Having chosen to spend the last twenty years raising her four children Angela now finds herself without an excuse to not nurture some creativity within her life. She hopes to pursue her love of words and in time gift her stories to those she loves.
The memory is foggy. Like a scene from an old movie. But the sound echoes strongly in my head. “Someone stop that child crying”, says the nurse. Out of the corner of my eye I can see her, a vision in white, standing at the long bench on the other side of the room. She has her back to me. “Give her a comic to look at. Maybe that will quieten her down”. The bed feels hard beneath me. Then there is a strange smell as a mask is lowered over my face.
I wake up in a room with sea-green painted walls, in the Lister Presbyterian Hospital in Takapuna, alone. No one comes to visit. I am lonely and sick, sick in the bed. I don’t know why my parents haven’t come. The other children on the ward have visitors. In my desperation to hear their conversation and feel close to someone, I roll through the vomit and teeter on the edge of the bed.
My tonsils are gone, ice cream and jelly is my reward. On discharge day my parents do come to collect me.
It is 1966 and I will soon be three.
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