Born to Be a Nurse

By Carole E. Rogers

Born to be a Nurse...

Is a collection of precious memories of Carole E. Rogers. It follows an emotional roller-coaster; beginning with her childhood in England in the 1940s and through her life-changing medical training at the world renowned Royal Victory Infirmary (RVI) in Newcastle upon Tyne. Mixed with sadness and humour, these memories give you an insight to the post-war era and the antics of a young nurse, wife and mother who was able to live her dream.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Oct 22, 2013
• ISBN: 9781490714622

Carole E. Rogers

Carole lives with her best friend—her husband, Ted—in Kingston, Ontario, Canada. Her daughter, son-in-law, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and her many friends live close by and enrich her life on a daily basis. Frequent visits to the northeast of England keep her roots strong and her feet planted firmly upon terra firma. With over forty-five years in the nursing profession on both sides of the Atlantic, Carole makes good use of her retirement by reliving many of her precious memories for those around her.

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Copyright 2013 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: 978-1-4907-1461-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4907-1462-2 (e)

Trafford rev. 12/04/2013

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Contents & My List of Memories

Acknowledgements

A Psalm of Life— What the heart of the young man said to the Psalmist

Memory 1 - In the beginning

Memory 2 - Building a future

Memory 3 - With trauma comes advice

Memory 4 - When Grandma says; parents do

Memory 5 - Gracious encouragement

Memory 6 - Snatched from my arms

Memory 7 - Missing P.E. was such a good idea

Memory 8 - All change

Memory 9 - Wheels gave me freedom

Memory 10 - Freedom requires safety

Memory 11 - First, Middlesbrough Y.O.

Memory 12 - Second, Durham Y.O.

Memory 13 - Religious ignorance

Memory 14 - The beauty of binding

Memory 15 - What a tit?

Memory 16 - The ankle rappers

Memory 17 - My first perk

Memory 18 - An acquaintance with paper bags

Memory 19 - The letter that enriched my life

Memory 20 - The making of an assertive rebel

Memory 21 - Memory and verse

Memory 22 - An abhorrence to white

Memory 23 - No more mannequins

Memory 24 - Pride and fall

Memory 25 - All girls together

Memory 26 - Beware of flying saucers

Memory 27 - Churning & saving

Memory 28 - The near-fatal frying pan

Memory 29 - Doctor knows best!

Memory 30 - Saving a foreign bottom

Memory 31 - Failure was not an option

Memory 32 - Another audience with God

Memory 33 - The Ward Sister’s dinner

Memory 34 - Coping with death

Memory 35 - A masterpiece of engineering

Memory 36 - Renal distress

Memory 37 - ENT; boring… never!

Memory 38 - Becoming an Artful Dodger

Memory 39 - Mind where you put your teeth!

Memory 40 - Clever junior on enema duty

Memory 41 - Persuasive Surgeons & Sisters

Memory 42 - Orchestral manoeuvres

Memory 43 - Parents… know their children

Memory 44 - The doctor did warn us!

Memory 45 - From Singapore with love

Memory 46 - Nobility is not excluded

Memory 47 - Treating children as equals

Memory 48 - A grandfather’s misguided love

Memory 49 - A symbolic ‘I love you’

Memory 50 - A conflict of interests

Memory 51 - Under our noses

Memory 52 - Cleanliness & Godliness

Memory 53 - Aha, God was not God

Memory 54 - Thank God for Sundays!

Memory 55 - Youth; not always the best choice

Memory 56 - Trading matches for a surprise

Memory 57 - Long distance consultations

Memory 58 - From fresh chicken to nightmare

Memory 59 - The flies of Aden

Memory 60 - Worry distracted by terror

Memory 61 - Blood in profusion

Memory 62 - Welcome to the J family

Memory 63 - Beware men not in uniform!

Memory 64 - A ray of hope

Memory 65 - The Brown brothers

Memory 66 - Death by dessert

Memory 67 - A tale of two halves

Memory 68 - My first drive-in

Memory 69 - A day in the Game Park

Memory 70 - Stretching… our nerves

Memory 71 - An appointment with nature

Memory 72 - Tiring good news

Memory 73 - Almost perfect planning

Memory 74 - The proud beasts

Memory 75 - A fond farewell

Memory 76 - A five word telegram

Memory 77 - How a Jaffa orange delivered

Memory 78 - What day is it; baby naming day

Memory 79 - A new trend is born

Memory 80 - A man’s home is his castle

Memory 81 - Anything but humble

Memory 82 - The Netty

Memory 83 - Rosendale’s competing smells

Memory 84 - Food, glorious food

Memory 85 - A devouring man of the cloth

Memory 86 - Bath, Babycham and bubbles

Memory 87 - A new hospital maze

Memory 88 - Peas and Pigs

Memory 89 - Newmarket’s stunted Gentry

Memory 90 - Some pork for a ride

Memory 91 - Piggy in the middle

Memory 92 - A uniform blessing

Memory 93 - To pee or not to pee

Memory 94 - An ode to haemorrhoids

Memory 95 - My own, juicy market garden

Memory 96 - A snip here and there

Memory 97 - The cheek of it

Memory 98 - An unexpected link

Memory 99 - The potato man in a suit

Memory 100 - Another sticky end

Memory 101 - Jars a plenty

Memory 102 - Who I was born to be

Acknowledgements

T his book, which began as a collection of my own precious memories, could not have been completed without the guidance, expert advice and encouragement from my cousin, Mark Fairbairn.

Mark (a published author in his own right) was somehow able to translate my ramblings via a plethora of antiquated, MC60 Dictaphone tapes and produce the perfectly formed gobbledegook you see here today.

It still amazes me how we didn’t lose any of those tapes—all of which made the 3000 mile, transatlantic journey between my home in Kingston, Ontario and Mark’s home in the little fishing town of Newbiggin by the sea, Northumberland, England.

And, considering the mail systems in both countries, even more amazing, we didn’t lose the subsequent paper transcripts that made the reverse journey!

While Mark jokingly calls me a Technophobe—I simply take pleasure from knowledge that I am keeping my fellow homo-sapiens in a job!

I do hope we have produced something you find worthy and, as they say back home, a jolly good read.

I also wish to thank my best friend and husband Ted who proof-read every word of my notes and encouraged me to keep writing. Ted even bought me a new Dictaphone when my old Olympus Pearlcorder conked out—how can I ever repay you!

Finally, may I say a very big thank you to all of the people who have passed through my life; enriched it and made it a very worthwhile experience—have a mineral water on me!

Carole Ena Rogers, 2013

SRN, SCM, RN (Retired?!)

PS—a little quote to myself—

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

A Psalm of Life—

What the heart of the young man said to the Psalmist

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,

Life is but an empty dream!

For the soul is dead that slumbers,

And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!

And the grave is not its goal;

Dust thou art, to dust returnest,

Was not spoken of the soul.

No enjoyment, and not sorrow,

Is our destined end or way;

But to act, that each tomorrow

Find us farther than today.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,

Still, like muffled drums, are beating

Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world’s broad field of battle,

In the bivouac of Life,

Be not like dumb, driven cattle!

Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, however pleasant!

Let the dead Past bury its dead!

Act, act in the living Present!

Heart within, and god overhead!

Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime,

And, departing, leave behind us

Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,

Sailing over life’s solemn main

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,

Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,

With a heart for any fate;

Still achieving, still pursuing,

Learn to labour and to wait.

Henry W Longfellow

Memory 1

In the beginning

T he two people destined to be my parents came from very different backgrounds. Both originated from small villages in what is now known as the Derwent Valley; westbound along the A694 from the thriving Metrocentre shopping complex near Gateshead in the North of England and although geographically close, that’s where the closeness ends!

My father, Thomas Friendy Bennett, lived down in the valley and on the north side of the Derwent in a village called Winlaton. My mother, Violet Baker, lived only a couple of miles to the south and up a huge hill in a village called Burnopfield (which might as well have been the other side of the world in those days).

My dad had started life in 1911 as one of seven children; his mother, Sarah Jane Lucy Usher, died in childbirth when he was 5 and, four months later, a couple of days after his 6th birthday and on his parent’s wedding anniversary, his father, also called Thomas, tragically died leaving all the children without parents or a home. None of the relatives could take all seven of them so they were packed-off to the local workhouse that was as dreadful as those described in Charles Dickens’ novels.

The family did, however, ever so slowly, rescue them all from the workhouse and give them somewhere to live.

Dad’s turn came when he reached the age of 11 and he was old enough to work for wages. His father’s older sister, Mary, and her husband John Jewitt came and ended his workhouse misery following several unsuccessful attempts to escape and run away. He joined the Jewitt family as one of their own but, unbeknown to him they were very poor and would send him off to work down the coal mine.

By the age of 13, he was bringing home a man’s wage for his board and lodge and to earn his right to be part of the family. (He told me later it was a toss up to decide which horror was worse; the slum conditions of the workhouse or the torturous slavery of the mine. Luckily I have experienced neither.)

My mother started her life at the opposite end of the scale to my dad. She was the youngest of three children and born into a secure and well established home. Her father, William (known as Bill) had a secure job as stoker on the local railway; transporting coal from the pit-head to the depot. As such, he was never out of work and had been spared service from WW1.

With the job went a colliery house which they lived in but they also owned a house which they rented-out for extra income. Her mum, Hannah Jane Cain, came from another large coal-mining family from whom many would settle in the mining area of Newcastle in Australia.

Mum’s claim to fame as a baby in 1916 was being the first baby in Burnopfield to have a pram (or perambulator as they were called back then).

Many villages got together in those days in friendly rivalry with fairs and horticultural shows and people walked miles to village halls to their local weekly dance to share stories, enjoy a cup of tea, mix with like minded young people and sometimes fall in love (or so I’m told!).

As I understand it, this is how my parents met. I don’t know the exact location or the specific tune that was playing at the time their eyes first met.

I don’t know if it was by chance, good dancing skills or the thought of spending the rest of their life together; all I know is that the marriage proposal was made whilst my dad was walking mum home, as was the tradition at the time, and the fear and uncertainty of the announcement of war was fresh in everyone’s minds.

And so it was. In 1939, war had been declared and on 2nd October mum and dad chose to be married before dad was posted abroad for King and country. He had already been called up and was posted to Swindon, Wiltshire, in the south of England.

Mum was also working away from home; she was employed as a lady’s maid for Mrs Wade, a newly married lady who lived in Pudsey near Leeds and from that sprung a friendship that lasted over 60 years.

The wedding was to take place in St Cuthbert’s church, Marley Hill (in my mum’s local parish) at 10am. Both mum and dad were to travel home; one from Swindon and the other from Leeds on the Friday before the wedding.

Mum told dad’s aunt Mary (Jewit), with whom he stayed, the wedding was to be at 9.30am as everybody knew he was always late. His aunt was determined he would not be late for his wedding so he told the best man he had to have dad there for 9 o’clock.

When dad arrived home he decided, for once in his life, he would not be late for his own wedding and he turned up to the empty church at 8.30am!

With nobody there, he went to the vicarage to find the vicar who was still in his pyjamas and having his breakfast. The vicar supposedly said he had never seen such a keen bridegroom and Your wedding is not until 10 o’clock laddie.

That was the first and last time in his life dad was ever early!

After the wedding mum and dad did not sail off into the sunset like they do in the movies. There was a war to be won so mum went back to her job in Leeds and dad returned to his barracks in Swindon to help train soldiers to fight abroad.

I never knew the reason for mum giving up her job in Leeds and joining dad in Swindon until I was going through her papers after she died; kept a secret for over 60 years was an envelope that contained newspaper cuttings and court documents.

Basically, the headlines said Newly married soldier’s wife violently attacked in broad daylight. Leeds, Yorkshire.

The reporter went on to describe the attack and how the man was apprehended by the police after the quick-thinking passerby had tackled him and he had fresh scratches on his face from his victim.

The court papers confirmed at a later date that he was found guilty and instead of prison he chose one year as a Bevan-boy.

Aneurin Bevan was a Labour MP and architect of the National Health Service. In his role before the war, he was influential in safe-guarding British industry by ensuring all manufacturing was kept going and decided to send men down the coal mine instead of to war—these men were known as Bevan-boys.

Dad found rooms for them both near his barracks and they settled into married life; two northerners in the south of England and no family close by.

As time went by, dad got quite worried about mum’s health as it seemed she was getting thinner and thinner with back ache and a bladder infection. It came to the point where they decided they would go to the doctors as there was no National Health Service and they would have to pay the doctor even if it meant a week’s wages.

The doctor’s wife showed them into the office when it was their turn and after a few questions, the doctor examined mum behind a screen. When mum was dressed and seated next to dad, he told them I was on the way and he estimated, as this was September, I would arrive sometime near the end of December. I think this was the only time I made them both speechless but… it would not be the last!

The doctor was also concerned about mum’s health as, to this date, she had not missed a period and she had lost a lot of weight and had had several bladder infections. He gave them both several instructions and that he would need to see her again soon and he would call at their house during his rounds.

He then called his wife in from the reception room and gave her his car keys and asked her to drive Mr & Mrs Bennett home. There’s no charge for today’s visit, we can square up later.

True to his word, the doctor did house calls and guided mum safely through her pregnancy. Before she went into labour, he suggested she go to hospital at Stratten-St-Margaret’s with an overnight bag in case they decided to keep her. The next morning at about 7am on 21st December 1940, I arrived.

The doctor never did present my parents with a bill but, in her own way, she paid him back for saving her life by giving him a healthy baby!

All the time we were in the hospital, after each time she fed me she would express her breast milk and hand it over to the midwife who then fed it to premature twins in the special care nursery.

Upon our discharge, my mum made a pact with the midwives to continue to supply them with milk as long as she was able in thanks for all the help we had received.

So for the next year, after each feeding, mum expressed her milk and carefully stored it in bottles in the ice box and everyday I was popped into the pram, along with the bottles of milk, and mum would walk me up to the hospital for her special delivery.

I was about a year old when dad was posted overseas and into the thick of the fighting. Dad often told how the last thing he saw as a train-full of troops pulled out of the station, was mum holding me in her arms and the sun glinting on my hair so brightly that it made his eyes water.

Mum had no idea when the war would be over and dad would return to England but return he would of this she was sure. When he returned he would need a home and a job to return to.

Before the war, dad had worked as a miner near ICI at Billingham-on-Tees. Mum knew, instinctively, that when war was over it would not be easy for him to re-establish oneself so she packed us up lock, stock and barrel and with all our worldly-goods we moved back to Norton-on-Tees in the North of England which was to be our new home.

Mum took two rooms and the use of a kitchen at 33 Norton Avenue. The owner of the house, a Mrs Atterton, made us most welcome not only for the very important extra income my mum provided but a treasured friendship that started then and lasted all of Mrs Atterton’s life and into those of her children.

Over the years as I grew up, I would learn, once you became a friend of my mother, no matter where life’s paths wondered, your friendship was a life sentence that never ended.

The first thing mum did, once we were comfortably settled, was to push me in my pram a distance of about 3 miles from Norton to Billingham and the offices of the ICI works where dad had worked in the mine before the war was declared. So sure was she he would soon have Mr Hitler sorted out that she put his name down for the first available job once hostilities were over.

Having dealt with that, she set about sorting us two out. First she found herself a job with a local undertaker and taxi business—the premises are still there today on Darlington Road, midway between Norton and Stockton—rain, hail or snow, it was a good 20 minute walk away from our home.

The Masons, who owned the business, were wonderful people and took a great interest in my progress as I grew up. I was registered in the nursery and, from all accounts, I loved it because there were other children to play with. On days when I could not go to the nursery, I went to work with mum. Mr and Mrs Mason and granny Mason had no little children and as a result I was spoilt rotten and I loved it!

By the time I reached the 5th year of my life, there were three things of note in my charmed little life:

1—I started school in the September before my 5th birthday and Frederick Mattress had the dubious honour of trying to teach me a few things of note and my first teacher would take responsibility in flicking the switch on in me to enquire about the world around me—nobody has turned that switch off yet—thank you dear teacher!

2—My very first boyfriend—we sat together in the front row and he made such an impression on me I can’t even remember his name. I do, however, remember he had bright ginger hair and freckles. I also remember the other boys teasing him and calling him freckle-face and our teacher telling us that he was very lucky and to befriend someone with freckles also made you lucky. He was the only boy with sun-kisses and they were very, very lucky—that stopped the teasing!

Every day we would escape the confines of the playground, we would run hand-in-hand down the hill and out of the school gate over the road to his house just opposite the school. And after a quick greeting to his mum in the kitchen, he’d rush into the parlour and on the mantle sat the reason for our visit—a childhood soother in a little jar—two quick sucks and off we ran back to the school before we were missed.

I seem to know, even at this