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- People in story:
- Shirley Ann Brazinski
- Location of story:
- Article ID:
- Contributed on:
- 12 March 2004
Past Medical History - Shirley Ann Brazinski
As early as the age of 3, I can remember going to an Ipswich Hospital in 1941-1942 (I have never seen any medical records.)
I was at home in my bed with my army coat to cover me.
I turned away from the light, my neck was stiff and my back arched. I can see now the tiny flowers on the wallpaper. A uniformed man came into the room and carried me, wrapped in a blanket, to a waiting ambulance.
At the hospital a great hood was placed over my face. A cut was made into my arm and a needle inserted with red rubber tubing attached to a bottle.
I cried and cried day after day, sometimes into the night. But always alone, forlorn, and desolate. Each day I asked the lady with a mop that cleaned the floor. “Please take me home”.
On one occasion two girls wearing aprons, who could no longer stand the constant howling, held me down and slapped me firmly on the buttocks. Whether the crying was coming from an inflamed brain, or desperate home-sickness, they never cared. Each day an injection was imminent, plunged deeply and ripping through alternate muscles causing me excruciating pain. I could do no more than weep, whimper, and sleep, wake again and cry. Once, I saw from the windows with the horizontal bars a figure in Army clothing. Was it my brother?
He waved his arm and disappeared from sight.
Diagnosis: Meningitis Child aged 3-4
I don't recall nice food, sweets, chocolate, blankets, clothes or kindness. No comfort, no explanations or information.
But I made it. Wasn't I lucky?
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