothing really works, I just have to quietly wait for the coughing, gulping and eye watering to subside, handkerchief stuffed in mouth.

Last night I went to the Vigil Mass at our church along with John, and off I went again. This time it was because John and the lady in front were wearing the same awful jumper. (cira 1970 Edinburgh Wool Mill) It was pure joy when she turned round at ‘the sign of peace’ handshake and gave John the dirtiest look ever when she saw what he was wearing. No peace in her heart then, only, which twin is the transvestite?

And that’s only this week!

 Promise I will get round to updating my blog in a more bloggish sort of way !

Sociologists write about institutional models when referring to young people with disability and these fall into three main categories; medical, social and educational, all three models have their basis in how people with disability are perceived in society.

This Residential Special School in the mid 1960s, was working firmly on the medical model as the overall head was a Medical Director and all things revolved around the young person being seen first and foremost as a patient receiving treatment whilst still being able to pursue education as a secondary consideration. Finally their social needs were catered for where they were housed, and in having some social interaction with young people from some of the other houses. The whole place was situated on a 200 acre campus in Surrey where 15 houses were home at that time to 320 young people aged between 5 and 16. Virtually a village in itself.

 Under the Medical Director was a Chief Nursing Officer, whose job it was to employ the care staff, and at that time it was thought only right and proper  that female care staff were given the title of ‘nurse’, as  most of the homes were run by women bearing the title of ‘Sister’. As a new member of staff I didn’t at first rail against this tradition, partially because I was saved by my nickname which the girls affectionately used directly to me but of course never to Sister or the deputy about me. Later, as I moved to other homes, I was able to introduce myself as Miss Proud therefore in effect disqualifying myself as a nurse. Phew!

The school was also situated on the campus and worked on a 4 term system with two weeks holiday Christmas and Easter, and three weeks in June and September. Almost all of the pupils during the holidays went to their respective homes, and this could be anywhere in the British Isles and on the odd occasion abroad, making the logistics of the exodus and re-entry a thing requiring military precision. Medication had to be dished out to carers and signed for, as did luggage which had been collected from the homes the day before, and each pupil was thoroughly inspected at a gathering point - which was the Main Hall - by a team of (proper) nurses – where any bumps or bruises were carefully recorded. Meanwhile, a small army of staff, fed and watered; parents, carers, escorts, coach and taxi drivers, some of whom had travelled a considerable distance. At the end of the holidays, as the school re-opened, the whole process was again done but this time in reverse, which very often resulted in almost always the same small bunch of youngsters having to spend the first 24 hours in quarantine so they could be deloused.

 Exodus day in the houses saw care staff and domestic alike stripping everything down to basics and the place washed and scrubbed, the floors were polished, windows cleaned and toilets and bathrooms scoured. At the same time, squabbles were quelled, games were organised and children were employed stripping the beds to while away the time as they waited, anxious and excited for the phone to ring and their name to be called to go to the Main Hall. As the last young person was escorted on their way, the house itself seemed to give off a huge sigh of relief, and suddenly become silent.

It was just before 8.00am and the girls were finishing breakfast when the deputy returned and proceeded - from a tray which contained 26 numbered egg cups - to administer to each girl what seemed like an alarming amount of medication. Pills and capsules of all shapes, sizes and colours, went down in one swift gulp. I was to learn that this was something which to these young people was as much part of living as eating itself.

As ‘Nurse’ Lennon approached the middle table a fair haired slightly built girl of about 12 suddenly threw out her arms and in doing so knocked the tray from the Deputy’s hands, whereupon it clattered to the floor,  pills darting in all directions as well as broken egg cups. The girl was now rigid, and as the tray fell so did she, her chair knocked over, she arrived to the floor convulsing with her legs thrashing at table, chairs and the legs of her fellow diners, who immediately stood up and moved out of the way. I stood speechless and frozen to the spot, my mother had epilepsy, but never had I seen anything as violent and traumatic as this.

 A voice from behind me boomed.

“Sonia Saddler, get up this minute”

 I turned to see a woman somewhere in her early 60s dressed in a green uniform of a nursing sister.

 “I said get up girl” she bellowed again, and as though by magic, she did.

I received a harsh look from ‘nurse’ Lennon as I helped to pick up what remained of the medication from the floor.

 “This was all for your benefit” she muttered at me, "she would want you freaked out.”

 “Well she succeeded” I replied. “Does she really have fits like that?”

 “Not on your life, she doesn't ever have grand mal attacks.”

 “But I thought all of the young people here have epilepsy” I said.

“Yeh! You’ll learn who to watch out for, and Sonia Saddler isn’t one of them. She just likes to do demonstrations for new staff.”

To be honest I was all for running there and then, if I went now then I would be able to catch my parents who were staying at a B&B locally but Sister at that moment called me to her office, and as I went through she turned to me and beamed such a smile that I almost hugged her, I could probably manage this if there was a bit of humour somewhere.

This is taken from some of the ramblings which is my life, seems so long ago in the real sense, yet when  I read this again after 40 years, it is as yesterday.

I worked for several years in a residential special school in Surrey where all of the 360 children and young people had epilepsy some with other disabilities besides.

I was 21 when I arrived there in the 1960s, still a bit green around the ears, and not really any idea of what to expect. My first day, I was shown to my room, with my dad faithfully carrying the suitcase behind me and as we approached a corridor, the warden of the hostel in which the accommodation was situated, ordered my father to leave the case as he was not allowed to enter into the ladies wing, and with a harsh nod in my direction I was warned that should any man be seen visiting me in my room, then both he and I would be instantly dismissed. Nice welcome.

The following morning I reported for duty at 07.30 to my allotted work place which was a home for girls aged 10 to 13. I walked in, to be greeted with all 26 girls silently having breakfast, a tired looking Scottish girl who seemed no older than some of her charges, was pouring out tea into plastic beakers; she said she was called Pat and that she was the night staff. Sister Hollins the home manager she told me, had gone to breakfast, but the deputy would be in any minute, and she was. A tall girl in her mid twenties with a distinct Northern Ireland accent entered and it showed instantly that she was definitely not a morning person. Feeling a little like a spare part I was relieved when I was asked to give out bread and butter to the girls who were by this time finishing off bowls of cornflakes. As I approached the first table a bonny girl who looked quite out of place wearing a bib, asked in a whisper what my name was. As no-one had advised me on how I was to be addressed; I said my name was Brenda. There were shrieks from the other 3 girls on the table, and soon the place had erupted as word went round that my name was Brenda. The deputy, who had disappeared quickly returned, and one foot back in the door of the dining room immediately quietened everyone. I tried wetly to explain what had occurred, only to be met with a look that would have cut steel. And realisation dawned, I was not made of the stuff that these kids were used to receiving from their carers. The deputy then asked what my name was and I told her in full, and without further ado she told the hushed breakfasters, that I was Nurse Proud and no other form of address was to be used.

 I gasped. Nurse! Me a nurse, never, no, this was a terrible mistake, I came here as a care assistant, the advert said, ‘Care Assistant’ and I was about to point this out to the deputy, but she thrust her chin forward to the girls, and in deafeningly quiet tones said. “Is that understood”? “Yes Nurse Lennon”. The reply came in unison.

Oh Lord! What had I let myself in for.  I continued with the distribution of bread and butter, only to be whispered to again, “Is your name really Nurse Sprout?” this was followed by silent fits of giggles as the name spread to other tables, therein my nickname ‘Sprout’ was born. Not only had I suddenly landed in a medical profession, I had a whole new identity, and all in the space of 10 minutes.