The death of my mother and returning home as a qualified physiotherapist

Excerpted from Memories that linger: My journey in the world of disability
by Padmani Mendis

(Continued from last week)

But I could neither send any more photographs nor write to my mother for much longer. She passed away in August of 1963. (The writer had recorded the previous week a visit to the Birmingham zoo when a professional photographer on assignment for Kodak testing a new film had shot some photos of her which he sent her. She had sent them to her mother).

We had just completed our Intermediate Exams and were awaiting the results. Meanwhile our summer vacation had come. Belmont and Bella Vista were closed. Lyda and I booked ourselves a holiday on Trafalgar Tours. It was advertised as a “Luxury tour visiting Eight European Capitals”. We were due to leave the following week. All our travel documents were with them in London. I was spending the days before departure in London with my brother Anura and sister-in-law Anula. They were expecting their first baby in September. She would be named Anusha Lakmini.

One day there was a flurry of phone calls between my brother Anura and older sister Nali in Colombo. Being older to me, they were my “Anura Aiya” and “Nali Akka”. I noticed Anura Aiya’s face being saddened. He came to me to tell me that my mother had taken ill. He told me that she was in hospital and Nali Akka thought it would be good for me to come home to see her. She was arranging my flight home. What I did not know then was that my mother had already gone. They did not tell me, knowing how I may react.

It was a Saturday morning. I said to my brother, “Oh my passport is with Trafalgar. I have to go get it before they close.” I rushed to Oxford Street where they were located. The Trafalgar people were very nice and even returned my payment. Lyda continued on the tour.

My flight was to be later that evening. I said to my brother, “I have time to take the train to Birmingham and return before I take the flight. Let me do that.” So I rushed to Birmingham and to Bella Vista. Mrs. Broom the warden kindly opened the house for me. I packed all my belongings including my books and papers into the two trunks that I had. I then told Mrs. Broom. “My mother is ill and I am going back to Colombo. I will not be coming back because I am going to look after her. I will arrange for the trunks to be shipped. Please keep them until then.” I was in time to get back to London and get the flight home.

I left on the Dutch airline KLM and had to change flights at Karachi. On that flight I was seated next to a young man from Senegal. We talked all the way. I told him of the reason I was going home. I was going to look after my mother who was ill and was not returning to Birmingham. He told me about his family and his home and why he was coming to Pakistan. I had not long to stay at the Karachi Airport before taking the flight to Colombo. That was not a long one and I was soon at Ratmalana airport.

I was one of the first out of the door and on to the gangway. And then I looked up to see many members of my family waiting for me. The airport was rather small then and they were not far away. I saw at once my sisters and other female relatives were all dressed in white. White is the colour one wears to signify a death in the family. I knew then my mother had gone.

All I recall is that I collapsed in a fit of hysteria. I recall vaguely also that the air hostesses were at my side but little else. Until I was at our home in Kollupitiya and my aunt Darla Mamma was coaxing me to drink a cup of tea. I refused to see my mother until much later. She appeared to be at peace with a kind of radiance about her. I recall little about her funeral. She was buried alongside her mother in the family vault her father had built for her mother.

There was little to keep me at home in Colombo any more. Now more than ever I needed a profession. I had written to Miss Horsfall that I had to come to Colombo quite suddenly and why. She told me I could stay as long as I liked. I stayed long enough with my family so that we could comfort each other in our immediate sorrow. And then I was back at Belmont on the last phase of the journey that would take me to being a physiotherapist.

Back to Belmont, Finals and Farewell

It was the Chartered Society of Physiotherapy (CSP) that conducted exams for all physio schools in England, Scotland and Wales. It had examination centres in a few selected locations. Students could choose where they went. All of us from Belmont chose the excitement of London and were allocated dates individually. Mine was on November 22, 1963. It was my oldest brother’s birthday and I hoped that would bring me good luck. I travelled by coach. On my way back from London I heard some sad and shocking news on the coach radio. President Kennedy had been assassinated. The inside of the coach became as gloomy as was the outside of it.

The result of the finals was as I had hoped it would be. Two days later Miss Horsfall called me to her office. She was an examiner for the CSP and had been in the hall where I was being examined by two of her eminent colleagues. At the end of the day she had asked them how it was. One had replied, “Oh it was good for me. I passed one with credit.”

She said she knew then who had earned that credit. My friend Rosemary also got a credit pass. To the CSP a credit pass meant a distinction. Miss Horsfall and Miss Jahn as well as the other tutors were all full of smiles of satisfaction. Two credit passes in one school was an exceptional achievement.

Our task of learning was over. But my memories will not allow me to leave Birmingham as yet. Not before I recall attending the first wedding among us. That was Joyce who married her Ray who she had met when we were students. Hers was the only wedding I could go to. She was married in a beautiful little church from her parent’s home in Chesterfield, Derbyshire. Joyce and I still talk often on the phone. She and her Ray live in Sydney with their children and grandchildren.

Soon after I left Birmingham, Jackie, Rosemary and Barbara wed the boyfriends they had come to know for just as long as Joyce had known hers. Barbara never went back to Jamaica to make it her home. She lives now in South Couldsdon, Surrey. A few years ago Mahin came over to London from Toronto where she lives now; I went over to London and the three of us spent two weeks in Barbara’s home. But that is jumping the gun. There are still 57 years of memories flooding my mind and queuing up to be shared with you.

We said our goodbyes and left Belmont over the next couple of days. Each on our separate way. Each to the future that we would weave for ourselves.

Getting Home

I sailed for home on the S.S. Oriana, leaving Southampton on February 4. The voyage was now two weeks, down from the three that it was on my journey out. This time we made a stopover in Naples. I went ashore to visit Pompeii. On my voyage to England, I had been able to go ashore and see the pyramids, the wonders of Egypt, still standing upright. In Pompeii, I saw what was left of its ancient city buried under the ashes of Mount Vesuvius. On the tour of Naples later, I bought six of those huge life-like dolls it is well-known for. One for each of my little nieces.

Later we sailed from Port Said at the edge of the Mediterranean Sea through the Suez Canal to Suez on the Red Sea. I had missed that on my journey out, deciding to take the land route from Suez to Port Said to catch the pyramids. And I am glad of the opportunity I was given on this return journey. Whereas the pyramids are a listed Wonder of the World, so should the Suez Canal be another Wonder if any were to be added.

It seemed that all passengers were on deck; and the shore was crowded because not often would a liner of this size be seen on the canal. The land was so close that we could almost reach out and touch those who stood by. Language was no barrier as people from different lands, those on shore and those on the sea, were trying to converse. Excitement was in the air and it was infectious.

I arrived home to my family to know once again their love and warmth. My nieces and nephews had adorned our home at Clifford Road with coloured streamers and with banners saying “Welcome Home”. They had hung balloons to create an air of festivity and joy. My dog Shadow was wagging his tail and barking as if to say in his own way, “Now don’t you leave me again.” That evening my other siblings and their families would come to see me. I really was home.

A Physiotherapist in Colombo

I was anxious to start working as a physiotherapist. The idea was, of course, to join the state Ministry of Health and work in one of their hospitals in Colombo. But that was not to be. My application was turned down. Because, it seemed, the Ministry of Health now produced their own physios through a two-year training course and gave them a certificate. Prior to this about a dozen had been sent abroad for training, and that had stopped when the new school was started.

The latter were paid more than the former. The Ministry did not wish to recruit any others with foreign qualifications. Never heard such nonsense – have you? It was obvious that someone or some people would not approve my application for reasons of their own. That was Ceylon then. Many years later when I made my application a second time, I was taken into employment on condition that I accept the same salary as those who had qualified in Sri Lanka. I had no difficulty doing that. It was more important to me that I had rewarding work.

So when I was refused employment in the government health service there was no choice but to find work in the private sector. This was easy. I found employment in a well patronised hospital in a densely populated and poor area of Colombo. It provided all who came to them with the medical or surgical care they needed. Sulaiman’s Hospital was well staffed and well run with several wards for inpatients and a busy out patient service. The owner was himself a medical practitioner and carried out a hands-on, dual-purpose job, both managing the day-to-day running of the hospital and seeing patients. He saw both the value of physio to patients and its financial value to him.

Ward patient physio could be justified, as many were admitted with strokes and fractures and similar conditions. But because of the cost, none seemed to stay long; not long enough for physio to have an effect. The “physio room” was very close to the out-patient department and I was referred a constant stream of patients with very trivial conditions, most of whom would have recovered even had they not had my services. These patients were generally very poor. They seldom returned after having had to pay the hospital for one session with me. This certainly was not the physio I had dreamed of practicing.

After a few months I was offered work in a private clinic in a completely different environment. I had no hesitation taking up this offer. This clinic had a more affluent clientele. They were comfortable paying for their treatment and appreciated the value of physio. Many were on health insurance anyway. I worked in the clinic itself. I was also sent to other private hospitals. Also, to visit homes of patients armed with a short-wave diathermy machine and an infrared lamp, both of which had seen better days.

At that time, it appeared that many doctors referring patients for physiotherapy believed that the scope of physiotherapy was limited to the use of these two machines. Besides this, my concern was also whether patients could afford it or not, physio bills did add up. These realities upset my conscience.