Do or Die

by Rita Harling

  Over the coming months, as my vulnerability became apparent to Brian, his control and abuse became more pronounced. As the weeks passed there was a lot of activity at the house, with Brian’s friends, Peter Joyce and Peter Kiernan, coming and going a lot. He worked with both of them in Premier Dairies. I knew that they were up to no good. John ‘the pallet man’ was still hanging around. I was surprised by Brian’s dad; he was also showing an interest in whatever plan Brian was concocting. I knew that it had to be something dodgy. I had a feeling whatever they were up to was not good. I knew it was another of their get-rich-quick schemes. Brian’s father’s involvement was only endorsing what Brian was doing. At the time, I wished he had encouraged Brian to not get involved. I didn’t stand a chance when it came to airing my concerns. They were too blinded by the easily acquired cash now available to them.

  It was October and we were still rowing. I couldn’t understand what was happening to us. I couldn’t understand why he was ruining what we had: a new home, a baby on the way and a lovely girl. I had been happy, but I had been blind and I felt fooled. I felt that he had been pulling the wool over my eyes all this time, luring me into a false sense of security. He had built up my dreams, then knocked them all down. And he enjoyed doing it.

  Our house was constantly full of Brian’s friends, scheming and plotting new ways to make money. I never knew where Brian was. Robyn’s home life was affected. I knew that my little girl was worrying. She would often snuggle up to me on the couch, and ask why Brian was doing the things that he was doing. Robyn would not have known about the hash, but she understood clearly that Brian had stolen the pallets on the forecourt. At such a young age, that would have worried her. Children need to feel protected, not afraid, as she clearly was. This was not how I had planned our life in our new home to turn out.

  I never heard another word spoken about Paul and I often wondered what had happened to him. It was apparent to me that Brian had actually been using Paul, as he would have been able to teach Brian how to cut and bag either heroin or cocaine. He would also be able to shine some light on how to close a drug deal, and, how he could evade the gardaí. Brian had known nothing about drugs in the beginning, but Paul clearly did. There was no other reason why Brian would have associated with him.

  I was nearing my due date. I had a hospital appointment on 20 November 1997, and Brian and Robyn came with me. I brought my overnight bag — just in case.

  When they did tests, my urine sample had showed protein content. The doctor advised me that he was concerned because protein had been detected at my last two visits and no one had noted it. During pregnancy, too much protein in the urine over a period of time is an indication that something is wrong internally and that the body is not filtering its waste properly. Too much protein in the urine of a pregnant woman can lead to problems with the liver, kidneys and the brain and can also lead to edema and high blood pressure, which is dangerous. The doctor told me that he was going to admit me, and that I would possibly have to have the labour induced.

  I stayed in the hospital to have more tests done, and Brian went to the pick-up to bring me my bag that I had packed. It contained my pyjamas and toiletries. By the time he got back to me, the doctor had me in a ward and had instructed the nurses that my waters where to be broken and that I was to be put on a synotinocin, which was a drip to move my labour along. Things were at last beginning. I was so excited to meet my baby, but I was also afraid and hoped that everything would be all right. Brian left the hospital and brought Robyn to my mother’s home. He promised that he would come straight back to me. It seemed like forever, as I paced the corridors in excruciating pain.

  Then he was back and I was relieved. Brian was holding me up, as I stooped in agony. He encouraged me, praised me and reassured me. The midwife was terrific. She did everything in her power to make me as comfortable as possible. But the pain was becoming unbearable. It got so bad that I lost track of time. Eventually I was brought into the labour room. I could see a large black mattress on the ground. Everyone in the room helped to get me down onto the floor and make me as comfortable as they could. I was crying in pain and begging for help. I thought that I was going to die.

  My cervix had fully dilated, but this child did not want to come out. The doctor and the midwife held my legs apart as I screamed in agony. Both of them encouraged me to push. Brian sat on the mattress with his arms around my back, holding both of my hands and speaking words of encouragement, but still this child would not be born. I begged the doctor for a caesarean section, as I felt that something was wrong, but he refused. He then reached for an object made of shinny metal. I could not make out what it was until the doctor placed it between my legs and began to pull with force at my baby’s head.

  It was at this moment that Brian turned to me, apologised and left the room. He could watch no more. Not now!. I thought I really didn’t want him to leave me at that point. The doctor continued to pull at my child’s head and I became increasingly alarmed by this. I was overwhelmed with fear for my baby’s life. At that point the midwife pushed the doctor away from me shaking her head. Even through my pain I understood that they were arguing about what the next step should be. The midwife was demanding that I have a caesarean section: the caesarean section that I had pleaded for twenty-eight hours earlier.

  I do not remember much else after that. The last memory I have was being brought in a lift to a bright room and being surrounded with masked people, all dressed in green. One doctor quickly examined my chest. As he did, he questioned the doctor who had been attending to me and asked if he had noted a murmur on my heart.

  ‘Anyone detected a murmur on her heart?’ he asked, panicking.

  ‘No,’ came a faint answer from the corner of the room from the doctor who was now standing aside and watching in awe.

  ‘Well she has one now!’ he added, sounding alarmed.

  The events that followed over the coming days after the birth of my baby boy, Conor, were completely foreign to me. I had had a bad time. I was on life support in a different hospital in the city, and my baby had remained in the special care unit of the maternity hospital. Conor was three days old and he had not met his mammy yet. We both needed a cuddle.

  I remember opening my eyes and trying to focus on what was in front of me. I was frightened when I realised where I was. The machines that were keeping me alive were all around me making funny noises. I could see what was like a glass window in front of me and behind that glass was a small room. I could see a person move about and they eventually came out of the room and stood beside me.

  ‘Hello Rita. Don’t be frightened. You have not been well and we have been taking care of you. Your family have been here with you all of the time and they will be back again later. I am going to ask the doctor to come and see you, OK? You rest.’

  I watched as she left the room. I did not want to be left alone. I did not want to die alone. I couldn’t call her because of the tubes running down through my mouth and body. I could feel tears run down my face. I couldn’t move any part of my body, not even to lift my little finger. I tried to make out who else was in the room with me. As I peered to each side of me, I knew I was not alone. There were about four other beds in this tiny room. All of these people were just as sick as I was. They were also being kept alive by machines.

  The nurse returned to the room, but with a priest, not a doctor. He stood over me praying and anointing me. I remember I wanted to tell him to go away — how dare he assume I was going to die. I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t. Then they left. I fought to keep my eyes open, I was afraid to fall into unconsciousness and never wake up again. I wanted so much to see my baby. I didn’t know if I had given birth to a girl or a boy, or indeed if the child was also fighting to survive. I fought long and hard to stay awake, but at some point I drifted off again. But just before I nodded off, I spotted a small photograph on top of one of the machines. It was the first glimpse of my new baby, wrapped in a blue blanket. It was a boy.
He was OK. I was so relieved. I had wanted to dismiss God earlier, but now I wanted to embrace him for sparing my child’s life.

  I would never have imagined going through such pain during Conor’s birth. I had endured childbirth before with Robyn, of course, and went through some difficulty, which led to a caesarean section. However, on Robyn’s birth my recovery was quick, plus I had youth on my side. I was older having Conor; there was an eight-year gap between the two births.

  I was taken back to the maternity hospital after the general hospital had stabilised me. They had planned to send me for convalescence in a clinic in North Dublin. However, they discovered that I had contracted MRSA and that ruled that out. The maternity hospital had to put me into a private room. The television was always on and I couldn’t move to reach for the remote control. The doctors and nurses checked on me regularly; they tried their best to keep me comfortable.

  Over the coming days, I started to recover gradually. It was not easy. I had eventually been reunited with my son, but I had not been able to look after him as I wanted to. I could not pick him up without help from the nurses; they had to place Conor on my chest so that I could feel close to him. I was still very ill indeed. I was always fearful if the nurses left the room that Conor would roll out of my arms and I would not be able to catch him. I had no strength.

  I also learned that the doctors had operated on me. I had undergone a hysterectomy. That upset me a lot because it meant that I would never be able to give birth again. I no longer had that choice. It felt as if my womanhood had been taken away from me. The doctors explained to me the difficulties that had resulted in the hysterectomy being performed. They said it was in order to save my life. I had been bleeding internally for a long period after the caesarean section and had suffocated in my own fluids. In order for them to resuscitate me, they had tried to locate the bleeding and isolate it, but in doing so my uterus was affected. I was lucky to have my life.

  Conor spent most of the first and second week in the neonatal intensive care unit (NICU) in the maternity hospital. I was unable to get out of bed to go and visit him, even though he was only on the floor above me. I could not move my body. Conor was doing well; there were no further complications with his health. The doctor had advised me that he could be taken home by a family member. Brian’s mam volunteered, but I declined her offer as I did not want anybody else bonding with him before I could.

  One morning I woke up feeling a lot of pain in my abdomen. Although I was on a lot of painkillers, none of them seemed to be numbing this pain. I was so sick that I was unable to reach for the bell that was hanging on the bedpost above my head. I tried to call out, but the door to my room was closed and no one could hear me. Then, to my horror, as I lay limp in the bed, the crisp white cotton sheet turned into blotting paper. I watched in terror as my blood was soaked up by the sheets. I was so scared, but I couldn’t even move my hands to lift the sheets to see where it was coming from. I remember I started to scream and call for help. The TV was still on and the volume was quite high.

  I screamed and screamed through desperation and with what little strength I had, I managed to get a grip of a hairbrush that a nurse had left on the bed that morning after washing me. Using all my strength I managed to fling it at the door. I continued screaming until a number of people burst through the door. Among them was my doctor. He had been doing his rounds that morning and he was accompanied by about three or four nurses. I thanked God that someone had heard me. The doctor tried to calm me and lifted the sheets to have a better look. I was afraid to look at first. When I did I was even more horrified, as I could see my intestines were trying to burst out through the scar tissue. I could sense the doctor’s panic. They immediately put me on an intravenous drip and they prepared the area for further surgery, cleaning and dressing it. The doctor then left the room and told me that he would be back shortly.

  When the doctor returned, he told me that I was going to be sent to St Vincent’s Hospital, in Donnybrook. He explained that the wound had dehiscenced and would have to be repaired. He said that it would be a dangerous operation because the wound might not repair and also because I would have to go under another general anaesthetic. This meant that I would have had three general anaesthetics very close together. The thought of the operation and the risks involved terrified me.

  An ambulance came quickly and brought me to St Vincent’s. They took me into the intensive care department where the staff rallied around me quickly. It was then that I saw my mam and my sister Mary arrive. The doctors explained to them what was about to happen.

  I knew that they were both apprehensive. I knew what I was facing now. I had made it through the last time, but this time I might not be as lucky. I said my goodbyes to them and prayed to God to save my soul. I could see mam and Mary fade into the distance as the porter wheeled me into the operating theatre. I remember crying.

  I have never really believed in near-death experiences. I have always remained a little sceptical on that subject. I’ve had my doubts when I’ve heard stories about people who find themselves at death’s door, in some sort of tunnel of light in the presence of angels or spirits. I can only explain what happened next as a beautiful dream. I found myself surrounded by a beautiful calming light. There was no tunnel. I remember that I saw my late father in the distance. I was delighted to see him and started to run towards him to hug him, but as I was running I realised that I was not getting any closer to him. I remember feeling overwhelmed with joy, I was so happy. He stood there without moving; he had his hands in his pockets and he was smiling at me. He didn’t beckon me to come any closer to him or greet me with outstretched arms; he just smiled at me. Then a small dark-haired woman linked my left arm and led me away from him. I was protesting and trying to get away from her. I wanted to go to my father but she wouldn’t let me. She told me that we needed to go in a different direction and insisted that we move away. I was waving at my dad and trying to make him understand that this woman was not letting me get any nearer. He remained smiling at me while he faded into the distance. Then I was back in the darkness. I’ve never dreamt of him since.

  Thankfully, the operation was a success. My recovery was a bit slow though. I could not eat, and as much as the dietician offered me different foods, I still didn’t feel like eating. After undergoing three general anaesthetics, my tongue was like sandpaper and food felt like razor blades. The doctors were worried. I wasn’t eating and they needed me to so that I could build up my strength. They decided to put me on a feeder drip. This meant that I would have a drip that ran up my nose and into my stomach. It sounds disgusting but it saved my life.

  My family and Brian’s family visited both Conor and me everyday. They were very supportive and encouraging. Brian visited too. He was delighted with his new son. On a few occasions he failed to show up, but he would ring me and make his excuses. I suspected that he was up to no good, but all I really cared about was my baby son and my body recovering. All I wanted was to get home for Christmas to celebrate it as a family: Brian and me and our two children, Robyn and Conor. I missed Robyn and I knew that she was missing me too. I knew that she was safe and well, as she was staying with my mam. My family looked after her when Mam wanted to visit the hospital to see me.

  It was a week before Christmas when the doctors gave me the all clear to go home. I was feeling stronger and couldn’t wait to get out of that institution that had been my home for five weeks. Brian seemed to be in a hurry to get us out of there too, and I welcomed his enthusiasm. So I quickly packed all my belongings and we left with our beautiful new arrival.

  When I got home to the cottage, Brian opened the back door to the house and let us in ahead of him. I was surprised when I saw that the kitchen had been redecorated with new doors and wallpaper. It looked so cheerful. The wallpaper was burnt orange. It was bright and warm. I could smell the paint from the freshly painted white doors. I was delighted. Brian could tell from my face that I was pleased.

  I sett
led back in after my long absence and I soon had my routine in order. The kids and I were back together, and although I was still in a great deal of pain, I soldiered on. I was looking forward to Christmas Eve. It was my favourite day of the year. Brian had taken me shopping for Christmas presents. But he was distant and had been absent and unsupportive in the week leading up to Christmas. I wondered what was wrong. I felt that there was something going on, as Brian had been spending a lot of time with his friends. He told me that he would not be at home on St Stephen’s Day as he had made plans to go to the races at Leopardstown that day with his friend Peter. I told him that I wasn’t happy about his plans, but he didn’t seem bothered.

  It was Christmas, we had a new baby and I was also celebrating having my life and my health back, so I wanted this Christmas to be special. It was obviously special to me, but to Brian it seemed like he was once again caught up in himself and would continue to just suit himself. Once he was happy, nothing else mattered. I felt very sad over Christmas and I waited for St Stephen’s day to come. I wanted to see if he would change his mind and spend it at home with his family. I said nothing that morning. I watched him as he groomed himself and left the house. I sobbed when he left. I couldn’t believe it. I was barely able to look after myself, let alone our new baby, and he didn’t seem to give a damn.

  After Brian had left I decided to pull myself together. I washed and put my make-up on and fixed my hair, just in case I had any visitors later in the day. When I was finished, I inspected myself in the mirror. I was pleased: I looked good, despite feeling weak. My hair was cut short to about shoulder length and coloured a warm blonde. I had bought a Chinese-style maroon dress for Christmas that was figure-hugging from the neck to the floor. It was beautiful, and I thought that I looked beautiful in it. I did.