Saturday morning was thundering towards us and
all I wanted to do was go home. They
hadn’t found out what was wrong with me and tests were still happening, as and
when, but I just wanted to get home, well; one side of my brain did, and for
those of you who have read this complete blog, you will know that an Irishman
does not have two sides to his brain, like a regular person, an Irishman has four
sides. It’s why we lead the
universe. Normal people have only two
sides to their brain, the left side, which controls logic, language and
analytical thinking. Then there’s the
other side, the right side, depending which way you are facing of course, which
is best at expressive and creative tasks.
But then we have the Irish with the two extra sides. The frontal lobe, braininess frontiness, which
is used for impaired sensory navigation otherwise known as, ‘Walking whilst
drunk,’ or as many people refer to it, incorrectly, as staggering. And then we have the rear section of the
brain, the back side, which we use for talking through whilst drunk.
As an Irishman it would be normal to be told
that you could, ‘Talk the hind leg of a donkey,’ and why someone would wish to
disfigure some poor wee animal is beyond me and no, let’s not get into the
bullfighting again. But if the drink has
been taken then it would be more common, as an Irishman, to be told that you
were talking from the rear of your brain, or as it is more locally referred to
as , ‘Talking out your backside.’ So I
knew that there was a battle going on in my head with one side wanting to go
home, another side wanting to stay and get fixed and the other two sides just
wanting a drink. While all this was
going on, in my head, some fellow appeared beside my bed. Don’t worry we are not talking divine
revelation here, he introduced himself and we shook hands. He explained that he was the chap who was
about to shove a tube, with a camera, down my throat.
It was nice, for once, to have a young man
offer to shove something down my throat and for it not to be accompanied by a
threat. He explained that there were two
people before me and that I would probably be taken down within the hour. Now I know many of you would expect me now to
connect the term, ’Taken down,’ with British courts and justice and prison and
then make the leap to acknowledge that Gerry Conlon died a day or two ago. Gerry was one of the Guilford Four who was
imprisoned for being Irish for fifteen years and during that time watched his
innocent father die beside him in jail.
As there is no connection between British courts and justice, especially
for an Irish person, then there is no point in referring to it, but at the same
time the man’s passing must be acknowledged. And talking about passing I suppose I was impressed that someone from a busy department would come
down on to a ward and introduce himself and run through the basics of what was going
to happen. It was a first class
service, as all of the care was in the hospital.
It was a little disappointing when he turned up
half an hour later apologising that he wasn’t aware I hadn’t been fasting for
long enough and therefore would not be taken down to his department until much
later in the afternoon. Still a great
service and even though they waited until my afternoon visitors had gathered
around my bed, before coming to get me, I would still have no complaints. I only wish I had a camera handy to take a
photograph of Irene and the others sitting around an empty bed space. As an Irishman with four
sides to my brain, and therefore much more brain power than the ordinary
person, I had all four sides of my brain concentrate on the fact that my duty
was to get better, so this camera down the throat business was a part of
that. I didn’t fear it in anyway
whatsoever, in fact I welcomed it. I liked
the way I was able to remain on my bed; all I had to do was get on to my side.
There was a lot of gagging, but I promise you
no pain and no real discomfort either. I
was worried in case I threw up, as there were females in the room, but
otherwise quite a straightforward procedure and it seemed to be over in a
flash. They had sprayed my throat with
all sorts of stuff and it wasn’t until I was back on the ward that I gathered
myself together and wondered what on earth had just happened and begin to
wonder why my throat was numb. Not
everything went to plan, for example one morning a nurse explained to me that I
was to be given three pints of blood that day.
I knew that they wouldn’t conduct a transfusion on me during the night
hours as they kept going on about the chance of me having a bad reaction to the
transfusion. It was a little
disconcerting when they linked the bag of blood up to your vein and stood back
as if the proverbial fuse had been lit.
But I wasn’t to worry, that’s what they told me.
And why wasn’t I to worry? Well, if I was to have an adverse reaction to
the new blood I was being given it would happen within the first fifteen
minutes. Great I thought, clock
watching, along with the nurses. But
what flavour reaction would it be, would I levitate, have an epileptic fit or
just find myself disco dancing for half an hour while throwing up green bile by
the bucket load? No one ever explained
to me what form the bad reaction might take.
So you realise that the common denominator for the day will be blood
transfusion, but then things start to go wrong.
More bloody rules for transfusion, this time the time limits for
matching my blood with the stuff they wanted to give me was running out. In order to establish that the match was fine
and that the transfusion could go ahead I needed more blood taken and
tested. Three nurses later and we are
now waiting for a doctor.
The doctor didn’t turn up for four hours so the
clock can start all over again but you
understand that you are not going to get your three units of blood this day and
therefore will have to stay in hospital that little bit longer. I suppose a normal person might get angry but
I understood that there were people in the hospital who were of much greater
need than myself and had no qualms about understanding that when it was my turn
they would get to me. The poor medics
were working their socks off and deserved some leeway. I still felt that the doctor who made my
right arm swell up so that I looked like a comic book version of Popeye the Sailor
man, was a little off centre, but as he wasn’t Irish he didn’t have the option
of being perfect.
The only other Celtic patient was of the course
the Welsh preacher man opposite me. As a
ninety five year old man I felt sorry for him, it must not have been nice for
him to have been in hospital and to tell you the truth he did look a bit
lost. However he did make me laugh. Very cruel of me I know but the television
screen that draped over each of our beds, like Triffids, also had a
telephone. Each time a telephone would
ring, out by the nurses station, the Welsh preacher man would leapt out of bed,
well; leap out of bed as best as a ninety five year old gentleman can, race
around to the far side of the bed, which for me was funny in itself as all he
had to do was remain where he was and reach up to the telephone. But of course he would now be stood standing
by the side of his bed yelling into the telephone hand set “Hello? Hello?
Hello?” And of course with him
now on his feet he could have done the decent thing and given us a song, a good
old Welsh Hymn, or his version of a Welsh male voice choir with a jaunty
version of Cwm Rhondda, which for the Heathens among you has nothing whatsoever
to do with the Beach Boys.
I do like a Welsh Male voice choir but only at
a distance, fifty yards would be best, so I had no wish for his congregation to
turn up and serenade him at his bedside.
A Welsh male voice choir came to visit us once in Germany. Being serenaded in a rugby club, in Germany, by
a Welsh male voice choir is an experience in itself, but it didn’t quite fit
right. With a sound like that, you need
space for the voices to grow and expand.
I however wanted to speak with the minister; I wanted to begin to
question his beliefs, which normally I wouldn’t do, but I was angry with this
Pentecostal lot now. Live and let live is
my motto; well; as long as you are not a rabbit. Something Irene hates me for I must
be the only person in the United Kingdom who invites Mormon missionaries into
their home. She would often come home and
find me with two smartly dressed American young men in the room at the front of
our house with the big leather seaty things.
I would invite them in, sit them down, furnish them with tea and biscuits
and then begin to question the very core of their belief system. In fact, if you ever have some Mormon missionaries
knock at your door ask to have a look at their guide book. Look at the third page, at their, “Rules for
survival in the field.” Number
seven. Beware the Irishman, for he doth
talk out his backside.
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