Bury my Lungs at Wounded Me.
In WW2, my father worked in a Reserved Occupation. He was a Mechanical Engineer at Bailey Meters in Purley Way,
Croydon. This meant he was not allowed
to fight.
During the war, he was on double shifts, seven days a week
for months on end, eventually leading to a breakdown in his health. He contracted TB and had a Pneumonectomy. Taking out one and half lungs, removing some
ribs in his back and cutting muscles in his neck so he always held his head to
the right. He spent five years in a
sanatorium, came home and eventually got a War Pension.
He should have got a medal.
The surgery was carried out at the Royal Brompton Hospital where I have an
appointment tomorrow.
I am wondering if the hospital still has any bits of lungs
pickled in a jar in the basement. I would
like to see them and re bury them in his grave.
Alpha 1 antitrypsin deficiency was not discovered until just
before my father died in the 70’s and he was not tested for it as far as I know. Obviously I inherited it from him.
‘The essence of a satisfactory health service is that the
rich and the poor are treated alike, that poverty is not a disability, and
wealth is not advantaged’. (Bevan)
The end of WWII coincided with the election of a Labour
Government and the establishment of the NHS.
The Tories are back in power and the NHS feels like it is being
dismantled.
Will I ever get to cash the cheque my father helped to write
concerning the NHS? Or will it be emasculated by 'austerity'. I could not afford augmentation therapy privately in the UK, so perhaps i will 'drown in my own living room' as one of my sympathetic consultants so eloquently put it.
I bought the plot next to my parents. At least me and my dad will keep each other company, coughing from the grave.
