Vicky Ewan: From hospital beds to broadway dreams

When our elder son was eight, he was hospitalised with appendicitis. I had never come across the condition before and was woefully uninformed as to its telltale symptoms. I recall that he seemed very poorly for around 24 hours before he was seen by a GP, complaining of a tummy ache that wasn't improving, and he was hot to the touch; however, he was an otherwise healthy child, and I assumed it was a bug that he would bounce back from in no time.

I spent the night in his bedroom, concerned that he was too ill to sleep alone, but it wasn't until the next day, as the hours dragged on and there was little change, and he seemed unable to straighten his legs from a drawn-up position, that my husband and I thought further investigation was needed.

We managed to get an appointment with a GP, who immediately raised the alarm concerning appendicitis. Time was of the essence, and we sped off to hospital, where my son was swiftly admitted and lay, pale and listless, awaiting the attentions of an emergency paediatrician.

Before too long, a cheerful doctor examined and questioned him, the answers he received rousing his suspicion sufficiently enough that his young patient was suffering from appendicitis that exploratory surgery was indicated. We were informed that, once our son was under the effects of the general anaesthetic necessitated by such invasive surgery, and they had opened him up to assess the offending organ, they would be obliged to remove it, no matter its condition.

This, the medic explained, was because the presence of the scar left by the incision would always infer that our son had undergone an appendectomy, and it was thus safer to remove a healthy appendix at this juncture than leave it in situ with the lurking potential to become infected or burst, undetected.

None of my children had spent time on the surgeon's table before, and not one of them had received a general anaesthetic. My husband and I were concerned but had faith in the skills of the medical staff attending him. Bending over his poorly form, we kissed him goodbye and handed him over to their exacting care.

A few hours later, once he had been wheeled into recovery, we greeted our beloved boy as he was gently roused from his anaesthetised stupor—though, still under that drug's effects, he has no memory of this meeting and promptly sank back into the depths of slumber. The surgeon who had operated on him told us that the appendicitis had been caught just in time, as, when they had opened him up, the area was infected and the far more serious diagnosis of peritonitis was rearing its decidedly ugly head.

Armed with this information, I could not help but marvel at my son's stoicism; he had made very little fuss about the acute pain he must have been experiencing as the condition coursed corrosively through his small body; I was relieved not to have been aware in advance of how serious the situation actually was.

During his recuperation, the family rallied round, my parents helping out with the other children where possible and my husband taking leave from work. I remained in hospital with my son, permitted to stay through the nights as his recovery unfolded, glad to be at his side. The children's ward was a pleasant place to be, with friendly nursing staff, a bright aspect, and a beautiful tank of colourful, tropical fish that provided a welcome distraction from the daunting sights and sounds of machinery and poorly youngsters.

A few days into our extended sojourn, we were offered the use of one of the huge, sunshine-yellow, child-friendly television and DVD combos provided for entertainment. My husband procured a copy of a recent Disney musical movie, Frozen, that my son adored, and we watched the film on repeat, quickly becoming word-perfect with the catchy songs as we enfolded ourselves in the magical story.

Despite his grave illness, it was a special time for my son and me, as we shut the world outside and increasingly enjoyed his convalescence. Fast forward eleven years, and my younger son is involved in his school's production of the full West End version of Frozen, which will grace the establishment's stage in May.

Above: St Cuthbert Mayne School. Image: N Chadwick

Towards the end of last year, the school learnt it had successfully applied for the unique opportunity to perform the iconic musical, selected from hundreds of contenders as one of only eleven schools across the whole of the United Kingdom to present their production and the sole educational establishment in the South West to be awarded this impressive accolade—‘For the first time in forever,’ as one of the wonderful songs says.

My son, already fully immersed in rehearsals and brimful of Frozen fever, did not need to persuade us to buy tickets for this unique event, and I urge you to do the same. Support our local school, St Cuthbert Mayne, and its talented pupils and dedicated staff; I'm sure you won't regret it! I know that when I am sat in the audience, watching my little boy on stage and mouthing all the song lyrics I still remember, I will be transported back in time to the days spent with my bigger boy in hospital. And he will be right there beside me, bearing the scar.