Wednesday, 28 August, 2019
I use a CPAP machine – I should talk about that some time – and, while it helps with some pretty severe symptoms such as night terrors and sleep paralysis as well as having a desirable effect of no snoring, it does mean that I’m never truly comfortable while sleeping. I’ve chosen the most minimal mask to wear but I just feel trapped behind it and I’m confined to certain sleeping positions. So when my sleep doctor asked me if I’d like to try a dental device instead, I thought it was worth my while to at least check into it. Reports from the CPAP users that I asked weren’t very favourable but I’d go see for myself.
I got a letter asking me to come to the Dental building at the Royal London Hospital and that’s not so far away. Today was the day. Except I woke up feeling groggy and shaky, and obviously not that thrilled with the thought of rousing myself and getting down there.
I had my tonsils out at the London Hospital (at Whitechapel). I was six years old and while my memories are interesting, they aren’t good ones. I was in a huge ward for about a week, walked down in a group of other lucky surgical victims, tricked into inhaling ether, or whatever they used to put me to sleep, dreamed a long dream of a bright star spinning in inky black space, and woke up to pure torture. If you’ve ever had your tonsils out, you know exactly what I mean.
Before the surgery, they’d teased me with descriptions of all the lovely ice cream I’d be eating while my throat was ‘sore.’ It sounded all right! Now I knew the truth. Swallowing even my own saliva was more than I could tolerate. Ice cream? No way! I can even sort of remember the terrible, raw, soreness of my throat or can I?
Then a nurse kept coming by as I pulled out of my groggy just-anaethetised state, ‘Are you feeling sick?’ ‘Do you want to be sick?’ At the tender age of six, I found myself thinking ‘Hm, I think they’re telling me I’m going to be sick.’ And soon enough, I threw up a bunch of burning bloody stuff that made my throat feel even worse, if that was possible.
I think I must have struggled with a few sips of water at first. And then some time later, maybe a day, who knows, they came around with the food trolley. I was handed a plate, on which was some buttered bread fingers and many slices of orange. Orange! I knew instinctively that I could not eat those. I protested and was told to be quiet. I looked under the plate where they’d always put a label with the patient’s name, and read ‘Janice Solomon.’ She was the little girl in the opposite bed in for a broken arm. ‘This isn’t mine,’ I said, ‘It’s for Janice Solomon. I can’t eat oranges.’ I was shushed and told ‘Eat it!’ I’ve fortunately forgotten what happened after that but I’m sure it wasn’t pretty.
For a week I could have no visitors. I’ve always had separation anxiety and imagined my family had abandoned me. One sadistic nurse even hinted at it. Then finally I got to go home and put the whole horrible thing behind me. As you can tell, I haven’t ever forgotten it.
Some years ago they closed the hospital and built a brand new hospital complex. Instead of the old brown brick ones, up went some blue glass towers. a few of the old brick ones remain here and there and still serving people. It’s strange that they’re still needed but it’s sort of comforting to see them there. They say that the Tower Hamlets council has bought the old main hospital building on Whitechapel Road and will be using it for a civic centre. It looks like they are keeping the old building and adding to it. I’m glad it won’t look so different from the road.
For some reason, I forgot to photograph the old hospital behind the hoardings but I did wander along the market, which we called Whitechapel Waste in my childhood days. It was a large Jewish market and now is completely Muslim
I’m going back to the clinic later in the year for more investigations – I’m not ready yet for the device they want me to try – but I’ll be back in Whitechapel again many many times before that.
Last year I decided to finally go to the Royal London Hospital Museum but I couldn’t find it. Since I finished my appointment earleir than expected, I turned on my Google voice guidance and headed off to find it again. It’s a bit of a maze but after three turns in a dense space, I found it right next to a beautiful church gate.
The museum has many artifacts but prized among them is a replica skeleton of Joseph Merrick (the ‘Elephant Man’), with original documentation from his residence in the hospital, alongside the original hospital charter of 1759. I also saw a copy of the forensic report from the first Ripper murder in nearby Mitre Square. Many instruments, portraits and documents filled the glass cases but it was a short visit since the museum was closing early. I looked around, bought a few postcards and vowed to come back and give it the time it deserved.
So many treasures!
My next goal was to get food. There are so many things we like to eat in this area. We rarely sit to eat them but take them home to enjoy. First I went to Needoo Grill, where we have a few favourite dishes. Today it would be some of their lovely soft naan and a container of the Dhal Baingun (dhal with eggplant/aubergine). The service is always friendly, fast and consistent. Next to Shalimar for lamb kebab, three pieces. Finally to Ambala, where I waited 15 minutes for some freshly cooked samosas from their new fryer – the old one had just broken, they told me. Some sauces to go with all of these and I was done.
In between I walked a little bit along Fieldgate Street, which I consider a time warp. I doubt much has changed along here for close to two hundred years. What was once a Jewish neighbourhoods with its little kosher shops and synagogues is now a Muslim area with its own shops, halal restaurants and the back entrance to a huge Mosque that has its front door on the main Whitechapel Road
