November 23rd 2015

These are my wonderful children,

Barry John and Shannon.
Barry John was born on Aug. 17^th 1995.
Shanny was born on May 5^th 1997.
I hope that they realize that while they didn’t have a
luxurious upbringing that in this sad world they
are fairly privileged. As today’s words to the wise state;

“The trick is growing up without growing old”

Both of these students are clever, intelligent and kind. In addition they have a bond between them that is very rare. I can state with absolute certainty that I never came close to anything like the relationship they enjoy with any of my own siblings, nor would we be capable of this bond. Perhaps it is because they are so close that they instinctively like and dislike many of the same things and behave similarly towards certain subjects and issues. It is certain that what they have is far more valuable than what they have not. That was an entry to record when the humour was on me.

Today, I stepped back in time a few decades. When The Prodigal was a boy of nine or ten I used to fell and cut silver birch, ash and other varieties to keep the home fires burning while the ould fella was working away from home. This meant walking further and further into Ballymulvey Bog as the tree stock near the road became depleted. This work was done with a ‘slash-hook’ as a chain saw was an invention of the future. As the winter progressed and you knew the paths into and out of the bog plantation you began to feel more and more like Daniel Boone. The trick was to cut down a large sapling that could be carried or dragged for a quarter of a mile and then brought home before being cut up. This firewood was free as most local smallholders had turbary rights in the adjacent bog plantation. At that time the regime was ‘cut as you need’ and as a result most light timber was far too fresh and spat as it burned. In addition there was very little heat out of it but the presence of the spark and flame was almost as important as the ability to warm. Today’s ash and birch with a small amount of hawthorn was in better shape as I had had felled it six months ago. I’m not certain whether I felt destitute or returned to reality after all this time. The advantage is that the choice in this matter is mine, and mine alone, and for this I must be grateful.

Barry John would do queer looking at a slash hook.

It is to be hoped that both of them can engage in occupational activities and lifestyles that are not backbreaking or contingent on immediate necessity.

We nearly lost Barry John on one occasion and this was easily the worst period in my life. He was diagnosed with recurring tonsillitis and eventually went to hospital for what was supposed to be a routine procedure to remove the tonsils. Talk about a disastrous operation.

There is a medical device which is placed in the mouth to keep the jaws open and afford easy access to the throat for removing the tonsils. The operating team didn’t have a child’s surgical device and resorted to use an adult one which split his lips from overstretching. Things went from bad to worse.

Soon after the surgery was over Angie (his mother) noticed what she thought was fresh bleeding from his mouth but the stupid nurse said that this was ‘normal’. But for the fact that this incompetent bitch was almost immediately replaced by another more capable sister Barry would have died. The new nurse immediately spotted the fresh red blood issuing from his mouth and raised the alarm. Straight back to theatre to try and stop the bleeding and doctor up the previous surgery. When he came back from theatre the second time he was in a coma. While all this mayhem was going on I was driving like a lunatic to Ballymahon to look after things at home only to be called back to the hospital as Barry John was critical.

The time frame of all this activity was and still is a blur to me. I was almost certain he was going to die. One of the two doctors in the ward was speaking on the phone to a colleague in some other hospital while the second was reading a medical text book! Hardly confidence inspiring.

In the meantime Barry was still unconscious. Eventually one of the geniuses decided to give Barry an injection in the groin to try to revive him. While the syringe was still embedded in his groin Barry John opened his eyes, looked at me and said “Daddy, that man is hurting me”. I told the doctor to fuck off with his needle or I’d break his jaw. He knew I meant it. We stayed with the young man as long as it took and gradually he improved.

The only bonus from this entire episode is that Barry John never remembered a thing except ‘the man hurting him’. Over a few weeks he gradually got back to normal as did we all. That was easily the worst episode of my life and still comes back to me as real as if it happened yesterday. How different life would be without this wonderful young man who has reached the ripe old age of twenty.

At a later stage Shannon was recommended for a tonsillectomy and we told the doctor to fuck off.