My father watches the horse races on TV or listens to them on the radio, so I know the dialogue down pat.
I’ve actually got pretty good at it.
Of course, I’m also riding the race I’m commentating.
And every time I get to the drainpipe, I win.
The drainpipe is my winning post.
Sometimes there is a photo finish.
And sometimes there isn’t.
But I win anyway!
I do this every day, running home from school.
Every single day, without fail.
For probably two years.
For two years, I ride racehorses, running up that street, past the drainpipe.
So a couple of years later, when I go out riding, pretending to be Eamon, I know I can win because I have been winning every race I have ridden, every day, for two years.
(In my head.)
I am eight years old.
Busy, busy, busy. So busy being a kid.
One day, I am helping Mike Ryan on his farm about 2 miles outside the village, when I spot his tractor.
I’ve never driven a tractor before and I want to see what it feels like to be a big grown-up farmer driving a tractor.
So I climb into it …
And I get into the driver’s seat …
And I start the engine …
And the tractor comes to life …
And the wheels turn …
I’m driving!
I can’t sit on the seat because I’m not tall enough to see over the great big wheel, so I stand up.
I press down on the clutch with my foot to change gears.
I pull the accelerator with the handle on the side of the seat.
I’m driving, standing up, down the long dusty road that leads to the village, loving every minute of it.
I’ve just crossed the first sign for the village when Sean McCauliff, of the local guards, comes running out and stops in front of the tractor, frantically waving his arms.
I stop.
I smile.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he tells me quite sternly to get off the tractor.
He points to the side of the road.
‘Park it there and go home, kid,’ he says.
I say, ‘But I can’t, it’s Mike Ryan’s tractor and he’ll be very cross if I don’t get it back to the farm.’
Sean McCauliff mops his brow in frustration and goes and fetches my father, who drives the tractor back to Mike Ryan’s.
Both men glare at me.
I get sent home in disgrace.
I can’t understand why.
I am eight years old.
I am a messer and a prankster.
If I ever get into trouble, I blame my sister Kathleen.
I am also a real mammy’s boy. Everything I want, she tries to get it for me.
I love school now but I never did until two years ago.
I started school four years ago and I kicked up such a fuss that Mam had to get the nuns to let Kathleen start school, even though she was a full year too early.
I wouldn’t go to school without Kathleen.
Mrs Kelleher was our first teacher and she was lovely.
Then, when I got older, I had to change schools and go to the Christian Brothers school with Michael and Eamon.
Again, I kicked up a fuss.
I was always trouble.
There was a handball alley at the crossroads, just past the first signpost for the village.
Every morning, on my way to school, I would go as far as this handball alley.
And I would go no further.
Michael and Eamon would be there, dragging me on …
But I would dig my heels in, roaring and screaming.
And then, by and by …
Our father would come along …
Straight across the road and into the shop …
A bar of chocolate for me.
And a clip across the ear for Michael and Eamon.
And away to school we went!
Every morning, Dad would buy me a bar of chocolate.
Every morning, I would eat it in the handball alley.
It was the only way anyone could get me to go to school.
By the time I went into 2nd Class, I had somewhat accepted the fact that I was not going to get my own way where school was concerned …
But the chocolate always helped!
I am eight years old.
Dad has our cows at Uncle Mikey’s and on some evenings after school, we go and milk the cows by hand.
On other evenings, we play soccer on the green with our friends.
We have some great soccer matches …
We play uptown v. downtown …
And we are fiercely competitive …
So the matches can get a bit brutal at times!
Around seven o’clock, as soon as it starts to get dark, we switch to hide and seek.
By nine o’clock every night, the mothers come out, one by one, calling for us to come home.
The first kids to always get called are the Daverns – Paul and Thomas.
‘Paul! Thomas! Come in!’ their mother calls.
And Paul and Thomas disappear home like good little boys.
But they are always the only two to go in.
The rest of us are called about ten times before we emerge from the bushes.
Sometimes we just stay giggling in our hiding places until our mothers come and find us.
‘We were playing hide and seek, Mam, we couldn’t hear you!’ is our excellent excuse.
Who knew it would be such fun being eight?
I am eight years old.
I have this thing with my hair.
Everyone at home complains that I spend half the day checking my hair in the mirror.
It’s true, actually. The hair has to be right.
We have a fireplace in the kitchen …
It’s an open fire …
And the mirror is above it …
Every morning, before school, we go out in the fields and ride our ponies.
Every morning, when we come back home after riding, we get washed and changed and ready for school.
And every morning, right before we leave for school, I stand on the step in front of the fire, and fix my hair in the mirror.
One such morning, I was standing in front of the mirror …
Fixing my hair …
As usual …
Mam was telling me to hurry up and eat my porridge.
All the others – even the girls – were already outside, fully dressed, waiting for me.
I could hear them calling my name impatiently in turns, yelling that I was making everyone late for school. So I turn around to join them, still fixing my hair as I walk away.
Suddenly, I see Mam grab a tea towel and start to beat my leg furiously.
I hadn’t a clue why she was doing that until I noticed that the leg of my trousers was on fire!
So there was Mam with the tea towel against my leg, beating it and beating it and beating it while the flames came flying up from my trousers.
My brothers and sisters laughed till they cried.
And never let me forget it.
I ended up missing two weeks of school.
Mam never let me forget it.
I thought I’d sit and watch Tom and Jerry all day long, until I realized that it came on only for thirty minutes in the morning and didn’t start up again until five in the evening.
So I spent those two weeks lying on the sofa with my leg in a bandage, bored out of my mind.
I never let me forget it.
But it didn’t stop me from fixing my hair in the mirror …
I am eight years old.
Kathleen and I go up every now and then to Uncle Mikey’s to ride out.
He’s got some great horses at his farm in Kilfrush.
He’s also got these vicious Alsatians …
That I have a habit of teasing …
O
nly because they are always tied up with these humongous chains …
One Saturday morning, Kathleen and I get on our bikes and race up to Uncle Mikey’s to ride out.
I end up riding faster than Kathleen, so I win the race.
I’m delighted with myself.
I even have a little private laugh.
Eventually Kathleen catches up to me, huffing and puffing.
But it turns out the laugh is on me.
Because this is the sight she sees:
My bike, on its side, lying on the ground.
Me, on my back, lying on the bike.
And Nan, the Alsatian, standing over me.
Turns out that Nan was tied to a humongous chain …
But the chain was tied to nothing …
Yup. Nan had me pinned and I was going nowhere.
So, my brave sister Kathleen walks up …
And catches the Alsatian …
And pulls her away from me …
And ties her back up safely.
I will be grateful to Kathleen the Warrior Princess for ever.
Because if I had so much as moved a muscle, that dog would have ripped me apart.
It was the last day I ever teased Nan.
I am eight years old.
Eamon is ten.
Kathleen is seven.
The three of us have such fun together riding!
Our ponies at the time are called Barney and Roger.
And what a grand time we have with these ponies!
What imaginative role-play we come up with!
What elaborate props we make!
One of the things we love to do is to go around all the houses in the estate, cutting grass.
Then we bring out the grass to the field at the back of the house …
There are several small ditches in the field …
We stack the grass alongside them, building fences.
And these fences are Aintree.
And we are the jockeys, racing fiercely over fences in the Grand National!
Sometimes we don’t fancy being jump jockeys.
So we find poles and sticks and branches and whatever we can get our hands on and build show-jumping courses on the green across from home.
Then we pretend to ride the ponies show-jumping.
It’s not just the three of us doing this, everybody our age living around the village gets to ride Barney and Roger as well.
We ALL have turns.
So poor Barney and Roger end up going around a LOT of times.
Then, when the ponies get tired, we let them off and jump ourselves!
So now we are both the horses and the jockeys.
We spend hours every day doing this …
It’s mad fun!
I am eight years old.
Liam Jones has a shop where most of the village does its shopping.
It’s also where the phone is.
This is the phone my brother Pat rings to speak to my mother.
Pat is out on the Curragh now, busy being a jockey.
We don’t have a phone in the house at this time, no one does; colour TV is just coming in … exciting times, these.
So Pat calls Liam Jones’s every Friday evening at 5 p.m., like clockwork.
Liam Jones sprints across the street to get my mother.
My mother sprints back with him.
OK, maybe ‘sprint’ is an exaggeration.
Liam Jones also has a farm about a mile outside the village.
This is where he sources most of the supplies for his store.
In my summer holidays I help him out on the farm.
I’m a very helpful little boy.
One time, Liam Jones wants a hand stacking the hay in the donkey cart to bring back into the village.
So, one afternoon, I run up to Liam Jones’s.
He tells me to take the donkey and cart up to the field and says he will meet me when he has finished up at the shop.
So up I go and I wait for him to come.
I sit patiently.
And
I sit patiently.
And
I sit patiently.
And then I run out of patience.
So I start loading the hay myself.
There are about a hundred bales of hay, but it doesn’t seem daunting. It’s far better than waiting.
So, one bale at a time …
I load …
And
I load …
And
I load …
And before I know it, it’s done.
But there’s still no sign of Liam Jones.
So I scramble up the fully stacked cart.
And perch myself above the hay.
And ride the donkey cart back to the village just as Liam Jones is getting ready to come and meet me.
I must have made for a funny sight …
Because he lets out a great big laugh.
‘Jesus, did you load that all by yourself?’ he says. ‘You great boy, Dec, you!’
Then he runs back to the store and comes out with his camera.
Still laughing, he takes my picture.
Here it is.
Me, as an eight-year-old kid, no more than four feet tall, grinning cheekily as I sit on the very top of a donkey cart, piled six feet high with hay that I’ve stacked all by myself.
Did all of this happen only four years ago?
Loss
The first marker of success in brain surgery is when the patient wakes up.
The second marker is much more imprecise. This pesky little nugget could take months, years, for ever, never.
When I came out of my coma I was mentally twelve years old.
There were three men standing above me. They asked me all these questions, almost like they were quizzing me. I was tempted to laugh; the questions were so easy. I answered them all instantly.
What country do you live in? Ireland.
Who is the Prime Minister? Jack Lynch.
What horse were you riding? Strawberry.
Silence.
How old are you? Twelve.
The men in white coats looked at each other with grave faces. Then, without another word, all three turned around and left.
See no evil. Hear no evil. Speak no evil.
After the trio of neurologists left, my family came in briefly – I had been moved from the ICU and into a private room at this time. Kathleen held my hand, and Pat and Eamon and Michael and Geraldine and Laurence and Maureen stood at the foot of the bed. Joanna sat down on the bed next to me. My parents, almost too scared to look at me too closely, stood apprehensively by the door. Everybody was speaking all at once, trying so hard to make things appear normal. But of course I knew nothing was normal. They were only there for a few minutes before they were ushered out by a nurse.
When everybody left, a man dressed in a tweed blazer and navy-blue trousers entered my room and closed the door behind him. Then, leaning against the door, hands casually in his jacket pockets, he introduced himself to me as Professor John Miles, my brain surgeon. I recognized his voice instantly, I could never forget that voice – it belonged to the man speaking to Joanna when they were attempting to take me off the ventilator.
Then, he perched himself on the edge of my bed, body sideways, leaning forward – he was so short, I noticed that his feet didn’t quite touch the floor – and uttered the words I will always remember. He spoke in slow, measured tones – not unkindly, but if you are ever under the illusion that a doctor breaks bad news to you with an ounce of sentimentality, think again. Professor Miles was as matter-of-fact as they come. Not that I blame him; there is rarely a gentle way to deliver a knockout blow.
‘Declan,’ he said, ‘you’ve had a very bad accident. You’ve had brain surgery. There are going to be some consequences to this – to what extent, we don’t know. Initially, there won’t be any sensation in your arms and legs; you’ll be able to move them, but you won’t feel much. You won’t be able to stand or walk.
This is because you are paralysed – to what extent we don’t know. One of your blood clots …’
All the time, while he was speaking, I was watching him, half listening to his words but mostly thinking that this man looked nothing like I expected a brain surgeon to look. I’m not exactly sure what I expected a brain surgeon to look like, but Professor Miles certainly didn’t fit my bill. He was a short, neat man with a receding hairline and smart eyes. I liked his eyes, they were blue with a twinkle about them, an intelligence. He was droning on, this man with the smart eyes who had just cut open my skull, giving me more reasons to celebrate the fact that I was alive.
‘… was a hair’s breadth away from your optic nerve and we are quite likely to have damaged it. The optic nerve doesn’t like to recover, so you might have some blindness in your right eye – to what extent, we don’t know. Other nerves, many of your cranial nerves, were also disturbed. You might have complications develop with your speech and your hearing – to what extent, we don’t know. And most importantly, it appears that you have suffered some memory loss. There are lost years. We don’t know how many. But you’re in a safe place now. We will look after you here.’
At this point, he hesitated. Just ever so slightly, before looking me straight in the eye – and finally, conclusively, revealing his hand. ‘The problem is we don’t know when any of this will come back, how much will come back, or if it will come back at all. It could take years to find out.’
He stopped then, waiting for a reaction from me.
It didn’t come. His words did not even register. He could as well have been talking about how he liked his steak cooked. Or his shirts ironed. It was all the same to me. I listened with polite disinterest.
You probably find this odd. Very odd. You probably would expect his words to have had a devastating effect on me. As might happen when everything you’ve ever known about yourself is swept away in a spinning vortex. Or when you realize that the specks of dust flying around you are actually the crumbled bits of your broken dreams. Or when your brain surgeon tells you that you’ve almost certainly lost every hope of living a normal life.
So yes, you’d be completely right to think that his words might have evoked some kind of emotion in me. Maybe the usual suspects: sadness or shock or fear or anger or anxiety. One or some or a heady cocktail of the lot?
They didn’t.
A bit of nervousness, maybe? A tear or two?
Sorry, no.
I had absolutely no reaction. While ‘Professor John Miles, Brain Surgeon’ was telling me that I had lost years of my life, that I might be paralysed and more than likely be blind in one eye, I was thinking the whole time about how this brain surgeon didn’t look like a brain surgeon at all.
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