Memories of the Fever Hospital and Surgical Ward, Daisy Hill Hospital, Newry

by Rosaleen Cole

As a child I was a patient in Daisy Hill Hospital, just after the introduction of the National Health Service in 1948.

My mother took me to Dr Rafferty’s surgery when I was four-year-old as I was unwell. After he examined me he wrote a little note which he passed to my mother, ‘Scarlet Fever, Daisyhill’. According to my late mother I spent six weeks in isolation in Ward 8 of the Fever Hospital.

I cannot remember how I spent all those long summer days alone in that little room, but occasionally my mother and father would wave to me from the perimeter of the wall, a signal I would receive some delicious Timoney’s ice cream.

After a while on my own a slightly older girl joined me. She was probably used to the company of older brothers and sisters, she had a sense of adventure and wasn’t for being contained in the room we shared. Little timid me followed her on our first big adventure, out of the room down the long corridor to the right, peeping in all the rooms along the way. It was filled with very ill adults who failed to notice the doors quietly opening and two sets of eyes peeping in. Nothing exciting there! One more door left, facing the length of the corridor - bingo we had hit gold, a room full of playmates, all in bed like us and soon ‘play commenced’ jumping in and out of these beds and sharing their ‘loot’, I will never forget those very big black shiny grapes.

How long were we there I can’t remember, but it was long enough to get to the squealing stage which soon attracted the nurses. Shock horror! Two scarlet fever patients in the Diphtheria Ward. Our procession back to our room was hastened by a couple of firm smacks to bottoms, like those our mothers would have delivered. Imagine if we arrived in the Fever Hospital with one illness and caught a second illness, questions would undoubtedly have been asked.

On the day I was due to leave the nurse gave me a lovely warm bath in a large sink. Whilst I might have been glad to leave the hospital I was sad to discover I had to leave behind my lovely book from Aunt Teresa, but worse, to arrive home to find all my toys and little treasures had been burnt, to prevent infection.

Quarantine didn’t end there; once I was back home, German measles followed immediately! The blinds were drawn and paper placed around the light shade, to dim it. My little sister, Phyllis, despite being in close proximity to me, did not catch either infection.

My second stay in hospital as a child was in Ward 6, Female Surgical with acute appendicitis. What signs that I was ill I cannot remember, and how my mother got in touch with our doctor, in the days before every house had a land line, I’ll never know. All I do know is that Dr Mallon arrived, examined me, spoke to my mother and gathered me up in a pink eiderdown and placed me in his car and we were off to Daisy Hill. I can vaguely remember the operating theatre with its bright lights. Three whole weeks of injections followed, including the morning a needle broke in my hip, which still bears the scar.

My stay in Ward 6 was very different from the Fever Hospital ward. For one, it was an adult ward and I was still a very young child, but at least I could now have visitors. I remember well my bed was to the right of the door to the sluice and bathrooms. It’s unbelievable what a child takes in and how it sticks in one’s memory. There was still post-war rationing in place and I can remember the broth served daily at about 11 am which was thick with barley and the enamel mugs and plates, another aspect of rationing.

There was always plenty going on to keep me amused. As I was the only child amongst a ward of bedridden ladies it was down to the nurses and Sister Isadore to keep me busy, until another young girl joined me. There were swabs to be made under the tutelage of Sister King, a fellow patient, and washing water to carry to the sluice room.

Towards the end of my three-week stay I was moved to the children’s ward at the very top of the hospital. What a different place it turned out to be. Beds close to the ground, boys and girls, including a couple of long-term patients who ruled the roost, lots of playacting amongst ourselves and the breakfast, McCann’s loaf with lemon curd spread. Night time was unbelievable, as the room was illuminated by the light of the fire where the nurse sat with the baby’s nappies airing on a big fire guard.

I still remember the original approach to the hospital which was a lovely sweeping drive up the hill past flower beds, and on the left the convent where the nuns, who were nurses, lived. At the top of the drive was the lodge where the porter sat, through the lodge towards the main hospital building with its cast iron beds, wooden floors, staircase and old-fashioned lift. A very different, less formal building, where caring nurses in starched hats took care of the population of Newry and Mourne.

Over the years I have visited others in the new Daisy Hill Hospital, but the old hospitals are fondly remembered by me.