by Doyle, Paddy
When he was finished Professor Casey held up a glass tube containing my skin steeped in a liquid. ‘That’s what all the fuss was about,’ he said, ‘and you’re still alive.’
I felt greatly relieved as covers were taken away and I was allowed to sit up and look at my leg. It was covered with a strip of plaster about four inches long and two wide. The skin around the plaster was daubed in a pink disinfectant.
‘Will I have to come down here again?’ I asked.
‘Do you want to?’
‘No,’ I laughed nervously.
‘In that case I won’t ask you to,’ the consultant said.
On the way back to the ward, I was happy that the doctors and nurses had kept their word. I had not been put to sleep as I feared and began to feel that I could trust them. When I was put back into my own bed I noticed the one beside it was empty.
Being in a ward with a lot of old men had its advantages especially when it came to disposing of fruit or sweets they had been given but didn’t want. My bedside locker was a depository for all sorts of things, much of which I never ate. Once a week when the nurses cleaned out the lockers there was always rotting fruit in mine which had to be dumped. I’d remember the times I had prayed for an apple or an orange. Now I had more than I could manage to eat. The only time I refused it was when it was offered to me by the relatives of someone who had died. I was afraid to eat that.
In the evenings I was allowed out of bed for an hour. I had pyjamas that were far too big for me and wore a dressing gown more suited to a small man than a young child. One man I particularly liked was in his early thirties, dark haired, quiet, and an avid reader. He kept a chess board, with pieces in place on top of his locker. I was often amused as he played games against himself, moving the white and black pieces in turn. To me, he was a curious figure who never went to communion or confession, even before he was being taken to the theatre. When I got to know him better and he was teaching me how to play chess I asked him why.
‘I’m a left footer,’ he said.
‘What does that mean?’ I asked.
He laughed and at first seemed reluctant to tell me, but I persisted.
‘I’m a Protestant,’ he said casually.
I was shocked and the harder I tried to conceal it the more obvious it became. I remembered everything I had been told about Protestants not getting to heaven and never being able to see God. I even felt it was a sin to be talking to him. Yet I liked him and he was the person in the ward nearest my own age. I told him about the nun who turned off the radio in the Cork hospital because the patients were listening to a Protestant service.
‘You wouldn’t want to take much notice of the nuns,’ he said.
‘Why?’ I asked innocently.
‘Because sometimes they don’t exactly tell the truth.’
I couldn’t imagine a nun telling lies and I told him so.
‘What about a game of chess?’ he suggested to get off the subject.
After just a few moves I asked him if he believed in the Blessed Virgin.
‘What’s the first rule of chess?’ he asked and, when I didn’t reply, told me.
‘Silence. That’s the first rule.’
I remained silent and copied each of the moves he made until the board became congested and he began to pick off my pieces and place them to one side. He suggested that if I really wanted to win, I should start making my own moves. Still utterly obsessed with the fact that this man was a Protestant I asked him if he was going to heaven or hell when he died.
‘Haven’t a clue and I don’t care really.’
‘Why don’t you believe in the Blessed Virgin?’ I asked.
‘Because virgins can’t have babies.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s a long story,’ he said, ‘and when you get older you’ll understand.’
My curiosity was aroused and I persisted in trying to get him to answer. He refused and, when I asked why, just said, ‘Because it’s time for you to go back to bed.’
I waited for the nurse to come with my medication and when she did, I was given two and a half tablets, instead of the usual two. I recognized the phenobarbitone, but not the white half-tablet.
‘I usually only get two,’ I said.
‘Well you’re getting two and a half now,’ she replied.
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘Because the doctor said so.’
‘What’s the half one?’ I asked curiously and she replied that patients were not supposed to know the names of the drugs they were being given. She was becoming agitated by my constant questioning but eventually told me, before warning me to keep my mouth shut or she would get into trouble.
‘What are they for?’ I asked.
‘What are they for? They’re to make you better of course. Now will you for God’s sake stop asking questions. Just lie down and go to sleep before I get mad.’ As I was going to sleep, I repeated the name of my new drug to myself. I never forgot it.
The first time I actually remember celebrating Christmas was in St Patrick’s Ward. I was nine years of age. In the days leading up to it many of the patients were allowed home – some for good, others for a few days. The nurses who were artistic painted seasonal pictures on the large windows of the ward and, in one corner, erected a tree which they spent hours adorning with tinsel and crepe paper streamers. For a few nights before Christmas groups of them, in uniform and capes, visited the wards singing Christmas carols.
The expected arrival of Santa Claus during the night was a new experience to me which I found difficult to believe. It was not that I had ever questioned his existence – I simply hadn’t heard of him, or if I had, I couldn’t remember. The patients and nurses kept reminding me to get to sleep early or otherwise I would get nothing. Every time I was asked what I hoped Santa Claus would leave for me, I answered, ‘An electric train’.
There was little doubt that I was the main focus of attention. No visitor came to see any of the patients without calling to my bed and giving me a bag full of fruit or sweets.
On Christmas Eve I hung a pair of socks on the end of my bed. One of the men gave them to me because they were big and ‘Santie would fit a lot more stuff into them’. I was told to clean out my locker, ‘just in case he might want to put a few things in there too’. In the night, I heard the sound of shuffling and whispers. Opening my eyelids slightly I saw five or six men and a couple of nurses filling my socks. I pretended to be asleep and, all the time they were there, I never moved.
I woke early next morning and went to the end of my bed to see what had been left there. I tore open a parcel wrapped in colourful paper as patients and staff watched, revelling in my excitement, and pretending the whole business was a mystery to them. Inside I discovered a variety of things: jigsaw puzzles, dinky cars, a train engine with a key sticking out of its side and some lengths of track which, when joined together, formed a circle. I delighted in watching the train go round and round.
‘Try the locker,’ one of the patients said.
I opened its metal door and an avalanche tumbled onto the floor. Apples, oranges, rolls of sweets and boxes of Smarties. There were boxes wrapped in cellophane paper containing cakes sprinkled with fine white sugar. Someone picked up the items that fell and put them on my bed, which by now was taking on the appearance of a shop counter.
On Christmas Day there was no restriction on visiting. Children were brought to see the parent or uncle they had not seen for months. There were great scenes of emotion and joy as a father clasped his sons and daughters to him and wept. They all brought presents and some even had things for me, colouring books and paints, packets of plastic soldiers and books. I noticed a number of patients sharing a bottle of whiskey between them and as they drank they became more and more high-spirited, singing Christmas songs and pursuing fleeing good-humoured nurses who passed. One man who managed to get his arm around a nurse’s waist sang at the top of his voice, ‘Give us a kiss for Christmas’, and attempted to place his lips on h
ers, but she turned her head and offered her cheek instead. He protested that it was a ‘mean round’.
‘Make the best of it,’ she said. ‘It’s all you’re going to get.’
As he continued to drink, he became more daring in his approaches to the nurses.
‘What about you?’ he asked another. ‘Any chance of a feel?’
She became angry and reminded him of my presence, and when he said I would have to learn sometime she stormed out of the ward.
‘It’s just a bit of fun,’ he shouted after her, ‘and anyway, it’s Christmas.’ But she ignored him. For a time there was an uneasy silence and I heard some of the men say he had ‘gone a bit too far’. He blamed the whiskey. Later in the morning when the nurse returned to the ward, he called her over, saying that he wanted to apologize but she ignored him again. He sat on his bed in misery, the Christmas presents from his family unopened around him.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
At about half past twelve that afternoon, after I had been given my midday dose of tablets, a nurse appeared carrying a bundle of new clothes and told me I was being taken out for the day.
‘Where am I going?’ I asked.
‘Professor Casey wants you to go to his house for Christmas dinner and to play with his children,’ she said.
‘I don’t want to go.’
‘Of course you do.’
‘I don’t,’ I said.
‘Well you’re going anyway, you wouldn’t want to insult him after he buying you all these new clothes.’
Realizing I didn’t have any choice I allowed her to dress me in a new pair of short trousers, a white shirt and blue jumper. There was also a pair of white socks and a new pair of black shoes.
When she was putting on the socks the nurse noticed that my big toe was bent, cramped down towards the sole of the foot.
She asked me to straighten it but I couldn’t, and I told her so. Because of its position it was extremely difficult to get the shoe on. I used to wait until it released and then quickly get the nurse to push it on.
I sat on the edge of the bed for a few minutes, admiring my clothes and savouring their smell of newness. I walked across the ward amazed at how light my feet felt, having been so used to walking with heavy boots. Suddenly, my back arched and I couldn’t move – then, after perhaps thirty seconds or so, it released like a spring uncoiling. I was frightened by this involuntary movement, and as I began to worry about it, it happened a second time. I didn’t want the nurses to see but one did and rushed towards me. She tried to push me upright but that made matters worse, and eventually she had to carry me back to bed, where she told me to lie down and take it easy for a few minutes. Another nurse joined her as my back relaxed.
‘What happened?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know, I was just walking and I couldn’t walk any more.’
Then I asked them if I could take off my shoe because it was hurting me.
‘My toe just keeps bending inside it and it’s sore.’
‘Well stop bending it then,’ she said.
‘I can’t, it just keeps doing it.’
They both looked concerned and agreed to mention it to Professor Casey when he arrived to collect me.
When he came into the ward I watched him speaking to the nurses on duty. He looked concerned as one of them demonstrated with the use of her hand and forearm what was happening to my back. Before coming to my bed he was handed a brown bottle of tablets by the nurse.
‘I hear you’re in some difficulty?’ he said to me.
‘Just my toe,’ I replied.
He took the chart from the end of my bed and said he was increasing the dose of my ‘new tablet’. That would help ensure that my back didn’t arch and prevent my toe giving me trouble. He asked if I would be able to walk from the ward to the car.
‘Yes,’ I said confidently.
I had only gone a short distance when I was forced to stop. Professor Casey urged me to take my time, to relax, everything would be fine. When I resumed walking, I was determined to keep going and not allow my body to be taken over by strange movements over which I had no control. Within the space of a minute, it happened again and I became terrified that this time I would not emerge from the tight grip of the spasm.
‘Has this happened to you before?’ he asked.
‘Once or twice in Kilkenny hospital when I had the splint on my leg.’
‘When did you notice it first, since you came to this hospital?’ he asked.
‘I don’t really know,’ I replied.
‘Would you say it is just since you started on the new tablets?’ he asked.
I thought for a moment and told him that I didn’t really know.
‘We won’t worry about that for the moment,’ he said as we walked down the hospital steps to his car and introduced me to his three children who were sitting quietly in the back. They were older than me, with probably as much as five years between his youngest child, a boy, and myself. The two girls looked about sixteen and seventeen. I sat in the front seat for the ten-minute journey from the hospital, looking at the various types of houses we drove past on the way. Despite the urgings of their father, none of the children spoke to me and I said nothing to them.
I was desperately uncomfortable in the car. My toe twitched violently inside my shoe causing me to squirm. I didn’t want anyone to notice, but knew they could see me sweating heavily. Professor Casey shifted his gaze from the road to me many times during the journey and each time I tried to give the impression that I was all right.
‘Have we far to go?’ I asked.
‘Another couple of minutes.’
The car pulled up outside a Georgian house with an elegant oak hall door, its brass fittings looking like they had just been polished. A neatly groomed woman opened the door and descended the three steps to the car. She opened the passenger door and embraced me, welcoming me to her home and hoping that I would enjoy the day. The rest of the family got out and, at their father’s request, went into the house while his wife and himself enquired whether I could manage the steps.
‘I think so,’ I said.
I got out of the car with difficulty and waited as the Professor locked it. He walked towards the house and invited me to follow. I couldn’t move. His wife offered to help, but he suggested that I be left alone and given time to relax. As I urged my body to move, I noticed the children watching from a front window. This made the situation worse. My body was refusing to do what my brain was demanding. Then Mrs Casey held my hand which had a soothing effect and I relaxed sufficiently to be able to walk up the steps, through the hallway and into a large brightly lit sitting room, decorated with Christmas lights and cards hanging from string over a magnificent white marble fireplace where a fire blazed. The Professor offered me something to drink and I accepted a large cool glass of lemonade. He and his wife had a glass of sherry and before drinking they toasted each other, their own children, and me. Whenever I looked at him he diverted his gaze. I felt uneasy, conscious of being watched, and worried that what he was observing would give him a reason to operate on me again.
The children were curious about what I did in the orphanage at Christmas. Did Santa come? Did we have a party?
There was no Santa, I said, but I did have to serve three Masses and I added that all of us used to get jelly and custard. The boy, who had been silent up until now, said, ‘That wasn’t much of a Christmas.’
Then I told them about how Santa came in the hospital and they laughed at me pretending to be asleep while the nurses and patients stuffed my locker and the big pair of socks. Mrs Casey said I was right, and laughed too.
‘But,’ she added, ‘I’m certain the real Santa did come once you were asleep.’
During the day I became increasingly uncomfortable as my toe flexed wildly inside my shoe and became sore. When I could no longer tolerate it I asked Professor Casey if I could remove my shoe.
‘Certainly,’ he said, asking if my toe was still giving me trou
ble. He reached into his pocket and took out the bottle of tablets he had taken from the hospital, then looked at his watch and remarked that it was a bit soon to take any more. Later in the afternoon when he gave me two I was embarrassed swallowing them while his children watched.
At six o’clock dinner was served. The table was covered in a white, finely embroidered table cloth and at every place there was a cracker, laid out along with an assortment of knives, forks, and spoons. The golden-coloured turkey was placed on a silver tray in the centre of the table, its basted body glistening in the candlelight surrounding it. Professor Casey sat at one end of the table, his wife sat opposite him. I was seated at his right, opposite his son, who offered me a cracker to pull. It broke with a sharp crack which instinctively caused me to duck as paper hats and tiny plastic toys flew into the air. I had never pulled one before and had no idea that the pieces of coloured paper wrapped tightly in elastic bands were paper hats.
The doctor and his family rose to say grace before meals and as I attempted to stand, he indicated that I could remain seated. When grace was finished he reminded his family to remember children like me who didn’t have parents or a home for Christmas. I could feel my face redden but kept my head bowed so that no-one would notice.
Everyone at the table wore a paper hat during dinner, and as the adults poured themselves wine, their eldest daughter asked if she could have some. Her father refused, saying she had taken the pledge and couldn’t take alcohol until she was twenty-one.
Throughout the meal I felt uneasy and uncomfortable. I was an intruder in a family unit, expected to fit but unable to do so. Everything that went on was alien to me, the food was unlike anything I had ever tasted before. I was confused by the variety of knives, forks and spoons around my plate, never sure which one to use. I was reluctant to try the various sauces which the children spread so liberally over their food. I was afraid to ask for anything and, as they all chatted, wondered if I would always feel so out of place in a family situation as I did that day.
My bare foot was now involuntarily either kicking one of the family or banging hard against the wooden frame of the chair. My paper hat became soggy from perspiration and its dye ran down my face. I wanted to get away from the table and to sit on the floor, where I knew I would be most comfortable.