Tuesday 27 July 2010

The Death of a Hospital

I was sad to read recently that Saint Vincent de Paul, one of the oldest and most famous children’s hospitals in Paris, will shortly close its doors for the last time. Last year I wandered around the already crumbling site and found it to be full of charm, but consolidation and rationalisation have proven to be more powerful words.

On a hot day almost exactly one year ago I walked past the entrance to the Hopital Saint Vincent de Paul, and felt compelled to stop and take a look around. Hospitals are always quiet places, but Saint Vincent de Paul was particularly calm that afternoon. I was attracted by the shady spaces and silent pathways, a respite from the noisy Avenue Denfert Rochereau I was walking along.

Entire buildings seemed to be empty, although doors remained wide open. I walked up steps and down staircases, along corridors and into deserted lecture theatres. I found a neat concrete war memorial, heroically symmetrical. On the main passageway, a spirited wall protest, messages scribbled from patients and families imploring authorities to keep the hospital open.

But nobody was around to hear those voices. Even the hospital chapel was closed. Alongside, a twisting staircase heading heavenwards. This was the hospice des Enfants-Assistés, a site dedicated to the safekeeping of children, but one that had confused its calling. In 2005, 351 foetuses were discovered here in a laboratory. No one knows who and no one knows why.

A place nevertheless where generations of children were born, their birth screams staining the floors and walls. Soon these will be torn down, leaving these children orphans of a birthplace. The services will move down the road to the Hopital Cochin and the Hopital Necker. Boxes will be filled with memories, but many others will be judged redundant and burned.

What happens to hospitals when they die? Saint Vincent de Paul is a 3.2 hectare zone of prime left-bank real estate. The site will be reborn but the name will be sent to the archives. The site will be bought, buildings raised to the ground and new developments forced upwards. Perhaps a new Ă©coquartier in 2016, a ghetto for the rich, if the city of Paris has its way.

7 comments:

Genie -- Paris and Beyond said...

Adam, what a poignant story. So sad and yet typical of "modern progress." I do hope that the building will remain if it is structurally sound. The photo with the blue staircase (to nowhere now) is my favorite.

Cergie said...

Tu as bcp d'inspiration encore une fois, mêlant l'histoire de la ville à celle de ses habitants naissant et mourant. Il y a belle lurette que l'on ne meurt plus ni ne nait plus chez soi et pourtant mes parents st décédés chez eux, ma tante aussi et moi je suis née à la maison (au Vietnam il faut dire).
La petite amie de mon fils habite la rue à coté de l'ancienne clinique des Bluets ds le 11ème où elle est née et mes neveux aussi il n'y a pas si longtemps et qui est à présent fermée.
Une page d'histoire se tourne. La maladie et la mort se cachent.

Adam said...

Cergie - moi aussi je suis né dans une clinique qui n'existe plus. En fait, c'est un endroit que je n'avais jamais revu car elle était assez loin de chez nous, et quand j'ai entendu qu'elle a été rasée, ça m'a fait bizarre. On a besoin de racines et de repères, et de pouvoir tracer notre parcours dans la vie - et la mort! Il est pour cela qu'en France il y a beacoup de gens qui reserve leur place en cimitière, parfois même ajoutant leur tombeau avant qu'ils soient mort!

Cergie said...

Mon père a construit sa tombe 20 ans avant sa mort mais surtout pour que nous n'ayions pas de souci avec ce problème le jour venu. Il avait même déjà fait graver son nom de fmille accolé à celui de ma mère.
Je ne sais pas ce qu'est devenue ma maison natale puisqu'il y a eu la guerre au Vietnam.
Récemment j'ai rencontré une personne qui vit en Côte d'Ivoire et fait une étude sur la réserve forestière du Banco où j'ai vêcu durant six ans. Plus personne n'y vit apparement. Je ne suis pas du genre à revenir sur les lieux cependant, on est toujours déçu ; de même nous sommes retournés coucher et dîner à l'hôtel de la Terrasse où tu as dîné et nous avons été déçus / la première fois... Est-ce l'hôtel qui a changé, ou plus vraisemblablement nous qui avons changé.

Anonymous said...

Hello , I was wondering if someone has photos of the Hospital outside, to rememeber what it was before, I have a long history with this hospital and it sad to see it disappearing, partially thanks to this hospital that I am still here and talking to you.

Adam said...

Hello anonymous. I haven't been past the site recently, but I think some parts are still in operation, and nothing has been demolished yet. If you let me know what you are interested in exactly, I might be able to take some pictures.

Thanks for your message.

Lady V said...

I have just returned from France, only to find out my father was born in this hospital. I can't believe I missed out on seeing it while I was there. We believe my father's father may have been German, as he was conceived during the German occupation of Paris. My Grandmother refuses to tell us anything about my father's father. Do you know if there is any history regarding Franco/German children within the hospital. The stories vary, but it is believed my Father was sent back to the hospital as an abandoned child at 18 months of age. Is this possible?

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