The Irish Saga; or Do You Love an Apple?
Jan. 17th, 2016 11:39 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dedalus_1947Do you love an apple? Do you love a pear?
Do you love a laddie with curly black hair?
Yes, I love him. I cannot deny him.
I will be with him wherever he goes.
Before I got married I wore a black shawl
But now that I’m married, I wear bugger-all.
Still, I love him. I cannot deny him.
I will be with him wherever he goes.
(Still I Love Him, or Do You Love an Apple? – traditional Irish folksong)
I had this story roughly formatted in my head at 2 o’clock in the morning on the day we were finally leaving Dublin for home. That’s when it first occurred to me that I wasn’t the hero of this story. Yes, I was finally out of St. James Hospital after 4 ½ days. Yes, I had spent three nights in a public urology ward trying to ignore the moans, groans, and urgent, nightmarish pleas of a 90-year old ward mate named Sean. Yes, I had suffered the abdominal pressures and discomforts of a 3-pronged urinary catheter for a three-day flushing, irrigating, and flowing process. Yes, there were moments of pain, scary panic, and confused uncertainty, but I was finally out of the hospital, having just experienced a final enjoyable day and a half in Dublin with my Irish-American wife, Kathleen Mavourneen. But I am not the hero of this story.
So, on that restless night and morning of our last day in Ireland, when I couldn’t sleep, one episode, one particular scene came to mind. It had occurred five days prior, on Thursday, New Year’s Eve at 7:00 a.m. Kathy and I were in bed, lying side by side, staring at the ceiling of the hotel room. We had spent the previous day at the Emergency Room of St. James Hospital where I had been fitted with a catheter, given two portable bags, a prescription, and released. Now I was lying in bed, tense and alert, waiting to hold my breath and bear down at the next spasm of screaming pain. The catheter tube, instead of relieving the pain and releasing the pressure, was causing it by blocking the passage of a dark, reddish substance that looked like clotted blood, and forcing it around the tube. I had been up and down all night, trying to relieve the pain and pressure by standing in the bathroom, hoping that the catheter would work better in a vertical position. When I succeeded in reducing the pain, I would clean up the blood and spotting I left, hoping that Kathy wouldn’t suspect anything was wrong. That’s when I heard the first strangled sob in bed – then another, and then another. Kathy was crying, struggling not to, and failing miserably.
“I don’t know what to do,” she wept, knowing that something was wrong with me. “Should we cancel the trip and get you home? Should we go to Galway? I don’t know what’s the right thing to do”.
I looked over, seeking to console her, to reassure her that I was fine and everything was all right. But all I could do was reach across the wide expanse between us and grab her hand.
“Neither do I, honey”, I confessed in a strangled voice. “Neither do I.” I looked up at the ceiling and realized that Kathy was weeping my tears, and crying all my fears and uncertainties with her sobs. She was doing what I could not, because I believed I had to be strong, and stoic. What I couldn’t accept was that I was pretending and in denial. I really felt as scared and frightened as Kathleen.
Now Kathy, as a former principal and current assistant superintendent, is a professional crisis manager and leader (as I was until I retired from school administration 6 years ago). She deals with crisis every day, and helps other principals to solve theirs. But this was different. We did not have all the facts and we were in a foreign country, thousands of miles from home, without the usual means of contacting resources, colleagues, friends, and family that we rely upon for solace, advice, and assistance. We were alone and looking at an untenable situation that had me paralyzed with pain and confusion – and Kathy with indecision. It was only as I tightened my grasp on Kathy’s hand as her crying subsided that I somehow realized that we would get through this – and we would do it together. But we first had to put away the fiction that the pain and discomfort I was in was only a minor medical hiccup that would not disrupt our planned trip in Ireland. Something was broken, and I had to be fixed.
At this point, let me assure you that you can relax. I’m not going to burden you with too many details or medical facts about my health and treatment in this saga. Suffice it to say that after the funeral of Kathy’s father, the Doctor, we decided to travel to Ireland to celebrate our 40th Wedding Anniversary. As the departure date approached, and more and more travel and accommodation issues were dealt with, one unexpected event occurred. The blood work from my annual medical checkup revealed a higher that normal rise in my PSA (Prostate-specific antigen) level. That triggered a referral to a Urology specialist who conducted the next level of screening, which resulted in another high reading, indicating a “possibility” of cancer. This then led to a prostate biopsy to eliminate all likelihood. Rather than postponing the biopsy until after the trip (which we probably should have done), we decided to expedite it and have the cancer issue resolved as soon as possible. The biopsy, an uncomfortable and painful procedure was completed 7 days before we left for Ireland. Although there was some urinary spotting for a while, the follow-up protocol simply called for a period of antibiotic medication, plenty of hydration, and no intensive lifting or abdominal exertion. By the time we left I felt perfectly healthy and normal. After a remarkably comfortable 10-hour flight in Club-class seats on British Airways, with an Aer Lingus shuttle from London to Ireland, we arrived in Dublin on Monday night, December 28.
We were staying at O’Callaghan’s Hotel on St. Stephen’s Green, a central park in the city, conveniently close to Grafton Street, Dublin’s swankiest shopping area. A break in the rain gave the streets around us, still festooned with Christmas lights and decorations, a magical glow and shimmer. Kathy and I took advantage of the weather to drop our packing and start exploring and dining right away. I’ve mentioned in previous blogs what a joy it is traveling with Kathy. We share the same sense of wonder and excitement when walking, riding, and seeing new sights. Kathy becomes giddy and child-like with joy at seeing new places, and historical locales. The streets, the people, the color, architecture, and human interactions mixed with her knowledge of the cultural and historical past to make every scene and encounter a heightened one. That first evening, dining at Pacino’s and walking up and down Grafton Street in the misting rain only whet our appetites for what was to come next in Dublin, then on to Galway, Ballyvaughan, and Shannon.
Looking back at our first full day in Dublin, we probably over did it. A break in the weather gave us a cool and cloudy day, free from rain, so we were up and out at first light (8:30 a.m., with the sun setting at barely 4:30 p.m.). Starting from Starbucks on Chatham Street, across from Sheehan’s Pub, we quickly purchased new SIM cards for our phones and we walked through and around Grafton Street to Trinity College. Unfortunately, while the grounds of this hallowed home to Oscar Wilde, Jonathan Swift, Edmund Burke, and V.M. Synge, were open to the public, the university was on holiday, and the Old Library, which housed the Book of Kells, was closed. So we continued onward, crossing the River Liffey, changing dollars to Euros, shopping, and exploring the O’Connell Street District. I photographed the historic General Post Office, the Abbey Theatre, the Custom House, and posed for a picture at a statue of the famous native Dubliner, James Joyce. Eventually we re-crossed the Liffey and made our way to the Temple Bar District for lunch, and ended the cloudy and darkening day at Dublin Castle. That night, the trip we had planned for so long, with all its elaborate itinerary and arrangements, fell apart when my prostate betrayed me and I fell victim to the strain I had placed on it with all the lifting, lugging, and walking over the past two days.
I believe there are few male tortures worse than urinary blockage and streaming pain. I experienced it once before, many years ago, when I came down with a urinary infection, and again on December 30th, our second full day in Dublin. What made this occasion different was what little stream I managed to urinate was blood red in color and viscous, like scabbed blood. I had produced spotted drops of blood after the biopsy, but that spotting had eventually dissipated over time. What I was painfully trying to produce on Wednesday was more than spotted blood. However, believe it or not, worse than the pain I experienced, was the paralyzing fear that this inconvenient development was going to ruin our long-imagined, long-planned trip – and worse, delay our departure home. So I went through a long process of denial and subterfuge, hoping my condition would somehow resolve itself. I moved slowly and made as little noise as possible when leaving the bed for the bathroom, hiding my soiled underwear, and cleaning up whatever drops of blood I left. Then I’d lie to Kathy when she awakened to ask, in a worried voice, “Is everything okay?” The subterfuge was exposed when she finally followed me into the bathroom and saw what was taking me so long. Seeing myself, finally, through her eyes, I couldn’t continue deluding myself any longer. I needed further medical interventions.
I pride myself on being calm and level headed in crisis situations, not afraid to question or challenge unclear or confusing information. The fallacy to this conceit is exposed when I find myself dealing with problems outside my area of knowledge. Both the triage nurse and the ER doctor correctly diagnosed my condition as a post-biopsy complication and blockage (which we suspected), and explained the various urinary treatments and catheters available. Yet, both the ER doctor and the urologist, who was called in to review the diagnosis and treatment, opted for the most optimistic prognosis, and least disruptive measures to our tourist plans. Despite my pain and description of the blockage, I was fitted with a regular sized, two-way Foley catheter to relieve the obstruction, and released with extra traveling bags and a prescription for antibiotics. I was never given clear or comprehensible instructions or explanation of how the catheter and bags fit, worked, and were cleaned and managed. I never made it past the lobby. A stop in the restroom showed me that the catheter was not relieving the blockage pain, and that clots were working their way around the tubing. Upon our return to the ER, the urologist dismissed my discomfort as temporary bruising from the catheter insertion, and prescribed painkillers and muscle relaxants to go along with the antibiotics. There we were – two intelligent, assertive professional leaders, sitting passively quiet, as we were told what we wanted to believe and not what I was actually feeling. Once the painkillers took effect we left St. James Hospital and returned to our hotel where I went promptly to bed, with the catheter dangling by my bedside. Left hanging were all the questions and issues that Kathy and I had not addressed. Should we cancel the trip? Was I able to travel by train to Galway, and then by car to Ballyvaughn and Shannon? Should we call someone? Who can help? I took the cowardly path and concentrated on feeling better and becoming strong enough to travel in two days. Kathy was left with all the unanswered questions, an invalid husband, and no immediate access to help, advice, or support. It was a scary time.
That night and morning was a repeat of the previous one, only this time I was tethered to a catheter bag. I was constantly leaving the bed in hopes of relieving my inability to stream urine. Closer inspection showed that I was expelling little pieces of clotted blood around the tubing, and this, along with the urgent need to pee, was causing the pain. It was during one of the momentary respites, as I lay in bed next to Kathy, that I heard her crying. Paradoxically, those tears of hopelessness and despair at our situation finally released us from the paralysis of denial and indecision. We started talking and refocusing on the immediate problem at hand, and identifying the steps to address it assertively. First, get me back to the hospital and correctly treated. Once I was well and fit, we would return home. But our trip, as it was originally planned, was over. From that point on all interactions with medical personnel were to be critically questioned, repeated, understood, and analyzed for reasonableness. We were finally on the right track, breathing normally, calm, and acting in unison. The rest was easy.
So, how did I enjoy Ireland? Oddly enough, I enjoyed this trip very much. Even the unexpected medical interlude was a uniquely memorable experience. I love the city of Dublin. It contains every ingredient that goes into a world-class, historical, and cultural banquet – and it is a personal and “walkable” feast. I would have to walk every foot of Dublin before I could feel halfway satisfied or knowledgeable about it. Like Mexico City, New York, or London, one cannot travel 10 yards without bumping into some historical, artistic, or cultural monument, building, statue, or event. Every walk or stroll is an adventure through time, every street a chapter of Irish history. Since I only had two full days to explore the city, we also took advantage of the Hop-On, Hop-Off Bus Tour of the city the day before we left, and saw the whole sweep and scope of this pedestrian city. Our only lengthy stop that day was at the famous Guinness Storehouse and Brewery, where I learned the history of this iconic Irish stout, poured my own pint, and marveled at the 360° expanse of Dublin from the rooftop Gravity Bar on a clear and occasionally, sunny day.
Coming to Dublin was also the completion of my literary Hadj – my pilgrimage to the Mecca of Irish literature that spawned and nurtured such universally recognized literary giants as Oscar Wilde, W.B. Yeats, and Samuel Beckett. This was the city, and these were the streets that the author of Ulysses strode and wrote about in Dubliners, Finnegan’s Wake, and The Dead, and the home of the University College Dublin, which he attended, across the street from St. Stephen’s Green (now Newman University Church). My moment of supreme satisfaction came when I posed next to the statue of James Joyce on O’Connell Street, near the Abbey Theatre. Our trip could have ended right and there and I would have been satisfied. And it almost did. But beyond the cultural and historical ambience of the city, I really had no real chance to talk with, interact, or observe the customs and the Dubliners who inhabited this city until I moved into the Donal Hollywood Ward of St. James Hospital for a 4-day, three night stay.
It was there that I experienced the Irish dining schedule first hand. The Irish eat breakfast, lunch, and “tea” at approximately 8:00 – 9:00 a.m., 12:00 – 1:00 p.m., and 4:30 – 5:00 p.m. Prior to my hospital menu, Kathy and I stuck more or less with our American gastronomic routine: chai latte/coffee and rolls at 9-ish; soup, sandwiches, or fish and chips at 1-ish; and a larger dinner at 7-ish. Guinness was my staple beverage, except for breakfast. In the Hollywood Ward, the menu was fixed with cereal or “porridge” with tea for breakfast; well-done steak or chicken with potatoes, vegetables, and bread (with tea) for lunch; and an egg omelet or fish for “tea”, with coffee or tea. The meals were surprisingly tasty (although I must confess that my smelling and tasting senses are notoriously suspect). I found the Irish culinary schedule very practical and similar to that of Mexico and most Hispanic countries, with the major meal, or cena, in the middle of the day, with a light merienda (or snack) in the late afternoon or at sunset.
St. James Hospital’s approach seemed different from the few American hospitals I have observed, in its humane and informal responses to the personal preferences of its patients. There did not seem to be any strict rules, or regimentation of procedures. Hospital gowns were optional, menu items were variable and could be waived, and the staff was remarkably accommodating. Visitors could come almost anytime, and the ambulatory movement of patients was encouraged. My interactions with the two young and very professional attending urologists who oversaw my treatment and recovery, Dr. Shakhil and Dr. Louise, were positive and informative. They were patient with my questions and requests for clarification, and although completely sympathetic to my desire to be free of the catheter and hospital, they were not going to release me until I was fit and clear of bleeding or clotting. But the most charming aspect of the hospital was the nursing staff of the ward. While much of the general population I met in the stores and restaurants of Dublin were local and of international stock (Slavic immigrants were represented in great numbers), the nurses had the most Irish names, the deepest brogues, and used many colorful terms and phrases. Siobhan, Emer, Kate, and Ruth were the late night and day nurses who called me “Antonio” in the most charming fashion, and constantly used endearments like “darlin” and “luv” in addressing all the patients in the ward. They were young and efficient, and appeared to have emigrated to Dublin City from the South and West of Ireland. These were the beguiling Irish faces I saw, and the voices I heard daily. It was a surprisingly warm and friendly place to live and convalesce.
Even my fellow patients endeared themselves to me – especially Sean, the aging roommate on my right. As all of us in that ward, he was catheter-bound to a bag, but his age-driven (90+) complaints, and nighttime moaning and groaning almost drove me crazy the first night. He reminded me of Dr. Greaney in his last days, loudly complaining and stubbornly resistant to female directions, but who could become instantly charming and humorously engaging. He would joke with the nurses and visitors, and erupt into Irish songs at the most unexpected times. A simple adjustment of earplugs on the second night effectively moved him out of earshot and permitted much better sleep.
So, who was the hero of this tale? Me? Not even close. There are no heroes in this tale – but my wife, Kathleen was the crucial character who performed the most bravely, calmly, professionally, and compassionately. And she did it alone. I’ve learned many things watching Kathy over the years in her roles of lover, wife, mother, companion, Catholic schoolteacher and leader, friend, sister, and daughter. She works hard at maintaining loving relationships to which she can give, depend on, and call forth in times of crisis and fear. Kathy provides solace, care, and comfort to family, siblings, and friends, and she also calls it up when needed. In Ireland, I think she found herself with an incapacitated husband and traveling companion, and cut off from immediate communication from family or friends. We were both initially paralyzed by our situation – but Kathy’s tears set us free. Once I was back under the care of a competent urologist, concentrating on getting well, Kathy took off. She organized the necessary steps and procedures that had to be done. She made the calls, cancelled the reservations, changed the traveling arrangements, re-booked and extended our stay at O’Callaghan’s, and restructured our flights home. As Barry Fitzgerald (Michaleen) of the Quiet Man might say, “She was 'HOMERIC!'” My only apprehensions were a speedy recovery and hoping that Kathy was getting out of the hotel, seeing the sights, and gaining more impressions of this wonderful city and its people. I learned later that once the heavy lifting was done, and clear communication was reestablished with siblings and friends, Kathy did get a chance to get out and about. She enjoyed the sights of St. Stephen’s Green and park, discovered Newman University Church (across the street from the Green), visited and posed by the Christmas tree of the historic Shelbourne Hotel, and listened to the nostalgic and tragic Irish ballads at O’Donoghue’s Bar, where many great musicians come to play. Ultimately, I believe she found her own personal Dublin, as I did mine.
Over dinner, on our last evening in Dublin City, after spending the day on the Hop-on Hop-off bus tour, we exchanged rings for the second time in our marriage. Originally, this trip had been planned to celebrate our 40th Wedding Anniversary, commemorating that Saturday morning in August when we set forth on our voyage of unified discovery. This trip had not come off as expected, but the events that occurred, and our reactions to them, hinted at a new revelation. On this January night we exchanged Claddagh rings to indicate that we had come to a new understanding of our evolving marriage. The Claddagh ring is a traditional Irish ring that represents love, loyalty, and friendship. The design and customs associated with this ring are said to have originated in the Irish fishing village of Claddagh, located outside the old city wall of Galway. The hands on the ring represent friendship, the heart – love, and the crown – loyalty. Love, loyalty, and friendship: three stages of evolution that I believe Kathy and I have reached in our marriage. Our trip to Dublin certainly brought out each. I’m not a wearer of rings. I made my only exception when I married Kathleen in 1975 and accepted a gold wedding band on my left ring finger. I made my second in Dublin when she placed the silver Claddagh ring on my right ring finger. Although we traveled a long way, and suffered a mild detour to our plans, the evening ceremony was a fitting way for two Americans, children of different ancestral lands and traditions to renew their love and hope for a long, long, and healthy life together. Sláinte!
Do you love a laddie with curly black hair?
Yes, I love him. I cannot deny him.
I will be with him wherever he goes.
Before I got married I wore a black shawl
But now that I’m married, I wear bugger-all.
Still, I love him. I cannot deny him.
I will be with him wherever he goes.
(Still I Love Him, or Do You Love an Apple? – traditional Irish folksong)
I had this story roughly formatted in my head at 2 o’clock in the morning on the day we were finally leaving Dublin for home. That’s when it first occurred to me that I wasn’t the hero of this story. Yes, I was finally out of St. James Hospital after 4 ½ days. Yes, I had spent three nights in a public urology ward trying to ignore the moans, groans, and urgent, nightmarish pleas of a 90-year old ward mate named Sean. Yes, I had suffered the abdominal pressures and discomforts of a 3-pronged urinary catheter for a three-day flushing, irrigating, and flowing process. Yes, there were moments of pain, scary panic, and confused uncertainty, but I was finally out of the hospital, having just experienced a final enjoyable day and a half in Dublin with my Irish-American wife, Kathleen Mavourneen. But I am not the hero of this story.
So, on that restless night and morning of our last day in Ireland, when I couldn’t sleep, one episode, one particular scene came to mind. It had occurred five days prior, on Thursday, New Year’s Eve at 7:00 a.m. Kathy and I were in bed, lying side by side, staring at the ceiling of the hotel room. We had spent the previous day at the Emergency Room of St. James Hospital where I had been fitted with a catheter, given two portable bags, a prescription, and released. Now I was lying in bed, tense and alert, waiting to hold my breath and bear down at the next spasm of screaming pain. The catheter tube, instead of relieving the pain and releasing the pressure, was causing it by blocking the passage of a dark, reddish substance that looked like clotted blood, and forcing it around the tube. I had been up and down all night, trying to relieve the pain and pressure by standing in the bathroom, hoping that the catheter would work better in a vertical position. When I succeeded in reducing the pain, I would clean up the blood and spotting I left, hoping that Kathy wouldn’t suspect anything was wrong. That’s when I heard the first strangled sob in bed – then another, and then another. Kathy was crying, struggling not to, and failing miserably.
“I don’t know what to do,” she wept, knowing that something was wrong with me. “Should we cancel the trip and get you home? Should we go to Galway? I don’t know what’s the right thing to do”.
I looked over, seeking to console her, to reassure her that I was fine and everything was all right. But all I could do was reach across the wide expanse between us and grab her hand.
“Neither do I, honey”, I confessed in a strangled voice. “Neither do I.” I looked up at the ceiling and realized that Kathy was weeping my tears, and crying all my fears and uncertainties with her sobs. She was doing what I could not, because I believed I had to be strong, and stoic. What I couldn’t accept was that I was pretending and in denial. I really felt as scared and frightened as Kathleen.
Now Kathy, as a former principal and current assistant superintendent, is a professional crisis manager and leader (as I was until I retired from school administration 6 years ago). She deals with crisis every day, and helps other principals to solve theirs. But this was different. We did not have all the facts and we were in a foreign country, thousands of miles from home, without the usual means of contacting resources, colleagues, friends, and family that we rely upon for solace, advice, and assistance. We were alone and looking at an untenable situation that had me paralyzed with pain and confusion – and Kathy with indecision. It was only as I tightened my grasp on Kathy’s hand as her crying subsided that I somehow realized that we would get through this – and we would do it together. But we first had to put away the fiction that the pain and discomfort I was in was only a minor medical hiccup that would not disrupt our planned trip in Ireland. Something was broken, and I had to be fixed.
At this point, let me assure you that you can relax. I’m not going to burden you with too many details or medical facts about my health and treatment in this saga. Suffice it to say that after the funeral of Kathy’s father, the Doctor, we decided to travel to Ireland to celebrate our 40th Wedding Anniversary. As the departure date approached, and more and more travel and accommodation issues were dealt with, one unexpected event occurred. The blood work from my annual medical checkup revealed a higher that normal rise in my PSA (Prostate-specific antigen) level. That triggered a referral to a Urology specialist who conducted the next level of screening, which resulted in another high reading, indicating a “possibility” of cancer. This then led to a prostate biopsy to eliminate all likelihood. Rather than postponing the biopsy until after the trip (which we probably should have done), we decided to expedite it and have the cancer issue resolved as soon as possible. The biopsy, an uncomfortable and painful procedure was completed 7 days before we left for Ireland. Although there was some urinary spotting for a while, the follow-up protocol simply called for a period of antibiotic medication, plenty of hydration, and no intensive lifting or abdominal exertion. By the time we left I felt perfectly healthy and normal. After a remarkably comfortable 10-hour flight in Club-class seats on British Airways, with an Aer Lingus shuttle from London to Ireland, we arrived in Dublin on Monday night, December 28.
We were staying at O’Callaghan’s Hotel on St. Stephen’s Green, a central park in the city, conveniently close to Grafton Street, Dublin’s swankiest shopping area. A break in the rain gave the streets around us, still festooned with Christmas lights and decorations, a magical glow and shimmer. Kathy and I took advantage of the weather to drop our packing and start exploring and dining right away. I’ve mentioned in previous blogs what a joy it is traveling with Kathy. We share the same sense of wonder and excitement when walking, riding, and seeing new sights. Kathy becomes giddy and child-like with joy at seeing new places, and historical locales. The streets, the people, the color, architecture, and human interactions mixed with her knowledge of the cultural and historical past to make every scene and encounter a heightened one. That first evening, dining at Pacino’s and walking up and down Grafton Street in the misting rain only whet our appetites for what was to come next in Dublin, then on to Galway, Ballyvaughan, and Shannon.
Looking back at our first full day in Dublin, we probably over did it. A break in the weather gave us a cool and cloudy day, free from rain, so we were up and out at first light (8:30 a.m., with the sun setting at barely 4:30 p.m.). Starting from Starbucks on Chatham Street, across from Sheehan’s Pub, we quickly purchased new SIM cards for our phones and we walked through and around Grafton Street to Trinity College. Unfortunately, while the grounds of this hallowed home to Oscar Wilde, Jonathan Swift, Edmund Burke, and V.M. Synge, were open to the public, the university was on holiday, and the Old Library, which housed the Book of Kells, was closed. So we continued onward, crossing the River Liffey, changing dollars to Euros, shopping, and exploring the O’Connell Street District. I photographed the historic General Post Office, the Abbey Theatre, the Custom House, and posed for a picture at a statue of the famous native Dubliner, James Joyce. Eventually we re-crossed the Liffey and made our way to the Temple Bar District for lunch, and ended the cloudy and darkening day at Dublin Castle. That night, the trip we had planned for so long, with all its elaborate itinerary and arrangements, fell apart when my prostate betrayed me and I fell victim to the strain I had placed on it with all the lifting, lugging, and walking over the past two days.
I believe there are few male tortures worse than urinary blockage and streaming pain. I experienced it once before, many years ago, when I came down with a urinary infection, and again on December 30th, our second full day in Dublin. What made this occasion different was what little stream I managed to urinate was blood red in color and viscous, like scabbed blood. I had produced spotted drops of blood after the biopsy, but that spotting had eventually dissipated over time. What I was painfully trying to produce on Wednesday was more than spotted blood. However, believe it or not, worse than the pain I experienced, was the paralyzing fear that this inconvenient development was going to ruin our long-imagined, long-planned trip – and worse, delay our departure home. So I went through a long process of denial and subterfuge, hoping my condition would somehow resolve itself. I moved slowly and made as little noise as possible when leaving the bed for the bathroom, hiding my soiled underwear, and cleaning up whatever drops of blood I left. Then I’d lie to Kathy when she awakened to ask, in a worried voice, “Is everything okay?” The subterfuge was exposed when she finally followed me into the bathroom and saw what was taking me so long. Seeing myself, finally, through her eyes, I couldn’t continue deluding myself any longer. I needed further medical interventions.
I pride myself on being calm and level headed in crisis situations, not afraid to question or challenge unclear or confusing information. The fallacy to this conceit is exposed when I find myself dealing with problems outside my area of knowledge. Both the triage nurse and the ER doctor correctly diagnosed my condition as a post-biopsy complication and blockage (which we suspected), and explained the various urinary treatments and catheters available. Yet, both the ER doctor and the urologist, who was called in to review the diagnosis and treatment, opted for the most optimistic prognosis, and least disruptive measures to our tourist plans. Despite my pain and description of the blockage, I was fitted with a regular sized, two-way Foley catheter to relieve the obstruction, and released with extra traveling bags and a prescription for antibiotics. I was never given clear or comprehensible instructions or explanation of how the catheter and bags fit, worked, and were cleaned and managed. I never made it past the lobby. A stop in the restroom showed me that the catheter was not relieving the blockage pain, and that clots were working their way around the tubing. Upon our return to the ER, the urologist dismissed my discomfort as temporary bruising from the catheter insertion, and prescribed painkillers and muscle relaxants to go along with the antibiotics. There we were – two intelligent, assertive professional leaders, sitting passively quiet, as we were told what we wanted to believe and not what I was actually feeling. Once the painkillers took effect we left St. James Hospital and returned to our hotel where I went promptly to bed, with the catheter dangling by my bedside. Left hanging were all the questions and issues that Kathy and I had not addressed. Should we cancel the trip? Was I able to travel by train to Galway, and then by car to Ballyvaughn and Shannon? Should we call someone? Who can help? I took the cowardly path and concentrated on feeling better and becoming strong enough to travel in two days. Kathy was left with all the unanswered questions, an invalid husband, and no immediate access to help, advice, or support. It was a scary time.
That night and morning was a repeat of the previous one, only this time I was tethered to a catheter bag. I was constantly leaving the bed in hopes of relieving my inability to stream urine. Closer inspection showed that I was expelling little pieces of clotted blood around the tubing, and this, along with the urgent need to pee, was causing the pain. It was during one of the momentary respites, as I lay in bed next to Kathy, that I heard her crying. Paradoxically, those tears of hopelessness and despair at our situation finally released us from the paralysis of denial and indecision. We started talking and refocusing on the immediate problem at hand, and identifying the steps to address it assertively. First, get me back to the hospital and correctly treated. Once I was well and fit, we would return home. But our trip, as it was originally planned, was over. From that point on all interactions with medical personnel were to be critically questioned, repeated, understood, and analyzed for reasonableness. We were finally on the right track, breathing normally, calm, and acting in unison. The rest was easy.
So, how did I enjoy Ireland? Oddly enough, I enjoyed this trip very much. Even the unexpected medical interlude was a uniquely memorable experience. I love the city of Dublin. It contains every ingredient that goes into a world-class, historical, and cultural banquet – and it is a personal and “walkable” feast. I would have to walk every foot of Dublin before I could feel halfway satisfied or knowledgeable about it. Like Mexico City, New York, or London, one cannot travel 10 yards without bumping into some historical, artistic, or cultural monument, building, statue, or event. Every walk or stroll is an adventure through time, every street a chapter of Irish history. Since I only had two full days to explore the city, we also took advantage of the Hop-On, Hop-Off Bus Tour of the city the day before we left, and saw the whole sweep and scope of this pedestrian city. Our only lengthy stop that day was at the famous Guinness Storehouse and Brewery, where I learned the history of this iconic Irish stout, poured my own pint, and marveled at the 360° expanse of Dublin from the rooftop Gravity Bar on a clear and occasionally, sunny day.
Coming to Dublin was also the completion of my literary Hadj – my pilgrimage to the Mecca of Irish literature that spawned and nurtured such universally recognized literary giants as Oscar Wilde, W.B. Yeats, and Samuel Beckett. This was the city, and these were the streets that the author of Ulysses strode and wrote about in Dubliners, Finnegan’s Wake, and The Dead, and the home of the University College Dublin, which he attended, across the street from St. Stephen’s Green (now Newman University Church). My moment of supreme satisfaction came when I posed next to the statue of James Joyce on O’Connell Street, near the Abbey Theatre. Our trip could have ended right and there and I would have been satisfied. And it almost did. But beyond the cultural and historical ambience of the city, I really had no real chance to talk with, interact, or observe the customs and the Dubliners who inhabited this city until I moved into the Donal Hollywood Ward of St. James Hospital for a 4-day, three night stay.
It was there that I experienced the Irish dining schedule first hand. The Irish eat breakfast, lunch, and “tea” at approximately 8:00 – 9:00 a.m., 12:00 – 1:00 p.m., and 4:30 – 5:00 p.m. Prior to my hospital menu, Kathy and I stuck more or less with our American gastronomic routine: chai latte/coffee and rolls at 9-ish; soup, sandwiches, or fish and chips at 1-ish; and a larger dinner at 7-ish. Guinness was my staple beverage, except for breakfast. In the Hollywood Ward, the menu was fixed with cereal or “porridge” with tea for breakfast; well-done steak or chicken with potatoes, vegetables, and bread (with tea) for lunch; and an egg omelet or fish for “tea”, with coffee or tea. The meals were surprisingly tasty (although I must confess that my smelling and tasting senses are notoriously suspect). I found the Irish culinary schedule very practical and similar to that of Mexico and most Hispanic countries, with the major meal, or cena, in the middle of the day, with a light merienda (or snack) in the late afternoon or at sunset.
St. James Hospital’s approach seemed different from the few American hospitals I have observed, in its humane and informal responses to the personal preferences of its patients. There did not seem to be any strict rules, or regimentation of procedures. Hospital gowns were optional, menu items were variable and could be waived, and the staff was remarkably accommodating. Visitors could come almost anytime, and the ambulatory movement of patients was encouraged. My interactions with the two young and very professional attending urologists who oversaw my treatment and recovery, Dr. Shakhil and Dr. Louise, were positive and informative. They were patient with my questions and requests for clarification, and although completely sympathetic to my desire to be free of the catheter and hospital, they were not going to release me until I was fit and clear of bleeding or clotting. But the most charming aspect of the hospital was the nursing staff of the ward. While much of the general population I met in the stores and restaurants of Dublin were local and of international stock (Slavic immigrants were represented in great numbers), the nurses had the most Irish names, the deepest brogues, and used many colorful terms and phrases. Siobhan, Emer, Kate, and Ruth were the late night and day nurses who called me “Antonio” in the most charming fashion, and constantly used endearments like “darlin” and “luv” in addressing all the patients in the ward. They were young and efficient, and appeared to have emigrated to Dublin City from the South and West of Ireland. These were the beguiling Irish faces I saw, and the voices I heard daily. It was a surprisingly warm and friendly place to live and convalesce.
Even my fellow patients endeared themselves to me – especially Sean, the aging roommate on my right. As all of us in that ward, he was catheter-bound to a bag, but his age-driven (90+) complaints, and nighttime moaning and groaning almost drove me crazy the first night. He reminded me of Dr. Greaney in his last days, loudly complaining and stubbornly resistant to female directions, but who could become instantly charming and humorously engaging. He would joke with the nurses and visitors, and erupt into Irish songs at the most unexpected times. A simple adjustment of earplugs on the second night effectively moved him out of earshot and permitted much better sleep.
So, who was the hero of this tale? Me? Not even close. There are no heroes in this tale – but my wife, Kathleen was the crucial character who performed the most bravely, calmly, professionally, and compassionately. And she did it alone. I’ve learned many things watching Kathy over the years in her roles of lover, wife, mother, companion, Catholic schoolteacher and leader, friend, sister, and daughter. She works hard at maintaining loving relationships to which she can give, depend on, and call forth in times of crisis and fear. Kathy provides solace, care, and comfort to family, siblings, and friends, and she also calls it up when needed. In Ireland, I think she found herself with an incapacitated husband and traveling companion, and cut off from immediate communication from family or friends. We were both initially paralyzed by our situation – but Kathy’s tears set us free. Once I was back under the care of a competent urologist, concentrating on getting well, Kathy took off. She organized the necessary steps and procedures that had to be done. She made the calls, cancelled the reservations, changed the traveling arrangements, re-booked and extended our stay at O’Callaghan’s, and restructured our flights home. As Barry Fitzgerald (Michaleen) of the Quiet Man might say, “She was 'HOMERIC!'” My only apprehensions were a speedy recovery and hoping that Kathy was getting out of the hotel, seeing the sights, and gaining more impressions of this wonderful city and its people. I learned later that once the heavy lifting was done, and clear communication was reestablished with siblings and friends, Kathy did get a chance to get out and about. She enjoyed the sights of St. Stephen’s Green and park, discovered Newman University Church (across the street from the Green), visited and posed by the Christmas tree of the historic Shelbourne Hotel, and listened to the nostalgic and tragic Irish ballads at O’Donoghue’s Bar, where many great musicians come to play. Ultimately, I believe she found her own personal Dublin, as I did mine.
Over dinner, on our last evening in Dublin City, after spending the day on the Hop-on Hop-off bus tour, we exchanged rings for the second time in our marriage. Originally, this trip had been planned to celebrate our 40th Wedding Anniversary, commemorating that Saturday morning in August when we set forth on our voyage of unified discovery. This trip had not come off as expected, but the events that occurred, and our reactions to them, hinted at a new revelation. On this January night we exchanged Claddagh rings to indicate that we had come to a new understanding of our evolving marriage. The Claddagh ring is a traditional Irish ring that represents love, loyalty, and friendship. The design and customs associated with this ring are said to have originated in the Irish fishing village of Claddagh, located outside the old city wall of Galway. The hands on the ring represent friendship, the heart – love, and the crown – loyalty. Love, loyalty, and friendship: three stages of evolution that I believe Kathy and I have reached in our marriage. Our trip to Dublin certainly brought out each. I’m not a wearer of rings. I made my only exception when I married Kathleen in 1975 and accepted a gold wedding band on my left ring finger. I made my second in Dublin when she placed the silver Claddagh ring on my right ring finger. Although we traveled a long way, and suffered a mild detour to our plans, the evening ceremony was a fitting way for two Americans, children of different ancestral lands and traditions to renew their love and hope for a long, long, and healthy life together. Sláinte!
