“What would you like to eat?” Jack asked.
“I’m really not very hungry.”
“You have to eat something.”
“All right. Whatever you’re having.”
Jack half turned. “Brendan.”
“Yes, Doctor Mills,” the barman said.
“Two pints and two steak and mushroom pies and chips.”
“Right.” He called the order through a hatch and put two pints on the pour.
“So, tell,” Jack said.
Barry took a deep breath. “It was Rusky Peters—”
“The fellow you admitted our very first day in casualty? You’ve told me a little about him.”
Barry nodded. “After I’d made my diagnosis of polycythaemia, I explained it to him.”
“That’s a bit unusual.”
“I know. He told me he felt safe with me. Asked me to visit him after he’d been admitted. You know Nurse Jan Peters?”
“Aye. A right decent lass.”
“She’s his daughter. I said I would.”
“’Scuse me.” Brendan set two pints of Guinness on the table.
“Thanks, Brendan,” Jack said, and lifted his pint. “Cheers.” He drank.
“Cheers.” Barry sipped the creamy stout. It tasted bitter tonight.
“Go on,” Jack said.
Barry stared at the table. “To cut a very long story short, my diagnosis was confirmed. Rusky had a phlebotomy but lost two toes. I got to visiting him and we’d play draughts. Two months later, he lost a leg below the knee. I visited him then too, because by now he and his family weren’t patients. They were friends.” Barry looked Jack in the eye. “I was coming off duty today and met Jan going onto 22. I was there when Doctor Millar broke the news to Jan and her mum. Rusky had had a massive stroke.” Barry’s eyes misted. “He’s on his way to the mortuary.” He grabbed his pint and took a gulp. “And here I sit, trying to sort out how I feel. But one thing’s for sure. I’m bloody miserable.”
“Excuse me, Doctors.” Brendan set two plates on the table. “And will there be anything else?”
“No, thanks, Brendan,” Jack said, sprinkling vinegar on his chips.
Barry took the opportunity to turn away and dab his eyes with a hanky that he stuffed back in his pocket.
“That is tough, mate. I’m sorry for your troubles. I truly am.” He touched the back of Barry’s hand.
Barry ate a chip. “I’ve had people I know die before, but none of them hit me like this.” He frowned. “My grandfather died when I was nine. My parents sent me off with an uncle to go fishing for a few days. Until the funeral was over. I understand now they were trying to shelter me. I didn’t understand what was going on back then.”
Jack was tucking into his pie and frowning. “It’s not the same, but you know I grew up on a dairy farm. When I was eight I had this pet cow named Bessie. I loved that cow. She’d follow me around the place like a dog. Well, she died, and my dad told me she’d gone to a retirement farm. He was trying to protect me. It really hurt when an older boy at school told me the truth.”
Barry nodded. “Kids can be cruel.”
“Come on, Barry. Eat a bit of your pie.”
Barry did, but it was tasteless. “The summer I was sixteen, one of my best friends from Bangor was drowned in Belfast Lough.”
“How did you take it?”
“It’s strange. After the immediate shock and a vague feeling of loss, I accepted the fact that life had to go on without Ron.”
“I reckoned I was immortal when I was sixteen. I think we all have to be a bit older than that before we really understand how final death is.”
“You’re right. And I do know now, and it’s odd because when I heard Rusky was dead there was no sense of shock. I suppose our medical training forewarned me of the real possibility after Rusky’s toes had been amputated in August and his leg in November.”
Jack nodded. “We do have an advantage as doctors. We can make realistic appraisals of possible outcomes. I know it’s trite, but forewarned is forearmed. At least it is for me. And there’s another thing. Anyone who thinks doctors save lives hasn’t got it quite right. Medical intervention, if it works, merely delays the inevitable. Death comes to all of us. I think you understand that, Barry.”
Barry nodded. “I do. It’s true. In Rusky’s case, I was, at least intellectually, fully prepared.”
Jack pushed away his empty plate. “Intellectually prepared, but not emotionally?”
“You know how we’re told that as doctors we need to get a thick skin? I think I am getting a bit of one. Death is part of life.” Which was something of which Barry had become very conscious when he had thought he was facing his own imminent demise when he’d had mono. “I can accept that. Rusky would have felt no pain after he became unconscious. His suffering’s over. My doctor half tells me that.”
Jack touched Barry’s hand again. “I think, my friend, you’re going to survive this.”
“Mebbe, Jack, but inside I’m aching for my lost friend. Rusky Peters was a brave man, a man who had accepted the hand life had dealt him and faced the future with courage.” He took a pull on his Guinness. “I told you we’d played draughts. He was a true craftsman. You should see the beautiful marquetry draughts board he made me. He gave it to me in November.”
“And you’ll treasure it, won’t you.”
“By God I will, as a constant memento of a good man.”
“Despite what our profs keep telling us, you got close to the man. Let him into your life.”
Barry nodded. “And because I didn’t keep him at arms’ length, I got a great deal of satisfaction knowing I was helping him.” Barry took a deep breath. “And just like people have warned me, I’m going to have to pay the price. I have to face my own sense of loss.” Even though he was in public, Barry fished out a hanky and for a while let the tears flow, dried them, blew his nose, pocketed his hanky.
Jack was clearly putting every ounce of sincerity in his words. “You’re a good man, too, Barry Laverty. And you’re a good physician. You’re going to have an empty place inside you for Rusky Peters for quite some time. But you’re strong.”
“Thank you, Jack, and both as a physician and friend of the family I must be strong for them.”
“You will be.”
“I wondered when Harry Sloan said he found it difficult to handle death if he was a man of deeper feelings. Do you think all those losses so soon after the beginning of his houseman’s year overwhelmed him?”
“Harry’s a sound man and he has the ability to be honest with himself. I admire that, and I see it in you too, Barry. For now, you’ll have to grieve and mourn, but you’ll cope.”
“Thanks, and do you know what? I’ll still want to get to know my patients.”
“I wouldn’t have thought otherwise.”
Barry felt the tension leave his muscles. He was a lucky man to have a friend like Jack Mills.
“But you won’t be able to if you starve to death.”
Barry looked down at his barely touched meal and half-finished pint.
“I told you about the wee blonde from Carrickfergus. I’ll have to get my skates on.” He rose. “You sit on and mull over what we’ve talked about. I’m going to pay and get Brendan to reheat your dinner. Now promise me…”
“What?”
“You’ll eat it up.”
“I will, Doctor.” Barry managed a smile. “Bless you, Jack. Thanks for listening.”
And for once the never-serious-for-long Jack Mills did not make some flippant quip in an assumed accent but instead made a small, solemn bow, laid a hand briefly on Barry’s shoulder, and was gone.
Brendan appeared. “Warm it over for you, Doc?”
“Please.”
“Excuse me, sir.”
“Yes, Brendan?”
“You’ve been coming in for years. Now you can tell me til mind my own business, but you look a bit down. You all right, like?”
“I am a bi
t low, and you’re not being nosy. I appreciate your concern. I’m going to be fine, but thanks for asking.”
“Even if you are, sir, your pint’s as flat as a pancake. I’ll bring you a new one. On me.”
“Decent of you. Thank you.”
Brendan collected the plates and glasses. “Back in a wee minute with your pint, sir.” He left.
Barry was thinking over what he and Jack had discussed when a young man came in and started to help a woman off with her coat. She turned and her green eyes opened wide.
Barry jerked back in his seat. Apart from glimpses at a distance in the hallways of the Royal, their paths had not directly crossed since December. Virginia Clarke was as lovely as ever, but today he had only room in his heart for the Peters family. He looked away, but in a moment had to glance at her again.
She was standing bending over, obviously explaining something to the young man now seated at the table. He had sleek black hair, blue eyes, and a look of surprise on his open face as he looked at Barry. He was Alan Baskett, a newly qualified surgeon.
Barry watched as she approached his table.
“Barry. How are you?”
He rose. “I’m fine.” His current problems were not something he wanted to discuss.
“May I sit down for a moment?”
“Please.” He held what had been Jack’s chair and wondered what this was all about.
She sat and he followed.
“How have you been?” she asked.
For a moment Barry debated whether to pretend he was perfectly fine, implying that he was over her already, as if she’d never mattered to him, and let her stew over it. “How am I?” He breathed in. “I still miss you.” And he did, but he was not going to embarrass himself by saying he was still in love with her.
“I’m sorry, Barry. I really am. I know how much I hurt you, but I truly believe we weren’t right for each other and it was better to get it out in the open rather than pretend.”
He was tempted to say, “I wasn’t pretending,” but what was done was done. No need to be vindictive. “I believe you’re right,” he said, and forced a smile.
“Thank you. You were always a gentleman. Still are.”
He couldn’t mouth “thank you” again. He shrugged.
“There’s something I want to tell you before you hear it on the rumour mill, unless you’ve already heard.”
“Heard what?”
“I think you know Alan Baskett.”
“I do. He was a registrar on 13 and 14 when I was a surgical dresser there last year. Decent chap. Funny as hell.”
“He is.” Her voice softened. “He’s a superb surgical technician too. I’ve been scrubbing for him since early January.”
Barry had heard that admiration of professional skill could be the start of an attraction between doctors and nurses. “I see.” He knew that his voice was flat.
“We’ve been keeping company for six weeks.”
God, that was quick. It stung Barry to think she could get over him so quickly. He glanced over at Alan Baskett, but he was hidden behind his menu.
“Barry, I know this is hurtful for you, but it’s important to me that you understand.”
“I’ll try.”
“Excuse me, sir. Your pint.”
“Thanks, Brendan.”
Virginia glanced up at Brendan, then back to Barry. “Alan enjoys his time off and doesn’t get too close to his patients.”
A common trait among surgeons, Barry knew. “Which I am afraid is one of my faults,” and, boy, was this a time to be reminded of it. “Virginia, I’m trying to understand, but could you get to the point?”
“Very well. Last week he asked me to marry him. I said yes and—”
Virginia paused and Barry felt a crushing weight on his chest.
“I want to explain something else.”
What more could there be?
“Do you remember our first date on Cave Hill?”
“Yes.” Did he? He’d never forget the softness of her kisses.
“And I told you I was serious about nursing, wanted to be a midwife, and I wasn’t in it like a lot of the girls to snag a young doctor.”
“I do.” He swallowed down the words that wanted to be said: But you have, and bloody quickly too.
“It’s not like that. Alan is quite happy for me to have a career.” Her voice caught in her throat. “I just didn’t want you to be angry, that’s all.”
“I’m not angry.” I’m heartbroken—again.
“Thank you.”
Barry sat silent for several moments before he was able to collect himself enough to force a weak smile and offer the Ulster well-wishing. Not congratulations, but, “I wish you both every happiness. I really do.”
Virginia rose. “Thank you, Barry. You are a generous man. Good luck.” She crossed the floor and sat with her face to her fiancé and her back to Barry, who now was as low in spirits as he had ever been. Free pint and reheated meal be damned. He stood, turned, and walked away.
33
Arms of Cool-Enfolding Death
June 4, 1969
“Come in, Doctor Laverty, Doctor Emer,” Guffer Galvin called from where he held his front door open. “Thank you for coming so quick.”
Barry, clutching his bag, ran after Emer, dodging through an early June afternoon’s sudden downpour and into the terrace house.
Guffer closed the door and leaned back heavily against it. “We’re sure our Annie’s gone.”
Barry stopped brushing the water from his jacket. “We’re so very sorry, Guffer.”
“Thank you, sir.” He sighed. “We all was expecting it, and, praise be, she didn’t suffer. Youse doctors and the district nurse seen til it she was comfortable. It was dead nice when you brought Kenny til see her last week. She was daft about the big dog. Talked about him for a whole fifteen minutes after you’d gone.”
“I’m glad it helped,” Barry said.
“She seemed til be fading this morning, so Mister Robinson our minister come and seen her again. They had a wee prayer together.” Guffer opened the door to the living room. Pat, tall, broad-shouldered, and the younger Seamus, slight, blue-eyed, both stood. Pat said, “Thank youse for coming, Doctors.”
Seamus, eyes glistening, merely nodded. He’d arrived from Palm Desert, California, eight days ago.
“Me and our boys was with her at the end there now. I was holding her hand and her skin was freezing and she’d got paler in spite of her jaundice. She smiled and whispered, ‘I love youse all,’ closed her eyes, and never opened them again. Her breathing got very shallow, then she give a big sigh. She’d”—Guffer’s voice cracked—“stopped breathing.” He inhaled deeply. “I should’ve known what til do, but I just stood there both legs the same length. It was Pat said, ‘Da, you’ll have til get the doctor.’”
“I asked what for?” Seamus said. “Doctors don’t do resurrections. I was powerful upset, so I was. Still am.” He sniffed. “I wasn’t thinking straight.”
Pat said, “I’ve been through this with a friend’s granny in Dublin last year, so I know there’s paperwork and stuff like that the doctor has til do.”
“You’re right, Pat,” Barry said. “We’ll take care of it. Why don’t you all sit down and Doctor Emer and I’ll go and see Anne, and maybe, Guffer, you could put the kettle on?” A cup of tea was, and always had been, the great comforter.
“I’ll see to it, Doctor.”
“Come on,” Barry said to Emer. “We know our way.”
Together they climbed the narrow stairs. Barry noticed that someone had polished the brass carpet rods. The chintz curtains over the bedroom window were drawn shut and the upper sheet had been pulled over Anne’s head.
“I’ll examine her. I know you know how to confirm death,” Barry said. He set his bag beside him and pulled back the sheet. She lay motionless in her nightie, hands crossed over her breast. “The skin of her face is paler than the last time I saw her.” Someone had taken her glass
es away, but she was still wearing her woolly hat. “Her eyes are open and her pupils dilated.” Barry took out his penlight, shining it directly into each eye in turn. “No response.” He took a small mirror from his bag and held it before her lips. The glass did not steam up. He bent and put his ear near to her lips. No sound of breathing, nor could he feel the passage of air. “She’s not breathing and…” Barry moved her head slightly to one side and it moved easily. Rigor mortis only set in two to four hours after the heart stopped, about the same time as the appearance of cadaveric spots. “Her skin’s cold.”
His right index finger pressed over her carotid artery but detected no pulsations. Statistically, the terminal event causing death was ventricular fibrillation causing cardiac arrest in 93 percent of cases, and in Anne’s, not even Doctors Pantridge or Geddes could have, and in Barry’s opinion, should have, attempted defibrillation. She had drifted into unconsciousness before the end and it had been a painless way to her inevitable passing. “No carotid pulse, so no heartbeat.” He stood up. “Good-bye, Anne Galvin,” he said. “I’m glad it was an easy death.” He used his thumb and index fingers to close her eyelids, and pulled the sheet back up.
Emer was standing, quietly crying. “It’s very sad,” she said. “She was a lovely woman and bolstered by her faith.” She inhaled. “Sometimes I think you Protestants miss out by not being given extreme unction. When I worked in the Mater Infirmorum, I saw several people die. I could tell how much comfort they took from the last rites.”
Barry, remembering how he had felt when Rusky Peters had died five years ago, kept his voice gentle when he asked, “Did you cry for those patients?”
She shook her head. “No. I didn’t know any of them like I knew Anne. I didn’t watch any of them falling in love with a big dog. I’d cry if a friend died too.”
Barry moved to her and hugged her. He felt her head on his shoulder, warm tears on his neck, and her sobs. He gently led her to a chair and helped her sit. “Here.” He gave her his hanky.
She dried her tears. “Thanks, Barry.” She returned the handkerchief. “Thanks a lot.”
“I know why you’re crying. I don’t cry now—men aren’t supposed to—but when I was a houseman I made friends with a man—a patient. I saw him on my very first day and watched him get worse between that admission and another one three months later. He faced up to things, tried to keep his spirits up. The third time he was admitted, he died before I could see him. And it hurt me. A lot. I’d lost a friend. A friend who’d given me a draughts board he’d crafted himself. I have it yet, and I have a wee bit of me that still remembers and misses him.”
An Irish Country Family--An Irish Country Novel Page 33