So it was that at 3am, I got out of bed, not knowing that this would be almost the last time for weeks thereafter. I made it as far as my open bedroom door, just as my mother was passing by, excited at the prospect of the eclipse yet to be seen. The pain in my back stopped me dead, making me feel faint and nauseous. It was excruciating, almost robbing me of my ability to breathe. Somehow, though, I managed to gasp to my mother, “I am going to pass out!”
Her response, no doubt meant to give me a jolt and to prevent me from lapsing into melodrama, was a stern reprimand, the words of which I have never forgotten. She, who rarely swore, replied briskly, “Don’t be so bloody ridiculous, Susan! It is just a touch of lumbago!” However, this was closely followed by sheer panic, which I detected in her voice as she saw me keel over and hit the floor. The last words I heard were her validation of my plight, and her desperate cry for my father to come and help. Yes, I did mean it; yes, I was going to pass out, and, no, I wasn’t being ridiculous, after all. I must have been out cold by the time my father came running, because I don’t remember his being there at all.
The following day, when I couldn’t even get out of bed without crying in agony, my parents called the doctor. I always remember his being surprised to see all the blankets and the hot water bottle, so much so that he blurted out words to the effect that we British certainly believed in going to bed well wrapped up, didn’t we?! He then began to examine me, but even the slightest movement caused me to scream in agony, as the tears rolled down my face. What was the matter with me? I had no idea. All I knew was that there had to be something drastically wrong, because the pain was staggering.
“Two weeks of total bed rest,” he declared to be the cure. He suspected a slipped disc in the lumbar region of my spine. I knew nothing about slipped discs. I hadn’t even heard of the term, and I suspect my parents hadn’t, either. The doctor suggested that my parents move my bed into the living room, so that I could still be part of family life and could have a view, rather than just stare at the walls of my bedroom, down the corridor. He was right. I would be able to see from the large expanse of front windows, and through the glass door leading to the veranda, all the way down the garden and beyond. It was a lovely view since we were at the top of an incline and I could see beyond our one distant neighbour, for miles across the African veldt. Final orders were that I was to stay in that bed for a minimum of two weeks, lying flat on my back. I was not even allowed to get up for the bathroom. My parents, he said, could get a bedpan for free from the Red Cross. I was to stay put!
