An overdue tribute to Miss Jamieson

In about 1977 or so I’d a hospital admission for a minor orthopaedic op; Stirling Royal Infirmary, one of those old Florence Nightingale wards, smelling strongly of disinfectant with a matron who wore a hat with a navy blue trim, a starched peenie to match her grimace and nurses in awe of her supernatural powers.

I was about 14 years old and should have been in a ward for plooky teens. Instead the treatment was as if I was a young woman so I was well looked after in a billet beside older women from all walks of life. A women’s ward.

In the course of 48 hours I experienced a baptism of fire; hearing for the first time scary words – ovaries, cysts, hysterectomy, fibroids; there were various other topics I shall dodge for now.

But my abiding memory is of Miss Jamieson; I know now that which I did not understand then. Miss Jamieson was diabetic and had her left leg amputated. She felt sorry for her nurses who had to clean her wounds. She was ashamed by her pain and disfigurement. Her soul was the most courageous  I ever met. 

There is a quality, a value, around women of courage. It can’t be reduced to words for it is far greater than the spoken word can tell. Miss Jamieson showed me this five decades ago and I will not forget. 

Miss Jamieson had care provided by women; her ward was populated by women. Had Miss Jamieson been able to go home, she’d have had a woman as a home help. We could do this in Scotland in 1977. We must do so again today.