can’t leave Blanchardstown without telling the story of John and the ‘Aller Man’. I find hospital a lonely place. Visiting times break the monotony but the rest of the time is humdrum and solitary. Other patients are the greatest source of support. Getting to know other oncology patients is a double edge sword. Someone had warned me very early on not to get emotionally involved because people die. I hadn’t paid much attention at the time, but in Blanchardstown, three people I met, talked to and joked with, died. One was John, a lovely man from Ashbourne. He was admitted about the same time as me. He didn’t know what was wrong with him. For four or five days we met up downstairs with anyone else who made it down. It was a laugh a minute. We joked about each others ailments, how we looked and much more. On the fifth day he stopped coming down. His wife still did, she was there every day, and then he died. It was so sudden, admitted for tests and never to come out again. Then there was the ‘Aller Man’. He was placed in the bed opposite mine. He was probably sixty but looked younger. His life was dogs. All types of dogs, but his favourites were his Alsatians. They were working dogs used to guard this place and that. The aller man was the leader of the pack. For all the world he looked like an Alsatian standing on its hind legs. He was dying, he was never specific but his lungs were failing. He ran his doggy empire from his hospital bed. He issued instructions to his grownup sons when they visited. Chip this dog, sell that one and get the bitch put down. The bitch was the second in command of the pack. He explained that she had turned on him the previous week. She had sensed his weakness and as he fed the pack she turned on him. He was lucky to get away from her. So long had he worked with the bitch that it was impossible to have someone else take her over.
“She’ll never work for anyone else” he explained “one person dog, she’s not a pet. She’s a weapon. I have to put her down, she’s too dangerous”.
I knew it was a hard decision for him but he didn’t hesitate. The dog was put down. He was a proud man. He hated anyone fussing over him. He told his wife everything was ok even though both of them knew it was not. We bolstered each others courage during tough moments. We didn’t complain, just encouraged each other to get through it. I will never forget the aller man. There was something very John Waynesque about him.
Chapter Four
Interferon, Interfering, Isolation
One day out and Mary was screaming at me. A month of pent up anger was released in my face. I was too friendly with other patients, I was having an affair. I didn’t care about her. I was a lazy bastard, a prick on crutches.
It wasn’t true. That month I spent in Blanchardstown was by far the longest time I had ever spent away from Mary and the children. The kids had visited with Mary on several occasions but still I missed them desperately. All the time I was there I wanted home. Mary didn’t like me being away from her at all. Her reaction was a variation of the same response I’d become used to for years. If I spent any time away from her I was sure to get a tirade. Even when I was at work I had to check in with her regularly, if I didn’t, the accusations were fired at me. It was a way of life I’d become accustomed to.
Getting the dressing changed was my first priority. I rang the number I had been given for the local health nurse. It took a few times to catch her.
“You have to come to the clinic” she told me. She was far too busy to make a house call. I arranged to be there early the following morning. She also told me that she wasn’t available at the weekends. I telephoned Blanchardstown. The nurses on the ward I had been in agreed to take care of the dressing at the week ends.
The description of the building as a ‘clinic’ was a joke. It was the modern version of a parish hall. All types of non-medical events took place there. When I got there the place was full of people waiting to see the welfare officer. I sat with them and waited for the nurse. When she arrived she led me into a tiny room with a dentist type chair planted in the middle of it. I had brought the special dressing myself. There was nowhere to lie down and have the dressing changed properly as the registrar had done in Blanchardstown, only the goddamned chair. She changed the dressing as best she could in the cramped, stooped over conditions. I had no doubt that if this was the best available I was in serious trouble. The wound was meant to heal from the inside out, it could take months, maybe longer. There would be lots of painful dressings. How the hell could I avoid infection here? Fifty people or more were on the other side of that door. Fifty people down on their luck, fifty people who had no idea that complicated medical treatment was happening inches away. Food parcels were packed up and handed out from the room next to us. Clinic my arse, every cough I heard made me wince, the shitty toilets in Beaumont were more sterile than this. Third world healthcare is often referred to in this country. For those non believers more used to the Beacon, I advise that you take a look at the primary health care set up in clinics like this. Third world care would be a big step up on what we’ve got.
Twice more that week the dressing was changed, once in the clinic and then thankfully in Blanchardstown at the week end. The other added bonus with Blanchardstown was having someone else administer the bee sting. In the grand scheme of things, a little injection in the belly doesn’t sound like much and lots of diabetics will agree, but trying to inject yourself through already bruised flesh every day has a way of wearing you down.
By the end of the following week I’d had enough of the clinic. I rang my GP. His nurse would change the dressings for me. It was a world of difference, clean and professional. I never again went back to the clinic and never will. You get what you pay for and at fifty bucks a dressing it was worth it for peace of mind.
Thirteen days to the Interferon deadline and I eventually got to oncology out patients. My appointment was for two but so it seemed was everyone else’s. The waiting room was jammed full of people and so was the corridor outside. I was lucky enough to get a seat or at least I thought I was. For two and a half hours I sat on that hard wooden chair. I was in real pain. Having been in the surgeons clinic, I couldn’t understand the kind of mentality that would allow the same basic chair in both but on the private side the chairs were covered and comfortable. Here, in the public outpatients there were no coverings just hard wooden seats. Think about it, some pen pusher somewhere is the HSE decided that the same basic chair be used in private and public but in private it was covered and cushioned. It’s indicative of all that’s wrong in the health service. After two hours I’d reached my limit. I had to stay in the waiting room. If I went for a coffee or just stretched my legs in a walk up the corridor I could lose my place in the waiting hoard. Everyone there had cancer or was with someone who did. Oncology had let me down in Blanchardstown and now, the long wait in a stiflingly hot room on hard unyielding chairs.
A half hour later I was sitting in front of one of the oncology team. It took her two minutes to relay the information. That was it, I was done with oncology, there was nothing more they could do at this stage. I’d have a scan in six months. Two and a half hours to hear this, they could have telephoned me at home and saved me the distress.
“What about interferon?” I asked.
“We can’t give it to you with an open wound”.
I wasn’t expecting that. Interferon was the only pro active course of action at that stage. I didn’t want to cross my fingers and hope for the best. ‘Fighting cancer’ was a something I’d heard many times, how could I fight it by standing still in the headlights. I related in detail the utter disappointment that I felt oncology had been to this point. It took a good ten minutes. I told it all including the shitty toilets.
She ran for cover. I was taken into an office to another oncologist where I gave him an abridged version of what I’d just said. He was unfazed, I could have danced a jig naked on his table and it would have made no difference. I’m sure as far as he was concerned I was in the ‘anger phase’
