A life turned around by Rita Catherine Jones

We waited together. A vigil of four-hourly feeds and hospital routine guided us, almost ritualistically, towards our meeting with Stoke Mandeville's newly ordained Orthopaedic Registrar. Venerate tones had described him: an eminent man, a pioneer.

‘He's been doing ground-breaking work in France.' ‘Mr Henderson will know the best treatment for your daughter.' ‘He will see Lindsay when she is three days old, no earlier, no later.'

My three day old daughter looked serene and beautiful. I felt strangely composed and alert. It was eight o'clock and evening visiting was almost over. My husband had joined us and together we continued to wait.

A long day in limbo ended with an anxious nurse beckoning us all to join her in a side room. Mr Henderson's arrival was imminent. He had been operating in theatre all day, she told us carefully, and this was the first opportunity he had to see us.

Lindsay's birth had been traumatic. I had gone into labour three weeks early, following a fall. They used forceps because I could not push anymore; the pain in my back had been excruciating. At 1.20am she was wrenched out of me. What struck me, after I realised she was safe, was that the pain had vanished as if it had never been.

My baby was taken away without a word. I couldn't see where she had gone, and I was about to be stitched by a very tired young man, who had obviously been on duty too long. I fell back exhausted, only to be sharply roused as he asked in an unsteady voice, ‘Nurse, does this bit go there?' With impossible panache, I sat bolt upright, my face inches from his. ‘You had better get it right!' I said.

Indistinguishable voices screened the activity at the other end of the room. ‘Is everything alright,' I asked, but there was no answer. Then footsteps and a nurse cradling a bundle. ‘You have a little girl. She's lovely but.... I need to show you something,' the voice continued as the bundle was unwrapped.

My daughter's sweet face gazed up at me. She was tiny, weighing only 5lb 9oz. I was thrilled and full of love for her. ‘Look at her feet,' said the voice, and as I looked down I saw that her pretty little feet were pointing the wrong way; twisted upwards and backwards.

‘Is that all?' I said.

‘That's all,' the voice replied.

My husband and I were told Lindsay might never be able to walk.

Mr Henderson walked into the room. He was tall, wearing a brown suit, and was much younger than I had expected. I liked him immediately. ‘I'm sorry it's late,' he said, ‘but I didn't want to wait any longer.' The power and humanity of the man struck me and I felt liberated. Here was the man who would help us. I could let go.

He smiled as he spoke kindly to Lindsay. ‘I shall always remember you, Lindsay. You are my very first patient here.' He took his jacket off and rolled up his sleeves. I was holding Lindsay, supporting her, as she lay silently on the table. He seemed to spend a long time gently examining her limbs and feet. ‘I want to tell you that you will hear many things about this condition. It's called talipes, and I am sure you will hear conflicting information about it. I have studied this subject in great depth and I want you to understand that we simply don't know why it occurs. I cannot tell you if it is hereditary or not. We do not know why your daughter has been born this way.'

Mr Henderson's voice was solemn, yet light and full of optimism. He moved on. ‘What I can tell you is that tonight, if you agree, I can turn her feet around and get them flat so that she will be able to walk. I promise you I can do this. At three days old her bones are still soft. I can move them; manipulate them. But we must act now. The decision is yours. It won't be pleasant to watch. You must be strong.' He was studying my husband and I carefully. We asked many questions. We agreed to go ahead with the procedure. I felt upheld by an unseen force. I felt in control and alert, yet in a trance-like state; guided somehow.

‘How strong do you feel,' Mr Henderson asked me firmly. ‘Would you like to hold Lindsay while I work with her, or do you want the nurse to do it?' My response was categorical. It had to be me. The nurse exchanged an apprehensive look with the doctor, who reassured her that he was satisfied I could do it. ‘I can't watch this - I don't think I can cope with this,' said my husband Philip. ‘Don't worry,' said the nurse, and as I turned to look at Philip I could see how distressed he had become. ‘I'll be okay,' I said, turning back towards Mr Henderson. ‘It's alright, I can do it.' Philip remained silent, too upset to speak.

The nurse brought in water and plaster of Paris. ‘We will only get one chance,' Mr Henderson told me, ‘so you will have to hold her steady and keep focused. There will be a reaction and a cry of pain.' He held my eyes. I understood. ‘Are you ready?' There was a piercing cry as, with great dexterity and speed, he sculpted Lindsay's feet, one at a time, moulding and shaping them round in layers of plaster of paris. Behind us I heard a clatter of equipment as my husband fainted. ‘Leave him. The nurse will take care of him,' said Mr Henderson. The crying lessened and soon there was silence.

Lindsay is now 22 years old and a graduate of St Andrews University. And I was there to see my beautiful daughter walk up and receive her Honours degree in English.

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