Special but for the Wrong Reasons

In 1987 I was a nine-year-old child. I remember being taken to the famous Great Ormond Street Hospital for Children. Oddly, it was an exciting and frightening time. I vividly recall telling my good pals, Alex Innes and Daniel Harding, that I was heading down to London to the magnificent hospital. I gladly informed them that it would mean getting out of school for two whole weeks. Live with it, lads! That was my overall message for them. Live with it!

Quite the eczema salesman

Of course, they were riddled with jealousy because I was venturing off to this special hospital for kids. I remember boasting about all the activities you could do at this dreamy medical center. For example, the playroom where you had a big TV on a trolly with loads of videos available to watch like; The Goonies, Back To The Future, Superman 2, to name but a few. They had a Scalextric and other amazing toys and cool books. I was really selling asthma and eczema to them. They were like putty in my hands!

A confusing time

I say it was a bit scary because even though I was a child, I was aware that I was going to a famous hospital far away from my house and that everyone around me was going on about the importance of it. People in our neighborhood showered me with gifts and cards, and I also got a mention at the school assembly. Thinking back, I must have been a bit mixed up. I was scared but, as I say, weirdly excited. I felt special but for the wrong reasons.

I have a foggy memory of my dad at my bedside crying and telling me he would stay with me for hours. He brought my cousin, Kevin, along to cheer me up. It did the trick; I loved Kevin. He was a year older than me, and I thought he was super cool. Sadly, he is no longer with us. He had a few demons of his own and took a dark path in life.

The psychological effects of growing up with eczema

I thought about writing this article about my time in Great Ormond Street Hospital after having a conversation with my mum about this period. She dug out an old letter that I had written to her from my hospital bed. I read it, and it made me feel sad. It did not make one bit of sense, but I tried to convey a typical day to her. I must have been so bored to write a letter. I must have absolutely rinsed the playroom.

All these incidences in childhood must have had a profound effect on my psychological make-up. I am so grateful to my parents for doing such a sterling job raising all of us kids. It cannot be said enough times that living with atopic dermatitis and the silent illnesses and by-products of having atopic dermatitis and, for me, asthma-like depression and anxiety really do bed themselves in early to our little personalities, and they shape who we become.