This is story #17 in the series “Where Exactly is Home?”. The author recommends you read them in order.
Introduction:
“Where Exactly is Home?” follows the story of my parents, my two younger brothers and me, Susan, who emigrated from war-battered Britain, in the mid-late 1950’s, to Southern Rhodesia, Africa.
The effects of this move on our family were huge, as we struggled to adapt to such a different way of life. Only after further upheaval, and more long-distance travelling, did our family eventually settle in the city of Salisbury, Rhodesia.
However, we did not know then that we would not remain there for the rest of our lives, either.
When the family first went to Africa, I, Susan, was 9 years old. My two brothers, John and Peter, were almost 7 and 4, respectively.
Nowadays, as seniors, John and Peter live in England. I live in Canada. Throughout our lives, we have both benefitted from, and suffered because of, our somewhat unusual childhood.
I, for one, still sometimes ask myself which country represents home to me.
This is a series of stories under the title “Where Exactly is Home?” – I recommend you read them in order, starting with story #1.
17. A Single Hair and the Trouble it Caused
Who would have believed that one tiny curly hair of my father’s would lead to such a drastic surgical procedure? We, in our family of five, soon found out for ourselves just how much damage to the human body a single hair could cause if it didn’t behave itself.
In 1958, my parents and we three children were living in Darwendale, in the African bush, forty-two miles outside Salisbury, the capital of Southern Rhodesia. My father was working as a clerk at the local railway station. My mother was at home, looking after my younger brother, Peter, who was too young to attend school. My other brother, John, aged 8, and I, aged 10, were attending the local junior school as day students.
Throughout our lives, I, for one, have always felt as if our parents didn’t include us three children in any big family decisions, and certainly not in any news that could be considered worrying for us. Maybe this was their way of protecting us from the hard knocks of life, but I have long since thought we would have been less troubled, if we had known from the start, what was being discussed by my parents, what was happening when, and what was being planned, and why. However, we weren’t included, and that was that. There was nothing we could do about it.
So, we children had no idea, as far as I can remember, why exactly our father suddenly had to go into hospital for an operation. He was in his 30s, seemingly fit and healthy, working full-time, and it didn’t look to us as if he were ill. We didn’t understand why this was necessary, but my father went into hospital, all the same. He had to go to the nearest hospital available, about forty-five miles away, in a small town called Sinoia, reached by strip roads winding their way through the bush. I have no idea why my father wasn’t sent approximately the same distance, in the opposite direction, to a big hospital in Salisbury. Perhaps, the procedure wasn’t considered serious enough to warrant such a move?
I remember my mother driving us for an hour or more to visit him in Sinoia Hospital whilst he was there, and I recall clearly when he suddenly came home much sooner than anticipated.
It was only later that we children learned the whole story, a tale which could be considered hilarious, perhaps fit for a comedy show skit, even, had it not been so painful for my father, and had it not had such a dramatic effect upon my mother. One curly hair on my father’s rear end had apparently started growing the wrong way….. into his body. It had probably continued its nefarious journey, in and in, until a lump of some kind must have appeared, or perhaps the pain of that ingrowing hair had alerted my father to its existence. I don’t know what it was, and still don’t since it was not discussed with us children, not even afterwards.
