Sorry, Johnny

When we reached sixteen, my school encouraged us to volunteer some of our Saturdays in our community. Being sporty, I was allocated to be a swimming assistant at the local  orphanage. Other than telling me to take swimming gear, nobody prepared me in any way for my experience.

A huge grey gothic building, far removed from the rest of the world, sat at the end of a long wooded drive. I was warmly greeted by the vast and starchy matron who clumped ahead of me through a maze of reverberating green & cream tiled corridors. Smells of cabbage, wee, dettol and sour milk jostled in my nostrils, and finally the strong tang of chlorine and an echoing hubbub heralded my destination. We banged through the heavy rubber doors into a scene still etched on my soul.

There were about a dozen children in the pool area, six of whom were perched along the sides like forsaken fledgelings. Unlike the others, these were not regular orphans, but the abandoned, the hidden 'monstrosities' born of one of the darkest episodes of the pharmaceutical business in the late '50's. The thalidomide kids. They barely mustered a dozen good limbs between them, being mostly without arms - sprouting random digits from their shoulders. Some had no ears, and several had bowel deformities that necessitated complex rubberwear. Two children in chairs were crying inconsolably, but they were not amongst this little posse, who were quiet, watchful, and surprisingly eager to get waterborne.

These frail youngsters needed total support and a lot of body contact, and I will always remember the shudder I fought to subdue when the first strong slippery little finger clutched at me in the water. However, the accompanying gleeful laughter soon overrode my shameful but instinctive revulsion. By the end of the morning, I had engaged with a whole spectrum of claspings, had dried and creatively dressed the oddest little bodies, and even changed my first colostomy bag.

Lunching in the canteen, I was amazed by their resourcefulness  and messy good humour. The afternoon was spent on their ward, where each child showed me their sparse bedside treasures. But it was Johnny who stole my heart. Bright, cheeky & funny, he was the first person to ever abbreviate my Jennifer name to Jenny .. "hehe, Johnny & Jenny".

Johnny had short arms with random digits, but no legs - just partial feet with occasional toes. But how that little chap could move! Wearing a padded leather bumbag, he used his strong arms to scoot  along the cold tiled floors, and loved to play with his football. He chattered constantly, blue eyes sparkling with a confidence that belied his six years & his tiny torso.

Thereafter I spent most Saturdays at the home. I also managed to find out more about thalidomide. Originally developed as a sleeping pill, it was prescribed in the fifties to ease morning sickness in pregnancy. It was finally withdrawn in the UK in 1961( at the close of the very year of this tale) when its horrendous consequences were at last reluctantly acknowledged.

Hindsight tells us that globally at least twelve thousand babies were affected, although fifty thousand is now thought to be more accurate, taking cover-ups and misdiagnoses into account.  Abortion being illegal in those days, women who had taken the drug were doomed to the consequences. 40% of thalidomide babies died in their first year, and survivors were soon parentless, abandoned by both their families and the scientists who had created them. With no notion of diversity in the fifties & sixties, society was still modelled around the Darwinian notion of fittest survival. These children were perceived as broken dysfunctional non-starters, even though most were of normal intelligence. Many were, like Johnny, unusually spirited if not gifted, being fired into achievement through their needs to struggle and adapt. 

In those ingenious postwar days, there was a plethora of artificial limbs, harnesses, and Heath Robinson contraptions, on account of the thousands of disabled servicemen. Johnny was soon measured up for his first legs, and his excitement and horizons were boundless. " Jenny - promise to come and watch me  when I play for Spurs!"

A couple of weeks later, I arrived to find no Johnny amongst my team at the pool. I found him later, up in the ward, struggling to master his new clanking squeaky legs. Unlike ‘normal’ amputees, most thalidomide children lacked regular hip or shoulder joints. These early prostheses were patently experimental, as every child was different. A basket of metal and leather encased Johnny's pelvis, from which hung two hinged metal frameworks. Surreally, at ankle level, a pair of green woolly socks sprouted from a pair of neat brown leather lace-ups. These were Johnny's pride and joy, though he was clearly overwhelmed by the discomfort and the challenge that accompanied them. He begged a passing nurse to take the contraption off awhile and put on his leather bag, but she told him he had to wear it until bedtime at six. I stayed awhile to encourage and support him, and he made a little progress, even getting the giggles about the sound effects. But as I left, I noticed the blood trickling down the metal shafts and beginning to stain his pristine socks.

The following week we swam in the morning, and I saw the angry sores on his hips. I carried him back to the ward where his legs awaited him. Upset and angry because the nurse had thrown away his trusty bumbag, he struggled again to negotiate the length of the ward. I suggested getting out his football, but for the first time saw him fighting off tears, his spirit somehow withered.

The next two weekends I had athletics events, but was keen to return. Johnny had turned seven in my absence and I had a book for him. When I arrived, I was told swimming was cancelled, so went direct to the ward. Johnny's space was empty, and I assumed he had been moved. But no - he'd apparently fallen from a second floor window the previous week, and had died two days later.

A few years on, it was recognised that feet, however compromised, were absolutely crucial to independent activities, and that artificial limbs were just a cosmetic and pointless compromise. Many thalidomide survivors, now in their fifties, are photographers, artists, writers, parents. But I know of no footballers.

In 2012, for the very first time in fifty years, the German firm that invented thalidomide finally apologised. I quietly passed their message on.