by Doyle, Paddy
Again, Sister Catherine was given the job of ‘prepping’ me. She screened off the bed and apologized for having to shave my head again. ‘Someday,’ she said, ‘it’ll be all over.’ She lathered my head and shaved it completely, taking great care not to hurt the previous scar which was still tender. Her hand trembled as the razor removed the freshly grown, downy hair.
‘Why do I have to have operations on my head?’ I asked.
‘I wish I knew,’ she said with sadness in her voice. I could feel her concern for me. She was so different. She was kind, laughed a lot and played games with me. Lifting me in her arms she would carry me out of the ward, to a garden at the rear of the hospital where she’d take photographs of me, seated on a blanket, in front of a circular flower bed. Her mother used to buy clothes for me and she took great pride in dressing me and ensuring I looked well. I always received my medication promptly when she was on duty and consequently seldom became distressed or overanxious. In the times of my greatest stress she made a special effort to alleviate it, always trying to be there as I left the ward for surgery and again when I returned.
Next morning in the operating theatre, the neurosurgeon greeted me by giving my nose a slight twist. When he asked if I was frightened I didn’t bother to respond. A needle pierced the most prominent vein in my arm and within seconds I was drowsy and dizzy. Soon I was asleep and he was making further incisions on my scalp in preparation for drilling through my skull.
Later as the trolley was wheeled back into the ward I was partially awake. Drifting in and out of sleep, I heard the sounds I was familiar with. Men coughing. The news being read on Radio Eireann. Through half-open eyes I could see Sister Catherine walking beside the trolley and felt the softness of her hand firmly gripping mine.
I felt well when I woke, not as sick or as thirsty as I had been previously. The thirst I dreaded so much was speedily vanquished by a cup of warm sweetened tea which Sister Catherine held and allowed me to take at my own pace. Within a few hours I was sitting up in bed and having a light meal.
I was ten years of age before I celebrated a birthday. Birthdays didn’t happen in the Industrial School and were not bothered about in any of the other hospitals I had been in. In Mother of Mercy Ward, there was a certain amount of excitement when anyone was celebrating a birthday. A request might be played for them on Radio Eireann’s Hospitals’ Requests, and there would be more than the usual amount of visitors. It wasn’t unusual to see a relative slip a bottle from a brown paper bag discreetly under the bedcovers of the patient he was visiting. For that day nurses turned a blind eye to what was happening, though next morning the half-empty bottle of whiskey would be confiscated after a search of bedside lockers. Wives fussed more than usual and if the opportunity presented itself would draw a screen around the bed, through the folds of which I could see them embrace and kiss their husbands with great passion and urgency.
I woke early on 19 May 1961 to a chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’ from nurses and some patients. Both night-nurses and day-nurses had gathered around Sister Catherine and Margaret Duffy who were carrying a large parcel. A white envelope bearing my name was sellotaped to it. As it was lifted onto my bed, they asked me to guess what it was, but I was too excited to. It felt light and delicate. As they helped to remove the paper, the shining chrome bars of a birdcage were slowly revealed containing a beautiful, greyish-blue budgie that hopped from perch to perch.
‘What are you going to call him?’ Margaret asked.
‘I don’t know,’ I answered.
‘What about Pedro?’ she suggested, pronouncing the ‘P’ as a ‘B’.
‘OK,’ I said, repeating the name. I was so delighted and preoccupied with the present that I didn’t notice a card pinned on the wall over my bed. It was Margaret Duffy who drew my attention to it.
I looked up at the long unfolded card and read out PADDY: TEN YEARS OLD. The words were printed in bright luminous green.
‘That was made specially for you,’ she said.
‘Who made it?’ I asked.
‘Bernard did.’
‘Who is Bernard?’
‘He’s my boyfriend,’ she said, blushing slightly, as she realized she had given his name unintentionally. ‘You’ll meet him later. You’re coming to the Zoo with us.’
I asked to have everything taken off my locker so I could put the cage as close to me as possible. I stared through the tiny rails, my eyes riveted on the bird fluttering around the cage, chirping and occasionally screeching as he hung by his beak from a yellow plastic swing. The noise was annoying some of the patients who were demanding that the ward sister ‘take that damned bird to hell out of the place’.
‘You should take the bloody child too, and that would solve all the problems,’ one shouted.
The Matron arrived as the ward sister was explaining to those objecting that it was my birthday and they should accept the right of a child to have some fun. Matron walked towards me, looking angrily at the budgie. Then the brightly coloured card over the bed caught her eye. She called the ward sister and demanded that the cage be removed from the ward at once.
‘We are in a hospital, Sister, not a home for pets,’ she said sternly.
The ward sister tried to explain, but the Matron was not interested and said so. I was bitterly disappointed as my present was taken from the ward. Despite my tears the Matron warned me that she didn’t want to see the bird back in the ward again or the other patients disturbed.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ she said, pointing to the birthday card over my bed.
‘It’s a birthday card, Matron,’ the sister replied. ‘One of the nurses got it made specially.’
‘It will have to come down immediately. It is more like an advertisement for whiskey and it could be upsetting to the older patients.’
She walked swiftly towards the door, turning to warn that she would be back. As the card was removed, the ward sister told me that I could go to her office any time I liked to play with the budgie.
Sister Catherine dressed me in new clothes, saying that she ‘wanted her little man to be looking lovely when he went out’. She carried me in her arms out to the garden where she took some ‘Birthday Photos’. By this time I had great difficulty in keeping still and became very stressed when having a photo taken. The harder I tried to keep steady, the more difficult it became. She looked at the patch on my head where the hair had not grown since my operation, and suggested that I should wear a hat while out. I thought a hat would look silly and when I told her so, she didn’t pursue the matter.
As I waited to be brought out, I wondered how I was going to manage to get around the Zoo. I was worried about travelling in the car, remembering how tense and uncomfortable I had been the last time I had travelled in one. I was confused as to whether I wanted to go or not, but I said nothing.
Margaret Duffy arrived into the ward with her boyfriend Bernard and immediately noticed that the cage and budgie were gone along with the card he had made.
‘Where’s Pedro?’ she asked, angrily. ‘And what happened the card?’
The ward sister told her what happened. Margaret was furious and referred to her as ‘a right bitch’. She laughed at the thought of the card being an advertisement for whiskey.
Bernard looked on, unsure of what was happening. He was a tall thin man with very sharp features and a pale complexion. He had blond hair and deeply set blue eyes. After we had been introduced to each other the ward sister told Margaret that she had reservations about asking Matron that I be allowed out, in case it would result in a refusal. She suggested that they slip out of the hospital with me as quickly and quietly as possible. Bernard lifted me and carried me down the short corridor to the main hall and out the door into his black Volkswagen. There was a sense of urgency about everything from the time we left the ward until the car was out of sight of the hospital.
When Bernard carried me through the entrance of Dublin Zoo the cashier indicated he would not be taking for me. H
e suggested that instead of having to carry me around they might like to use one of the buggies lined up just inside the gates. Margaret pulled one out and Bernard put me sitting in it. I was most uncomfortable, my stockinged feet banged relentlessly against the polished steel frame and as my spasms became strong and violent, my feet actually entangled themselves behind the footrests, which could have broken my legs were it not for the swift movements of my companions. Eventually I could no longer endure the pain or discomfort of the buggy. Margaret and Bernard agreed to carry me on a rota basis, and whenever we came to a cage where a lot of people had gathered, she politely asked to be excused. Children asked their parents why I had hardly any hair. Why was I not wearing shoes and why were my feet all crooked? Why did I have to be carried? But the adults and their patronizing smiles were more difficult to cope with than these perfectly understandable questions. Many of them clipped their children around the ear and told them to mind their own business. One child received a tremendous wallop when he said in a loud, musical, Dublin accent, ‘Hey Ma, that fella looks like a monkey, his ears stick out and he has a furry head.’
I wanted to get away from the crowds and be alone with Bernard and Margaret. He went to the shop while she carried me to a wooden bench at the edge of a lake. There were just a few people around and I was much more content. The realization that I was being constantly stared at had dampened my interest in the animals, except for a tiger called ‘Rama’. Bernard took a photograph of Margaret and me in front of his cage, while in the background the tiger devoured what appeared to me to be a horse’s head. The animal’s growling was interspersed with the sound of flesh being torn from bone, as the elegant beast held his meal firmly between two enormous front paws.
Bernard returned from the shop and sat to one side of me, sharing crisps, chocolate and lemonade.
‘What will you do when Mags leaves?’ he said suddenly.
I could feel her jab him furiously in the ribs with her elbow.
I was extremely close to Margaret Duffy and had come to regard her in many ways as a mother figure, someone that I could love, and who would return that love. I had never given a thought to the possibility of her leaving, though deep down I always felt we would be parted by me being moved to another hospital. I was equally attached to Sister Catherine but because she was a nun I felt there was always a barrier between us.
I wanted to be alone with her, to talk. Why was she leaving? Where was she going? Would I ever see her again or would it be just another person I loved and trusted gone for ever from my life?
‘When are you going?’ I asked eventually.
There was a slight agitation in her voice as she answered.
‘I don’t know.’
‘But Bernard said you were.’
‘Look,’ she said, forcing me to look her straight in the face, ‘it’s not as if we’ll never see each other again.’
The moment she spoke those words I knew that a close friendship was coming to an end. At first I didn’t want to know what she intended doing. I made that obvious by remaining silent on the journey back to her boyfriend’s flat. My sulking obviously annoyed her and when I was sitting on a bed she caught me by the hand and shook me slightly.
‘Listen,’ she said, ‘I’m very fond of you, you know that. It’s not going to be easy for me to leave. Not only do I have to leave you. What about my parents and my brothers and sisters as well as other friends? Do you think I won’t miss them?’
I kept silent while we had tea and cakes. While they were washing up I got off the bed and slid across the floor on my backside. Neither of them heard or noticed me. As I touched Margaret’s stockinged leg she screamed, frightened by the sudden and unexpected touch of my hand.
‘Why don’t you tell me where you’re going?’ I asked.
She squatted down to be as close to me as possible, then with her eyes fixed firmly on mine she said, ‘Bernard and I are getting married and are going to live in America.’
I went hysterical and began to scream and throw things around the small bed-sit. I accused her of liking ‘that fella’ better than me.
‘You’re the only friend I have in that smelly, stinking ward full of cross old men. You don’t care what happens to me. Do you. Do you?’ I screamed at her and when she tried to put her arms around me, I pounded my clenched fists into her chest and tried to kick her. As her boyfriend moved to restrain me, she told him she was all right.
‘Sister Catherine is very fond of you, and when I’m gone she will take care of you.’
‘I hate nuns,’ I said.
‘That’s not true, and you know it.’ She was getting angry. ‘Sister Catherine is very good to you. Who gets you all the lovely clothes you wear and who goes to the theatre with you? Isn’t she always there when you wake up? She takes better care of you than I ever could and it is not fair to say that you don’t like her.’
‘I wouldn’t have to go to the theatre if she didn’t shave off my hair,’ I shouted.
‘Now you’re being stupid. You know well she’s just doing what she has to.’
I knew she was right and knew also that whether I liked it or not, I was going to have to let go of her. She had her own life which I could not be a part of.
‘Why do you have to leave?’ I asked.
‘Because I will be finished my training and once I get married I’ll have to leave the hospital anyway.’
‘Will you ever come to see me?’ I asked.
‘I’ll try, but America is a long way away, and it costs a lot to get home. There’s nothing to stop you writing and I will always answer your letters. I’ll by dying to know how you’re getting on.’
I didn’t speak on the journey back to the hospital and as she lifted me from the car, Margaret asked me to say goodbye to Bernard. I grunted something or other and when he pressed money into my hand, saying it was for ‘that famous money box’ I didn’t even thank him. I blamed him for taking Margaret out of my life.
‘Are you never going to speak to me again?’ she asked as she held my face close to hers, going up the steps of the hospital.
‘No,’ I growled.
‘Not even if I promise to buy you a goldfish and bowl before I leave?’
‘That old bitch of a Matron will just take it like she took the budgie.’
She laughed uncontrollably at my outburst. I laughed too. She whispered into my ear that bitch was not a nice word, but that I was right.
That laughter lifted the terrible hatred I felt for her a few hours earlier. When we reached the ward, Sister Catherine and the ward sister brought a sponge cake with ten lighted candles to my bedside. The three of them sang happy birthday and got me to blow out the candles and make a wish. A piece of cake was offered to all the patients, some of whom took it while others refused. While I was eating I stared into Margaret Duffy’s eyes and noticed tears in them. She left the cake on a piece of cardboard and rushed from the ward, saying that Bernard was waiting in the car. That was the moment I accepted the inevitability of her leaving for good.
In the days before she left, I made a point of ignoring Margaret Duffy as much as I could and turning my attention and affections to Sister Catherine. I looked to her to play games with me and for praise whenever I did anything.
Sister Catherine was different in every way from the nuns I had grown up with – kind, gentle and not afraid to show affection. She was never cruel to me and when I did require a reprimand, it was usually a playful event, like the day I was being particularly difficult, climbing out of bed and sliding around the ward on my behind. I slid under the patients’ beds much to their irritation. She pursued me from bed to bed and suddenly said, ‘Here’s Drac,’ with an urgency in her voice.
I came out from under a bed and was sliding across the floor to my own when she swept me up into her arms. I was laughing as she brought me to an upstairs bathroom and put me sitting in the empty bath, telling me to stay there until I decided to behave myself. She hadn’t thought I would be able to g
et out of it, but within minutes I was at the top of the stairs calling her name. From there I could see into the office where she was busy writing the day report into a ledger. She noticed me and rushed up.
‘How did you get out of there?’ she asked, lifting me into the office. She put me sitting in a chair at the desk beside her while she continued writing. I couldn’t resist the temptation to lift the black telephone and hold it to my ear.
‘What number do you want?’ a male voice said.
There was a board hanging in front of me with a list of numbers on it and I gave him one.
‘Are you a patient?’ he asked gruffly.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Patients are not supposed to use the phone. Where’s the sister in charge of that ward? I want to speak to her immediately.’
I slammed down the receiver, shaking with fear and told her what had happened.
‘Did anyone see you using the phone?’ she asked.
‘Just you.’
‘Me!’ she exclaimed. ‘I didn’t see anything.’
If I felt particularly lonely I asked to be put sitting on Vincent Flynn’s bed, where I would wave my hands frantically at him in the hope that he would blink. When that did not bring a response I tugged gently at his hair and even twisted his nose in the way the neurosurgeon used to twist mine. I used to read Enid Blyton’s ‘Famous Five’ books for him and tell him silly ‘Paddy the Irishman’ jokes and laugh loudly into his face. Sometimes I’d hold his mirror in front of him.
For months his parents had been calling to see him every evening, but when it became apparent that he was not getting better the visits became shorter and less frequent. Every time I saw them I longed for the love and affection of a mother or father. Indeed many times as I watched them hold their son’s hand I used to turn my back so they wouldn’t see me crying. They always asked to see a doctor about what was being done for their son and sometimes asked about the chances of a particular operation being successful. I had noticed that when Vincent was being taken to the theatre his father was offered a form to sign which I heard a doctor describe as a ‘consent form’. I never saw anyone sign a form for me but often wondered who, if anyone, did. The other thought I had constantly was if I had parents, would they have allowed so much to happen to me?