When I was young, in north London, there were extended family gatherings at Xmas. A regular one was at my aunt’s house in Harlesden. All Barrow-in-Furness expats would gather along with strays gathered in London, such as the actor Peter Swanwick and my older cousins boyfriends. The house was a long thin maisonette with a dog legged corridor leading to a back dining parlour and small kitchen. A lot of people could squeeze into that space, chatting, drinking and talking to other Barrow expats on long distance calls.
One Boxing Day all this was going on while I played on the front step with my four year-old brother. He fell and hurt himself and I ran down the long corridor to tell mum. As I got to the door into the back room I trod on a mat that slipped backwards and went flying forward, putting my hand through the glass door. I suspect that event has shaped my life in surprising ways and retracing the sequence of events helps understand that.
The first thing is that I suddenly became the centre of attention and the shocked, mainly passive, focus of other people’s actions. I also became an observer of all those actions. That may be the first effect on my life. Over the next few years there was a lot of attention and observation going on.
My mum was a very practical and bright person and a nurse and midwife. She took control. I was carried to the front room, while someone was despatched to phone an ambulance. Mum assessed the damage and realised I had severed and artery, amongst other things. She told my uncle to get something to use as a tourniquet and, when he came back with a scraggy piece of cheesecloth, sent him in no uncertain terms to get something stronger. Effect number two, pay attention to mum, she is boss.
I don’t know whether people know about tourniquets any more (we used to practice them in the Scouts), but they are very effective if applied correctly. I watched fascinated as she used the tourniquet to control and lessen the blood loss. Lesson three, my body has an inside and my mum knows how it works. That red stuff is important.
Soon after this the ambulance arrived, at the same time as my startled dad, who I think had been at work. He was dispatched to go with me, while the scene of the crime was cleared up and mum took car of my brother. To be fair to dad, he arrived shocked and late, had instructions shouted at him and had to sit as a passive watcher and waiter, while other competent people did things to me over the next long hours. Neither my dad or my uncle seemed to be people who controlled much.
I hope you are not squeamish, but the next thing I remember was people holding me down and picking at the inside of my arm with tweezers, to remove pieces of glass and inspect the damage in detail, to formulate a plan for complicated surgery. I had severed blood vessels, nerves and tendons in my wrist, sending the tendons back up into my arm, so I am so very grateful to all the people who saved my hand and possibly my life that day and over the next few years. Subsequently, I have realised that I also probably owe much to the surgical advances made in the Second World War. The kind of micro surgery involved in the reconstruction was very new then.
I will not go into a boring, blow by blow, account of all the things that happened afterwards but they had a wide range of effects because I had become an observer. People put electric currents through my hand to try to stimulate the nerves. They put my hand in hot liquid wax that gave a warm glove to stimulate blood circulation and tissue growth. The wrapped my arm and hand in plaster coated bandages to support it while it healed. I still managed to put a ruler down inside to stop the itching, which I don’t think helped with the scars.
They also devised a special metal spring device to keep my hand straightened out and to build up power when I tried to use the hand. The kids at school called it a knuckle duster, so I had to find out what one of those was. I watched and tried to understand what was going on. I realised how useful practical skills were.
Next they started getting me to do practical things. One was weaving and I have always understood how cloth was made ever since. I was bought plasticine and pipe cleaners to make models to increase my dexterity. I have never stopped making things since. A woman teacher called me a chatterbox and made an origami dinosaur head and put it on my desk. I have been able to make those and other origami figures ever since. I once organised an entire university drama course year making origami swans for a project.
The hand that was worst damaged is still not very skilled. but I have learnt ways to accommodate. At least it is not really suffering from osteoarthritis like the left one, because that one has done a lot of hard work. The hand is not the point though. The effect on my life has been wide ranging. It made me intent on learning how to do things. When I spotted someone who could draw well, I copied them and practised until I became reasonably able. It made me a better observer and gave me a wider understanding of all sorts of thing from bodies to mechanicals. It gave me an awareness that if you can’t do something one way, then try to find another way. I think it made me more creative.
So thanks again to all those who helped me along the way.