I've just been catching up on last night's TV. I don't normally watch much after the nine o'clock watershed - not so much because it's the nine o'clock watershed, as that's just my habit. I get bored and restless after a couple of hours you see - sometimes not even that long. To me, watching TV is best done in company so you can excahnge the odd view about progress - and of course, I never have any company - or at least if I have, I'm not usually watching TV...!
Anyway, having seen the trailer for this programme, I made a point of recording it and I've just been catching up - and what a nice programme it was, too. For all three of the characters it was focussed upon, there were nice endings - I like nice endings.
But you know, my heart goes out to them - especially to the girl who is 6'1" at the age of 12 and was being offered drugs to stop her hormonal activity - because 30 years ago, that was me...
If you looked at me now, you'd see a somewhat overweight but otherwise normal bloke and wonder what on earth I mean by that statement; but back in the first months of 1977 when I was still 12, I was approaching 6'1"...
Okay, so it's always been unusual to grow so tall so early in life, but in the 1970s it was virtually unheard of - especially in places such as Glenrothes, where I then lived. Just as those kids struggle to get clothes and shoes to fit them now, my mother and I were well-used to it then too - even though the sizes we sought for me are now well within what might be considered normal ranges and are easily obtainable. But it wasn't the case back then - size 11 shoes were difficult to come by in any style, let alone styles that allowed a 12-year old at least a modicum of street-cred in an increasingly fashion conscious world. And those were the days of narky bus conductors and conductresses too, who rarely suffered fools and frequently ejected unruly or argumentative passengers - even those of us who were legally entitled to pay half fare, but looked older...
Of course, the adolescent's world is also very competitive. Almost as soon as the first signs of puberty appear, boys are anxious to start shaving, and girls clamber for additional items of underwear. All the talk at school is focussed upon moving onwards and upwards and reaching the magic ages that allow you to leave school, watch films with 18 certficiates, drive cars, have sex, smoke and drink, legally. Much to the chagrin of parents and teachers, beards and make-up start to appear - and whether they want it or not, everyone is assigned at least a nominal boyfriend/girlfriend. I found the latter was useful if only to lessen the likelihood of playground bullying, for there was an unwritten, unspoken and yet well-known and recognised expectation of others - a way of being; and you had to have a very, very good reason for being outside of that, if you were to avoid bullying...
As the TV programme illustrated very well, having an unusual physique doesn't actually achieve this in itself. It's probably worse to be too fat than too tall - and there comes a time when its also worse to be too short, or undeveloped in terms of the appearance of body hair or suchlike; but outside of the school playground, the first two definitely attract the most attention. People point the finger - and if you're exceptionally beyond what might be considered the normal range of sizes for your age, you might as well be a bearded lady in the circus so far as they are concerned - you're feel like you're a part of the free freak show. The attention is fine to a degree, but there does come a point - much earlier than most people realise, I might add - when you really just want people to relate to you as you...
Medical verification that your physique is indeed unusual for your age does tend to be widely accepted as a very, very good reason for being outside of that unrecorded expectation of others, however. I'm not sure that people relate to you as you exactly - as the adults tend to take pity and the other kids a stance of somewhere between curiosity and fear - but the finger pointing tends to be a little more discreet and the bullying doesn't happen so much, which feels like an achievement of sorts!
Medical verification - or at least, sufficient medical attention as to suggest they think you have something very unusual indeed, achieves even more! It may not be the kind of street-cred you set out to achieve, but to the average teenager, any street-cred is better than none - especially if it's of a quality that your mates can't compete with!
Ans so it was with me - just like the lass on the TV programme. I had a side-effect, that proved sufficient 'evidence' for the medics to investigate! For as long as anyone could remember, I'd had shaky hands. In childhood, this wasn't really a problem, but now that I was expected to write and draw more legibly at school and perform such mundane tasks as carry food and drinks across rooms at home - and was finding myself in trouble for making a mess of something I really couldn't help, it was a problem. So off I went - in secret - to the doctors...
Rather unexpectedly, it went, "That's very interesting. How tall are you...? Let me just take a blood sample, and we'll have you in next week for more tests - don't worry about your parents - I'll contact them and explain that I think it was entirely appropriate that you approached me in this way..."
That was the second week of March, 1977. By the first week of May - when I was admitted to one of the adult medical wards in the old Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh - under the care of a rather grandly-titled, consultant endocrinologist - there had been two further batteries of blood and urine tests lasting several hours apiece, referral to the children's ward at the local hospital in Kirkcaldy - where I didn't even get across the threshhold, as they'd no beds that were even remotely big enough to accomodate me, referral and examination by neurologists at the same hospital; and frequent measurements of both height and weight everywhere I went...
Getting admitted to hospital was unusual enough, but being turned away from the local hospital and transferred through to Edinburgh in just over six weeks - well, that was quite something else. Only the most serious cases were ever transferred to Edinburgh - the Royal Infirmary there was considered quite a prestigious hospital and the message was clear - what I had was very, very, very unusual indeed...
At the time, I lapped up all the adult attention and really didn't see what all the fuss was about. I remember my mother crying when they left me in the ward -and I really couldn't understand why, as I considered myself to be in good hands and what's more, I was there to get better! Everyone was interested in me - everything about me, and that felt quite good! No longer did I have to suffer my mundane everyday life - and boy, was it mundane: I was quite a celebrity here - and I liked it!
Now, I'd always been brought up to cooperate with authority figures, so yes I'll admit to having been a little scared to begin with. Especially when they asked me to get undressed and get into bed - that was pretty unchartered territory at that point in my life - I'd never spent as much as single night away from my family before. Nowadays I'd even say it was invasive - but I'd no concept of what that really meant in those days and anyway, even if I'd had and said as much, that would have involved being uncooperative. So I just took a deep breath and did as they asked...
Later on the first day, I underwent a very lengthy and full medical examination by a youngish house-doctor. He was quite friendly and obviously going out of his way to be gentle, so I tried not to be afraid of him - but of course, I wasn't used to so much one-to-one time with an adult I didn't know. Even when I'd spent six hours having blood and urine tests in the surget a few weeks earlier, I'd been in the company of a practice nurse I'd seen on and off for years; so this was quite a new experience.
He wanted to know everything about me and my family - even things I didn't really know, such as what my grandfathers had died of; and eventually asked questions using words I didn't much understand - puberty being one of them! To his credit though, he was quick to explain just enough for me to understand the context - it wasn't a birds and bees lecture by any means, but at least I was able to answer his questions about hair growth, and suchlike.
Later still - and for the rest of the week, I spent an even longer one-to-one period being examined by a medical student. That was easier because he was younger - the same sort of age as the uncles I'd grown up with, and from an early stage we established some similarities, such as that he'd previously lived in Glenrothes - so to me, he was much more of a friend than an authority figure. Whether he'd been detailed to befriend me in this way I don't know - looking back, he was probably one of the more senior students and I was part of a fairly major piece of project he'd had the chance to work upon; but befriend me he did - and because he did, I was to suffer some very, very serious psychological scarring for years to come, as I mourned the sudden severance of this new and interesting friendship...
Some of their tests were more of the same - urine and blood samples - morning, noon and night. The latter was also what I'd now call invasive - especially as, on my second day, they failed to locate a vein on which they could fit a ventolin tap - resulting in a total of 14 individual needles having to pierce my skin at half-hourly intervals throughout the day. Of course I laughed at their jokes of being made a pin cushion, but both arms ended up bruised and sore in consequence.
The medical registrar hadn't quite perfected his bedside manner at that point in his career either. To be fair, he didn't really scare me, but he was a bit distant - and while the others examined and did most of the leg work, it was him who told me most about what they were looking for - which was chemical evidence of an overactive thyroid gland, which they thought was the cause of my abnormal growth. They weren't yet sure what they were going to do about it if they found this was the case, but they'd certainly do something, as without any treatment I'd most probably grow to over seven feet tall and most probably die before I reached the age of 30. I'm sure the latter phrase made a great deal of sense to him, but again, it was to haunt me for many years to come - and indeed, I didn't really even begin to settle down and accept my life until I'd surpassed my 30th birthday and satisified myself that I wasn't going to die...
One day I was sent - alone, in nightclothes, and by taxi - to the other end of the huge hospital site, to have eye tests done. I can remember feeling so glad when they started these tests, just to be in the company of people whom I felt I could trust; or who might at least be held to some account, even if only because of the uniforms they wore - and the same when I returned to the ward: it really was quite terrifying to be alone in the middle of Edinburgh's busy streets in a black cab, wearing only pyjamas and dressing gown...!
In the mornings, during the consultants' ward rounds, all the doctors and students wandered round the ward in a huge gang - twenty or more of them. Mostly they didn't all go to the same bed - but they all came to mine! I can still remember lying there - completely closed in by this sea of white coats and spotty faces with big eyes looking down towards me, as if I were some kind of undiscovered species of animal!
But most terrifying and humilating of all, was the day they sent me to the 'medical photography' department. I was picked up by a friendly young porter and given a somewhat thrilling, if unneccesary ride, in a wheelchair! The first part of this - along the huge, seemingly endless marble corridor that linked up all of the wards in the old infirmary building - at some speed, was great fun; but I have to say I began to feel distinctly uneasy when we turned off up a dark, winding corridor I'd not been up before. If I could have clung to that porter I think I would have done - we were passing the operating theatres I think - people dressed in surgical suits and masks, wheeling unconsciuous patients in trolleys by us. I felt sick, nauseous - and terrified! I think we had a ride in an old-fashioned lift - one of the draughty, rocky ones with the big iron shutters and steel, concertina outside doors - but we then had to abandon the chair and walk up a narrow, dark wooden staircase to the top of the building. It was deadly quiet here compared to the rest of the hospital, where there were lots of people rushing about - I felt trapped, and lost in a maze. My porter friend knocked on the door at the end of the corridor, marked 'Medical Photography', and ushering me inside, left me in the company of the two ageing male technicians. I'd never been so terrified in all my life - I wanted to run after the porter and scream at him to stay with me, but I feared I'd be apprehended and pinned to the floor by these two older men...
I don't know how long I was in there. Probably it was no more than ten minutes - for all they wanted me to do was strip completely naked and stand by this measuring rule, while they took photographs with an old-fashioned, flash camera; but all I can remember about it was my pounding heartbeat and profuse, cold sweat. I was absolutely terrified, embarrassed and totally humiliated.
Unbeknown to me, the porter was actually waiting for me just the other side of the door! I'd never been so glad to see anyone in all my life - I could have kissed him, quite happily!
It's a fair while since I've visited this part of my memory, and I'd really no idea that the fear I felt during the various incidents I've described is still so active, and raw - so I'm going to remane this blog as part 1. Maybe I'll write part 2 another day.
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