I was about 12 when I was diagnosed with tuberculosis, sometime towards the end of 1952. I know it was well after my birthday.
The district nurse picked me up and took me to King George V Jubilee Hospital, a hospital for infectious diseases on the outskirts of Durban. It was fenced in, with a very high gate and a guard at the entrance. As we went in, the nurse told me I would not be leaving for a very long time.
The next day, the flat we lived in was fumigated. Bedding, clothes, kitchenware: everything was subjected to it. Nobody was allowed into the flat for a couple of days. Mum, my younger sister Pearl, who was still a toddler, and Mum’s boyfriend at the time all had to attend the clinic for tests. They were tested at least twice while I was in isolation.
Nine months in bed
For the first month or so, I was allowed no visitors and was kept under observation. I had an injection every day, as well as tablets.
My treatment was complete bed rest. I was not allowed out of bed for approximately nine months. We were told I was lucky to be alive and still have lungs that could function, but that I would have problems for the rest of my life.
Complete bed rest. Lovely news for a young girl.
The hospital stay was not all bad. Our beds were pushed outside during the day and back into the ward at night. Eventually I was allowed visitors, but only Mum. Pearl was only a toddler, and they felt she could be at risk.
A teacher came to give me lessons, though they were not all that good. I was told to read as much as I could and was given very simple arithmetic, but no English or writing. Most days I lay flat on my back. I was only allowed to sit up for meals and for a couple of hours during the day.
A friend of Mum’s gave me some records and a gramophone, which I could use as long as it did not disturb the other patients. From memory, I believe everybody loved hearing classical music.
They even boiled Mum’s mug
After about nine months, I was told I could get out of bed and start walking with help from the nurses. This was when the fun started. I collapsed with tuberculous peritonitis, or TB peritonitis.
Mum received an urgent call at work because she had to sign the papers for my operation. Her boss took her to the hospital. He had not known I had TB and questioned why I was being operated on in an infectious diseases hospital.
When Mum got back to work, she found that her desk and work area had been isolated. Each time she made herself a cup of tea or coffee, the people she worked with would boil the mug.
After a while, she left. But not before telling all and sundry that at least she knew where I was. They could be sitting on a bus surrounded by people with contagious diseases and not know it.
Out of hospital, the TB stigma continued
The timing is confusing now. I know I was in hospital for a very long time.
When I was released, I went back to the college I had been attending when I became ill. Like Mum, I found myself with a desk well away from everybody else, at the back of the room. At break time, I was let out first, on my own, again so that I would not be near anybody.
I was fed up. I saw a job advertised at one of the biggest department stores and applied. Once I got the job, I told Mum I was not going back to college.
I did not tell the management that I was an ex-TB patient. I still had to attend the clinic every month, so I made sure I went during my lunch break.
It was a difficult time. I had little education and few skills. I was a dogsbody and did what I was told: running messages and carrying things from one department to another.
The mobile TB X-ray van in the car park
An imagined workplace screening scene inspired by Lucille’s recollections; not a historical photograph.
AI-generated illustration: URevolution / Midjourney; cropped and watermarked with ChatGPT.I kept my history a secret for a while, until the firm decided that everybody employed there had to have an X-ray. A van was set up in the car park.
TB seemed to be everywhere. Panic set in.
We contacted the clinic, who said I had to tell them I was an ex-patient. Otherwise, all they would see on the X-ray would be my very scarred lungs.
There was a long queue waiting to be seen. At the desk, I explained that I was still attending the TB clinic. This was promptly relayed as loudly as possible for everybody to hear. The shift away from me was very obvious indeed.
I was then called to the manager’s office. From the reactions around me, I was sure I was going to be fired.
But luck was on my side. The lady who was my immediate boss knew all about the trauma and stigma of TB. Her husband had been worse off than me: he had actually lost one of his lungs.
I was chastised for not telling them. But the good part was that Mrs McWhinney took me under her wing and taught me accounting. I even ended up being in charge of what the various departments had to spend.
I was no longer allowed to carry anything heavy or do anything that might hinder my recovery.
At the clinic until I was about 18
Leaving hospital did not mean I was finished with treatment. I still had to attend the clinic and have injections, although by then they were once a week. I also had monthly X-rays.
In some ways, the horror people felt about coming into contact with somebody who had TB played to my advantage. If I did not like somebody, or if young men tried to get fresh after I had said no, I would ask whether they knew I was an ex-TB patient and still had to attend the clinic.
I was only released from attending the clinic around the time I turned 18. I worked at another firm after leaving the department store, but I had learnt my lesson and told them about my TB history before I started.
The prejudice seemed to go on for ever. Even Mum found that mentioning my hospital stay, or the fact that I still attended the clinic, was enough to make people give her a very wide berth indeed.
The scars came with me to Australia
We had to have a medical examination before migrating to Australia. That caused a problem when the X-rays showed the state of my lungs. It took a lot of explaining to convince the authorities that I had been cleared.
We were allowed to continue to Australia on the understanding that I would attend the TB clinic at least once a year.
Even now, when I have an X-ray, I have to explain to the technicians that the scars on my lungs are not new. My TB history is still kept on file with my doctor.
I believe people act out of ignorance. My understanding was that, once I left hospital, I was no longer a threat. A lot of people could not take that in. There were some very hard times trying to convince people I was fine to be in the general public.
Editorial note: Edited for clarity and length from Lucille McDonald’s recollections. AI assisted with editing and research for the separate historical and medical context.
Related reading: The positive power of labels and language.
