You can also purge yourself with emetics. According to a doctor I consulted, the singer Enya is quite an effective emetic and is responsible for acute episodes of nausea, vomiting and diarrhoea, often attributed to some blameless bacterium. If you want to lose weight, put on those CDs now.
Grow Your Own Beer Belly
Loads of Irish people have beer bellies, even men, so don’t be left out. In fact, the beer belly is one of our most ubiquitous national symbols. Growing your own is very fashionable. A beer belly can be achieved by drinking beer. However, chips, curries, bacon rolls, Taytos, Cadbury’s chocolate, ice-cream and big feeds of hairy bacon will also help. A beer belly is handy because you can, for example, rest a can of beer on it, leaving your hands free for scoffing fish and chips or to operate the remote control for the telly.
The ideal beer belly should stick straight out at a right angle to your body. If your beer belly hangs pendulously over your belt, you can make it firmer by stuffing in more beer and curries. Your beer belly should prevent you from seeing anything below your navel, which is essentially a valve to prevent you from actually bursting. Sex becomes impossible for the beer belly couple, allowing them more time for eating and drinking.
Having a beer belly is an essential Celtic prelude to the next stage of Irish integration – having an Irish heart attack. Happily, according to medical science, having the one often leads to the other.
A Twelve-Step Guide to Having an Irish Heart Attack
An informant, who will remain nameless, told me about his heart attack, which was so typical of the Irish male experience that we formulated a guide together in case you, too, would like to be typically Irish in this regard.
Our twelve-step guide to the Irish heart attack is designed for Irish men. While women may follow the steps, I am not guaranteeing results. The guide ignores the important role of the Irish breakfast and breakfast roll. For best results, you should have at least one full Irish breakfast with extra black pudding every morning for about five years, with everything fried in Cookeen, followed by a breakfast roll with four sausages for elevenses. Avoid all exercise.
So, here is an easy-to-follow guide to having an Irish heart attack:
Step One: Ignore the pain in your chest for at least three weeks; ideally for as long as you can.
Step Two: After a large evening meal, preferably involving at least four courses, including a grand feed of cabbage and hairy bacon with parsley sauce, lovely floury potatoes and a bottle of wine, head to the pub and consume eight pints of lager, a half bottle of wine, four packets of crisps and two packets of dry roasted peanuts. Stop for a curry and chips on the way home. Shake all the above together into a smooth constituency in your beer belly at a house party next door. Add extra liquid as required and retire to bed.
Step Three: Wake in the middle of the night with a violent pain in your chest.
Step Four: Grope your way along the floor into the bathroom. Take four Rennie or drink a quarter bottle of Maalox, whichever you have to hand. Wait ten minutes and repeat the dose.
Step Five: Return to bed. Lie absolutely still, waiting for the pain to go away. While waiting, pray to your favourite saint for a miracle. Vow to mend your ways in the morning if your prayers are answered.
Step Six: Repeat steps four and five.
Step Seven: Sit on the end of the bed for exactly one hour, groaning and sweating. If you are of a mind, review your life’s achievements. This task will be facilitated by your life flashing before your glassy eyes.
Step Eight: When your wife is eventually awakened by the noise, she should sleepily ask if you are all right. Say that you are fine; that you are just having a think.
Step Nine: Repeat steps four through seven for as many times as required until your wife wakes up again. This time she should tell you she is definitely calling an ambulance. You should continue to protest how fine you are and ask her not to be making a fuss about nothing. Because your wife says she has decided to call the ambulance, you concede that you will walk to the hospital.
Step Ten: Walk to the car, lie across the back seat and allow yourself to be driven to A&E.
Step Eleven: Walk into A&E complaining about ‘all this fuss for nothing’. Wonder aloud how you are going to live down the mortification when they find nothing wrong with you. Claim that you may die from that embarrassment.
Step Twelve: Pass out.
The only sure-fire way to be certain that you are having a massive fatal coronary episode is to wait to read about it in the obituary notices in the Indo, where you will be listed under the ‘suddenlys’.
The Rules of Ageing
For the older Irish man or woman who foregoes the more traditional choice of fatal heart attack or massive stroke, there is still the option of type 2 diabetes, which is currently the rage. Back when we were all too poor to live to be old, only the elite could achieve diabetes. Now it is within practically every Irish person’s reach.
Test Rules
It is important not to have any tests when you do eventually go to the doctor, because he may find something wrong. If you don’t get something tested, you will never be sure whether you have something or not. Therefore, it is best not to get the test. If, God forbid, you get a positive result, well, you are finished. You know then that you are going to die. You are better off praying and waiting to see what happens. If you are going to die, it is important to die of the right thing. No one in Ireland wants to die from cancer. Anything else will do.
Overheard in the Waiting Room
To find out how being ill works in practice, I needed to meet sick people, or at least people who thought they were sick. Perhaps because he didn’t know what anthropologists did, Dr A agreed to allow me to hang out in his very busy practice. I was to spend the mornings in reception, followed by sitting in the waiting room in the afternoons chatting with the patients. I was hardly sitting down behind reception when my first patient turned up. He was an hour early for his appointment.
‘You are an hour early,’ I tell him, worried that I am misinterpreting some vital information in my new job.
‘That’s right. I like waiting.’
‘Okay then. Wait in the waiting room.’
My next patient comes in. ‘I have an appointment.’
‘Do you?’
‘Do I? At what time?’
‘I’ll take over this one,’ C, the real receptionist, helpfully tells me, shoving me out of the way.
Later in the morning, C hands a patient a prescription. She tells her that the dose of her medication has been increased. The patient seems pleased. C explains to me that the dose has actually been decreased, but she knew that that particular patient wouldn’t be happy to hear that she is getting better.
Working on reception, I realise that I don’t know what I am doing. I confess my ignorance and am sent to restock the shelves that hold the vital forms that keep the practice running smoothly. In the storeroom, I am piling armfuls of large envelopes, small envelopes and disability certificates into a box. When I come upon a pile of blank death certificates, I feel a shudder down my spine and hurry back to reception where the banter with the patients continues.
‘I am worried about taking a stroke,’ a new arrival at reception informs me.
When a patient tells me that she is looking for a cert for breaking her arm, I stupidly ask when she is going to break it. She shows me the cast while shaking her head at me.
Everyone seems to be having blood tests. I warn them to fast before coming in in the morning for their blood to be taken.
A patient tells me to tell the doctor she is in the toilet if she is called, because she has to go outside for a fag: ‘Listen – if she calls “Nichola”, tell her I’m in the loo, will ya? Tanks.’
The phone rings. The voice on the other end tells me it’s an emergency. ‘I can’t get my breath. I can’t walk down the road to get my fags.’ When the patient turns up at reception an hour later, she has her daughter with her as part of a general d
omestic-wide emergency.
‘What is your name?’ I ask another patient.
‘Bridie!’
‘Bridie who?’
‘Bridie Bridie.’
‘Take a seat,’ I tell her. This is another one for the real receptionist.
After lunch, I sit in the waiting room combining eavesdropping with small talk for a different kind of ethnographic experience. It is a strange feeling to expect to spend all afternoon in a room designed for a tense twenty-minute wait. It is not easy to confront a waiting patient about their illness or inquire what brings them to see the doctor. After a while, I discover that patients fall into two camps. One type of patient is extremely reticent, and sits silently, staring straight ahead, rehearsing their worries to themselves over and over with do-not-disturb expressions on their faces. The other type is extremely forthcoming, very happy to publicise their entire medical history at the slightest sign of my interest. They enjoy their ill health. They relish a new audience who hasn’t heard it all before. Fortunately for my research, the latter type of patient forms the majority in the waiting room.
The skill is to decide which type I may be dealing with when they come in. Sometimes the more reticent ones will talk. I experiment with a few probing questions. If ‘Do you come here often?’ gets a smile, I’m in. If not, I’m out. Over the following days, I perfect my technique.
A woman comes in with a white plaster on her nose. ‘What are you here for?’ I ask, figuring that this could be one of the lighter conversations. ‘My blood pressure,’ she answers. After a full minute of silent staring at me, she continues, ‘and I have a tumour on my nose.’
A conversation breaks out elsewhere. ‘It’s a disgrace. I have been here twenty minutes. Did you see Liz Taylor? Left a billion. All those rich husbands. That was a sting job. All those marriages. Like this place. A sting job. Once your health goes, they clean you out before they let you die. Drain you dry. Blood money. You pay to let them take the blood out of you. It’s a disgrace.’
The room fills with a general chatter. Suddenly, for no obvious reason, everyone falls silent at the same moment and stares at the floor. After a few minutes, a mobile phone ringing and a bout of lung-churning coughing breaks the silence.
By now, because I am a hypochondriac, I have developed a serious concern about catching something in the waiting room. I use the steriliser dispenser a lot. I try to control my hypochondria. I realise that rushing into the doctor myself for help would be a methodological embarrassment for all anthropologists.
An elderly man sits down beside me. I ask him what brings him to the doctor.
‘I am only here for my MOT. There is nothing the matter with me. I am not on any pills. I am here to get my ears syringed.’ After two minutes of silence, he continues unprompted: ‘I’m just on one little white pill. The first time, they gave me one big one. That was after my suicide attempt. Now I am on just the one small white one. Then I am on two for the blood pressure. One to counteract the other. One pill makes the pressure go up. The other makes it come down again. One was making me woozy, but when I forgot to take the other one I was fine. I managed to fix myself. Then there is the pill for the borderline diabetes. How many is that?’
I consult my notes. ‘That’s four, if you count both blood pressure pills.’
‘Then I had to have the brain scan. The missus is on a bag with bowel cancer. But she is fine. She managed to hold on to her hair.’
‘I am glad there is nothing wrong with you,’ I tell him before sliding along the bench to eavesdrop on two young women who have come in together. I hear one telling the other that her chest is killing her: ‘If we have to wait, I am going to have to have a ciggie.’
There is a woman in the corner compulsively cleaning her baby’s toy. Her neighbour, a mother with a seven-year-old boy, confidently advises her on the likelihood that her baby will be admitted to hospital. ‘If I was you, I would go straight to the Children’s Hospital in Temple Street.’ Her own son is sitting on the floor. ‘Get up and go into the toilet and wash your hands,’ she tells him. ‘The place is full of germs.’
‘But I am just here for the vaccination,’ the other mother tells her.
‘Doesn’t matter. Head straight to the hospital. You will end up there anyway.’ Her son returns to tell her that he couldn’t reach the tap. He picks up a toy and sticks it in his mouth. Immediately, he is back in the toilet with a wooden toy box to stand on so he can reach the sink.
‘I am going to tell the doctor that he isn’t right,’ his mother says. ‘He did his first confession last week and the teacher didn’t even turn up. Get blood tests. Lots of blood tests.’ We all lapse into silence while we contemplate the meaning of her comments. The child is back playing with the toys, which are now strewn all over the floor. I sanitise my hands just in case.
In reception, a patient comes in to see any doctor. When I ask him what is the matter, he tells me that there is nothing the matter with him. He has a medical card and he wants to make as much use of it as possible. I tell him he will have to wait because he hasn’t an appointment.
A woman comes in with a child. She tells me that she was here yesterday with her other child, but today this child needs to see the doctor. It seems that, if you can’t be sick yourself, you can have a family member be sick for you. When she tells me that she has three children, I am confident I will see her again tomorrow.
The phone rings. A man wants to see a lady doctor.
‘Which one?’ I ask.
‘The one I saw before.’
‘Which one is that?’
‘I don’t remember her name.’
‘What did she look like?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Was she blonde?’
‘I don’t know. All I remember is that she was very nice.’
‘I’ll put you in for a very nice doctor at eleven twenty tomorrow.’
‘Thanks.’ I feel I am making progress.
Another patient comes in. ‘I am here for my sick cert,’ she tells me. ‘I’m on the sick.’
‘What is wrong with you?’
‘Me back. Haven’t worked in years.’
I ask her for her PPS number, which she knows off by heart. I flirt with the idea of stealing a pad of sickie notes for my own use.
‘I need a prescription. NOW!’ someone else shouts at me.
I notice that the lower down the social ladder the patients are, the less stoical they are about small complaints, while they bear the big problems with great courage. A patient with a backache makes his way up the stairs incredibly slowly for his appointment. I ask if I can help, but he rejects my offer. He carefully places both feet onto each step before progressing to the next. A few minutes later, he comes bounding down the stairs with a prescription. I am very impressed with the powers of the doctor upstairs.
A letter comes in on a bookmaker’s docket. Clearly our patient found time between bets to reflect on his state of health as well as the state of his wealth. The letter explains that the author could not get out of the house because he had put his back out. He needed a resupply of Solpadeine. A used box is attached for reference.
In the waiting room, two women with crutches come in together. One brushes her hair compulsively while they talk. I learn that they are friends who met through their disability. They share the firm conviction that men are horrible. They hobble off together into the consulting room when called.
A woman tells me that she got a new hip for Christmas in Tallaght Hospital. ‘They made a balls of it. Got an infection. Was in agony. My hip was completely black. Jaysus, the pain was unbelievable. I am back in hospital tomorrow to have it whipped out and a new one put in. I’m going to make sure they don’t give me one of those dodgy French ones.’ A name is called and she limps off. She is replaced by a suspected kidney stone.
A young, pale couple arrive. She is here for a pregnancy test. He looks extremely worried. Perhaps he is wondering if he is really the father. Should
he run away now? She sits near the door to block any escape. They are the unhappiest looking couple I have ever seen.
Later in the afternoon, a mother is waiting with her son Jason, aged six. Jason is sitting on the floor trying to do his homework. He shows his efforts to his mother who tells him that he is great. She gives him a sweet. Jason looks around at us, smugly chewing his reward. She proudly tells everyone waiting that Jason has diabetes, asthma, eczema, is lactose intolerant and coeliac, and cannot play sports in school.
The waiting room is a day out for some families, with mother, father and all the siblings coming along. A family consisting of a grandmother, her son and daughter-in-law, granddaughter and two grandsons take up one wall and wait in total silence together. When they all go in to see the doctor as a group, I am left to wonder if they have some form of contagious disease. Could this be a case of extended family Munchausen syndrome? After a quick hand wash with the sanitiser, I am fine again.
I change subject matter. I question the older waiting patients about their views on the best way to stay healthy. A woman tells me that lifestyle and prayer keep her going. ‘You don’t have to go to Lourdes to pray. You can pray anywhere. I only drink at the weekends and I don’t believe in exercise.’
An elderly man tells me that he hasn’t been to the doctor in forty-six years: ‘I just got a bit panicky during the cold spell. I put my good health down to hard work and plain living.’
Elderly couples come in together. They usually sit side by side in total silence, because they have nothing left to say to each other. Perhaps the women are thinking fondly of a time when they thought that their husbands would be dead by this age. They agreed to stay together until death did they part, but he is taking it at bit far at this stage. Look at Mrs Murphy. Out every night at bingo enjoying herself since her fella died.
The Rules of Having an Irish Baby
Socially, it is likely to happen, usually during dinner, that some couple will tell you they are ‘trying for a baby’, or that they ‘would do anything for a baby’. Do not become alarmed because, surprisingly, sex doesn’t form part of their efforts: they are not about to take up a position amongst the plates on the table. They will tell you that they have tried everything, including sex standing on their heads, but have now moved on to science. You will also notice that they have abandoned the general reticence we ordinary Irish have about everything below the waist, and will provide you with a fully illustrated gynaecological history. Never invite a couple trying for a baby to dinner. In fact, don’t let them into your house. In the interest of research, I sought out a couple trying desperately for a baby to see how it worked.
How to Be Irish Page 10