JOURNEYS THROUGH TIME

Almost There Now - Let Cancer Battle Commence!

2012-01-10T16:06:00.000-08:00

Today I met with my new breast surgeon and breast care nurses in St. James's Hospital. All were very pleasant and reassuring. Having had all the details explained to me three weeks ago by the BreastCheck team, hearing them now wasn't quite the shock to the system it had been then. Everything still stands, the sentinel lymph node biopsy followed by the removal of the lump including a wide margin of surrounding tissue. If a complete mastectomy isn't required, five weeks later I will begin five weeks of radiotherapy. If chemotherapy is required, it will begin shortly after the surgery followed by the radiotherapy.

I've been given an early admission date for next week, all depending of course whether there's a bed available. Let's see what 2012 has in store for hospital admission waiting times!

Above Breast Surgery Image: www.mycanceradvisor.com

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Never A Dull Moment - Change of Hospital!

2012-01-05T16:01:00.000-08:00

Thought I'd start off this post with the beautiful view from our holiday home in Allihies, Beara Peninsula, West Cork (taken last February, look at that sky!) where I hope hubby and I will return in the summer when all my surgery and treatment will be in the past and I will have become a breast cancer survivor!

Well, yesterday it was decided that I would have my surgery in St. James's Hospital (my old haunt), because of my bleeding disorder and because they have treated me on many an occasion for post-op bleeding plus all my previous notes are there.

I now have to meet my new breast surgeon and breast care nurse, possibly this Tuesday, fingers crossed! I will miss my lovely nurse I got to know over the past few weeks and who has been so supportive, I can't thank her enough.

Above image: Allihies, taken by me in February 2011.

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D-Day - Biopsy Results

2012-01-03T07:22:00.000-08:00

Tuesday, 20th December 2011:

The last six days have been the longest of my life. Never have I been so grateful to being up to my eyes in getting ready for Christmas because I just didn't have the time to think about my impending biopsy results.

Hubby and I arrived at the BreastCheck clinic around 11.00am. It was only when I got there that the nerves began to set in. My thoughts were racing between receiving a bad outcome but maybe, just maybe, everything would be fine, I clung to the latter. So much so that when I was called in I asked hubby to remain here because I was certain I'd be back out in a couple of minutes. As soon as I entered the surgeon's office he asked that hubby join us. My nurse got someone to bring him in.

There was no beating about the bush, straight out with it he told us that cancer cells were found. It sort of just went over my head, everything said from then onwards was like I was hearing it in a dream state. Hubby, thankfully, retained some degree of comprehension and asked most of the important questions. The surgeon then went on to explain the type of surgery he would perform. As well as removing the lump he will also remove a considerable amount of the surrounding tissue to make sure all of the cancer cells have been taken away thus none will escape elsewhere.

I will also have what's called a Sentinel Lymph Node Biopsy done on the morning of the operation to check whether the cancer cells have reached the lymph nodes, fingers crossed this won't have happened. So, after all that, hubby and I were taken by my nurse to a lovely little room where she spent about an hour with us explaining everything in great detail and answering our every question. She then gave me forms to have an ECG, Blood Tests and a Chest X-Ray done if possible before leaving the hospital. I was lucky I managed all three so at least they're out of the way.

Wednesday, 21st December 2011:

A day I hoped I'd never have to face. Although I wanted to leave telling our boys (who are in their mid and late twenties) until after Christmas Day, my nurse advised we tell them right now. It was OK, I was fine and they, thank God, took the news well. They asked a lot of questions which I was able to answer and put their minds at ease.

Thursday, 22nd December 2011:

My 60th Birthday! The whole family took me to the Shelbourne Hotel for dinner where I was wined and dined like a film star. I love those guys to pieces.

Above image: Sentinel Lymph Node Biopsy www.cancer.gov

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Blurry Images On A Screen, Cells In A Syringe - The Waiting Game

2012-01-02T17:07:00.000-08:00

Wednesday, 14th December 2011:

A light drizzly rain was falling by the time hubby and I arrived for my 10.15am appointment at the BreastCheck clinic. Still very hopeful that whatever the procedure to be carried out it would reveal a happy outcome. While waiting at the reception desk I noticed one of the leaflets on the counter was the photoshoot I'd done for the BreastCheck campaign back in 2007 during which time I also did their TV commercial!

Didn't have too long to wait before a lovely lady called me in and introduced me to the radiographer who told me I would be having an ultrasound to check the size and shape of my breast lump. Within a couple of minutes she informed me that the lump was just under 2cm, which is quite small but what was next to come shocked me a little, she was going to do a biopsy. Although I knew it could happen I just assumed my particular situation wouldn't require one. Even with all the assurance that the local anaesthetic would numb the area I was scared witless that I would feel every ounce of the pain. I need not have worried.

Throughout the administration of the numbing and even the biopsy itself I sang, yes, sang my way through the pain barrier! It wasn't any particular song, more the case of running up and down the scales then even counting backwards, anything to distract my mind from what was happening, namely the removal of a few cells to send to the laboratory for testing. I constantly referred to my nervousness as being compared to the feeling before performing on stage or to the camera, they definitely don't come crazier than me!

Luckily I'd discussed my bleeding disorder with the radiographer and nurse beforehand because even though the incision was small I began to bleed quite a bit so they were prepared. It took a good deal of pressing down on the wound to stem the flow but eventually all was well and I had the little strip of stitches attached plus the dressing. Afterwards, my nice nurse who is now my liason nurse took me to another room where she brought me a cup of coffee and talked to me for a few minutes while we waited to be joined by the radiographer.

Basically she told me that she wasn't expecting a good result from the biopsy. That came as quite a shock, no way was I expecting that. I was already shaking from the procedure but now I was absolutely trembling. My lump was not the cyst I thought it was, instead it was solid. After the radiographer left my nurse remained with me for a while. She told me I would soon be seeing the surgeon who would explain the surgery details with me, I then returned to the small waiting room still wearing my gown. There I got talking to a woman who was waiting for her results and was so nervous she did most of the talking. I just listened, I think that's all she needed. A while later she was called in then after about ten minutes popped her head in to tell me she got the all-clear. I was really happy for her.

The surgeon, a friendly looking chap, introduced himself and pretty much repeated what the radiographer had earlier told me - the chances of a good biopsy result were very slim. In the chair opposite sat my nurse. I felt comforted by her strong yet calming presence.

I was to return next Tuesday, 20th December for the biopsy results. After getting dressed I went back out to the main waiting room where hubby was waiting, his book lying on the chair beside him, unread.

On the way to the underground carpark I relaid to him the morning's happenings. I even prepared him for the fact that next week may not bring the news we were hoping for.

Above image: My BreastCheck TV Commercial (2007).
Bottom image: Breast Ultrasound: www.breast-cancer.ca

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Breast Cancer Only Happens To Other Women? - Not So!

2011-12-30T03:31:00.000-08:00

There is never a good time for a cancer diagnosis but if you're going to get one at least let it be a time when life is at its most hectic. For me, is was Christmas week, still really only days ago when I got the results of my biopsy which was Invasive Ductal Carcinoma (IDC), a type of Breast Cancer.

Unlike some women who find the lump when either showering or during self-examination my discovery came when I experienced intense sharp wave-like pain in my right breast. After it eased I decided, reluctantly, to feel around (I stopped checking years ago because I foolishly thought if you look for something chances are you'll find it, how stupid can you be!!). Almost immediately my finger hit on the bump which actually felt like a very large peanut. I still remember the terror I felt, within seconds I had myself dead and buried.

When sanity returned I decided to say nothing to anyone just yet because I thought all it might be is just a cyst which could disappear within a few days, I would explain all later. This all happened on Sunday, 27th November 2011.

With no sign of my lump dissolving and my nerves completely shattered, on Tuesday, 6th December I rang BreastCheck, The National Screening Programme in Ireland where I've been having my two-yearly mammograms since I was 50. As soon as I explained my situation a mammogram appointment was made for the next day at 2.15pm. Relief doesn't come anywhere near what I felt.

Wednesday, 7th December 2011:
We have recently bought a beautiful apartment in one of our favourite locations in Dublin and as hubby was continuing to get it ready for Christmas I insisted he not accompany me for my mammogram. Always curious to know the truth I begged the radiographer to put me out of my misery. She did so by confirming my worst fears, yes there was a lump but the images still needed to be checked to decide if a call-back was necessary. I would hear either way by the following Wednesday.

Monday, 12th December 2011:
Received the letter from BreastCheck requesting a call-back for Wednesday, 14th December. Expected to hear it was just a cyst and nothing more sinister.

Next blog post..... ultra sound and biopsy to determine size of breast lump and remove cells for examination.

Above image: http://health-breast.blogspot.com

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Season's Greetings!

2011-12-23T06:29:00.000-08:00

Just stopping by to wish all my blog Followers a very Happy, Healthy Christmas and may 2012 be your best year ever!

Thank you all for your lovely comments and encouragement to keep posting, I promise my old keyboard will be hopping once again in the New Year.

Bottoms Up! Cheers!!!

Above Image: Our front garden last December.

When The Beara Peninsula Calls, I Come Running!

2011-11-30T15:58:00.000-08:00

Having spent the best part of a year between 2010/2011 in Allihies, Beara Peninsula, West Cork, travelling back to Dublin for a few weeks here and there I'm now very aware of a strong urge to once again up sticks and return for, well, a few days anyway, to this idyllic place. Her beauty is beyond compare, to quote a much-loved poetic description. I'm yet again under her magic spell that is calling me to once more walk the long winding by-lanes with their vivid decorations on either side of fuchsia and foxglove, while listening to the distant roar of the Atlantic ocean, lowing cows, buzzing busy bees and enchanting bird song. These sounds are indeed very pleasing to the ear.

Well I suppose to experience again the awesomeness of the wild flowers and buzzing bees I'll have to wait until early summer but if I head down around February, which is when I returned this year, I'll be greeted by a very different but nonetheless amazing landscape: the waters down at Ballydonegan Bay will be a little rougher, the evening light over Allihies will have stretched that little bit farther from the long dark nights of November and December but what will delight me most of all will be watching the sheep tending, so lovingly, to their new-born lambs, what a joy to behold! Just remembering all of that makes me now want to head straight to Heuston Station and hop on the first available train!

Just to give you an idea of what my wonderful time in Allihies was like towards the end of last year and early this year these post links will give you a little flavour:- "Journeying Onwards - Beara Holiday" (August 2010), "West Cork Beckons One More Time" (October 2010), "There's A Grand Stretch In The Evenings" (February 2011) and "To The Waters And The Wild" (March 2011).

Top Image: View over Allihies by-lane, February 2011.
Bottom Image: Ballydonegan Bay, June 2011.

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"Laundry" Performing The Story Of Ireland's Magdalene Laundries (Part 3)

2011-10-28T17:46:00.000-07:00

My third and final account of experiencing the "Laundry" performance:

This is surely in total contrast to any confession box I've ever entered. The area is small and the light from the corner lamp guides my eyes to the smiling girl who begins to describe a dress which she seems very fond of. She explains in great detail, for example, the intricate stitching on the sleeve, that goes from the wrist all the way up to the shoulder and around and how soft the material is. I'm not sure what she's trying to tell me, perhaps she is a little disturbed. Unsure, I go along with her, telling her how beautiful it sounds.

She begins to whistle, saying how whistling makes Baby Jesus cry but that she doesn't mind. Again, I nod in agreement. Moving towards me and still smiling she begins to dance. She opens her arms as if inviting me to join her, I accept her invitation. Slowly we move around, she whistling a tune I know from way back, me humming along. For a brief few moments I forget the awful horror I witnessed earlier. As we finish our dance and the girl is once again describing her lovely dress the door opens and I'm shown out to a girl who leads me towards a room at the back of the church. While walking up the couple of alter steps leading to the door this young "Maggie" instructs me under her breath to "act natural".

Inside, bundles of crumpled sheets lie on the floor, a stark reminder of the building's line of business. The young "Maggie" tells me that the hardest thing for her to bear is the silence. I stare at the images of the actual laundry building imprinted on the red stain glass window, it sends a chill down my spine. This poor child wants out of here and begs me help her to escape. I whisper to her "OK, my life's nearing its end, yours is only beginning, let's go". I was by now so immersed in the story that I actually felt I would get into trouble if I was caught but I was willing to chance it. She suggests I pretend I'm helping her to bring out laundry and again whispers to me to "act natural".

Together we gather an armful of sheets each and head out the door, down the alter steps. Walking off the alter she whispers "genuflect" which we do together. As we turn to walk down the aisle "Matron" is coming towards us and asks where we're going. The girl tells her I'm just helping. We keep walking in silence. Again when we reach the front door she tells one of the girls standing nearby that she'll be back soon. The door closes behind us with a loud slam. Right outside a taxi is waiting, the girl bangs on the back door, it opens, I jump in, she hurriedly thanks me. I whisper "go" and she races across the road and disappears. I utter a silent "God be with you, child". The taximan asks where she's gone, I tell him she'll be back in a minute. He introduces himself as Den-den. We drive off, I've no idea where we're going.

Den-den takes me through unfamiliar streets. I'm in a state of shock from everything I've just experienced and this car ride is part of my nightmare. He points out the Foley Street area that was once Dublin's red light district known as, Monto. When the Government of the day closed this down, the women were taken into the Magdalene Laundries supposedly to be given shelter and to "repent" for their sins, hence they became known as "penitents". We arrive at the nearby Scrub-A-Dub Launderette where Den-den drops me off. Still carrying my bundle of sheets I enter this building.

Here I'm reunited with the other two "audience members", one is ironing, the other folding laundry. I'm told I can help with the folding. As we work, the couple in charge, Babs and Tony tell us how pregnant women who entered these laundries had their babies taken from them for adoption and never again heard a thing about them. Also they inform us about the non-profit, all-volunteer advocacy group, Justice For Magdalenes, who consistantly compaign for justice for survivors of Ireland's Magdalene Laundries. When our time is up we head back out across the road to where Den-den is waiting to return us to Sean McDermott Street. Just before we get out of the taxi, Den-den gives us each a souvenir of carbolic soap. The bar is wrapped in brown paper, tied with twine and has the Magdalene Laundry label on it complete with our hand-written names. While I normally love to receive a souvenir, this particular one leaves me feeling very uneasy indeed.

I sensed the three of us were in a very strange state of mind. We discussed our experiences for a little while then went our separate ways. Walking down a busy O'Connell Street I felt disorientated, like I almost needed to talk with somebody, anyone who would listen to my story of what it was like to move through the rooms and sense the horror of a Magdalene Laundry. Yet on the other hand I don't think I would have wanted to meet somebody I knew because I felt I just needed to be on my own. I headed up to the Irish Film Institute for a coffee and sat there for ages just thinking and writing.

My profound gratitude goes to Anu Productions and Director, Louise Lowe for opening up the Magdalene Laundry on Sean McDermott Street, Dublin and inviting us in to witness in part, through the art of performance, what life was like for the thousands of innocent women and children who suffered in these hellholes where evil truly resided.

My greatest wish is that those responsible are severely punished. I'll repeat again what I wrote in a post days following the publication of the Ryan Report in May 2009 relating to child abuse in industrial schools: Ireland's Shame - Someone Should Have Spoken Out "Justice is what these people need in the form of acknowledgement of and apology for the wrong doings directly, where possible, by those personally responsible followed up by appropriate financial assistance from the religious orders concerned. The men and women who carried out these atrocious acts should be named, shamed and brought to justice regardless of their seniority". I remain resolute in that belief.

Girl Carrying Sheets Image: Anu Productions and © Pat Redmond.
Laundry Image taken by me prior to attending the performance.
Carbolic Soap Souvenir Image taken by me next day.

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"Laundry" Performing The Story Of Ireland's Magdalene Laundries (Part 2)

2011-10-23T03:10:00.000-07:00

Continuing my chronicling of the "Laundry" vignettes:

Still holding the bucket of "breast-milk" I'm now ushered from the main hall-way into a bathroom.

I'm told to place the bucket on the floor a little ways inside the door then the lady in charge leaves. A "heavily pregnant" girl moves across the room and seats herself on a stool, her face totally without expression. My eyes move to the milky-white liquid in the bath which I take to be either disinfectant or carbolic soap, whichever it is the smell is almost overpowering. A movement to my left startles me.

She appears to be in a catatonic state, her movements slow yet deliberate. Turning, the girl then presses her slim white body against the wall, arms outstretched as if trying to move through the very brickwork itself in search of something. At this point my tears return, I desperately want to help her find whatever it is she's looking for. Once again I'm drawn into the nightmare. It's real, it's not real. It was once real, very real.

Facing me now she slowly walks towards me her enormous dark eyes fixed steadily on mine. I realise for the first time she is completely naked except for the bandage-like binding around her breasts. She begins to unwind this, holding out the end of it towards me. I automatically take it and she begins to twirl around until she is completely free. I struggle to control my sobs, for her sake. I then take the delicate white hand she holds out to help her step into the bath. Even in the water her body conveys a terrible sadness by its tormented movements. At one point she curls into the foetal position. What happens next explains everything in this room.

At the distant sound of a new-born infant's cries the girl in the bath stretches out her arm as if trying to comfort her child. I have never seen such pain in anyone's eyes. As a mother my heart broke for her and all the girls for whom this was a reality, so much so that now I cry without reservation. I am past self-consciousness. Still holding the bandage I help this unfortunate young girl step out of the sanitised water and as she twirls back into the binding I realise with absolute horror that this is possibly being used to surpress her milk. What God in Heaven put these nuns on this earth?

I'm so upset at believing this beautiful girl must now be perished with the cold I pick up one of the towels surrounding the bottom of the bath and place it around her shoulders. Continuing my attempts to comfort her I gently take some of her lovely long black wavy hair from beneath the towel, imagining this will make her feel less cold. Just then the door opens and I'm once again asked to leave. Walking out the doorway I give one final glance back at the poor soul grieving beyond belief the loss of her baby.

Emotionally drained I walk with the lady in charge to the next room praying for some respite here. There are many chairs in this room, most occupied, some at the back sit empty. "Matron", as I shall refer to her from hereon in, instructs me to be seated. Immediately I feel I've just arrived in a classroom where its occupants, hunched over on their knees on chairs, are seemingly reciting some sort of legal text about the protection of children and rights of citizens in a most monotonous tone. At the end of each line they appear to self-flagellate by slapping themselves on their backs. Very unsettling.

If that seems strange their next piece makes me feel even more uneasy. Rising from their scrunched up positions they then form a straight line where this time they begin to sing in yet again monotone fashion. Every so often they first turn in one direction then the other, each time leaning on each others' shoulders as if resting or taking comfort. I'm not at all sure what's happening here. This room is full of lighting, mainly red in colour giving an almost warm, cosy ambience. I'm sure that's not what it's meant to portray and it's just me not picking up on the theme. The beautiful high vaulted ceiling, the highly polished parquet flooring all convey a feeling that nothing bad could have happened in here. Somehow I sense I'm so wrong.

Once again my thoughts are interrupted and I'm moved out now to face a two-way mirror behind which a young girl, a "Maggie" as the inmates were also known as, beckons to me, again in that slow motion movement. I remain motionless. She disappears and my reflection stares back at me. When she reappears she is several steps closer to me than before, I continue watching in bewilderment. After this is repeated several times, each time she's moving closer, I have such a strong feeling of wanting to help her in some way but I don't know how. All I can do is place my hand on the glass in the hope that she takes comfort from it. I not prepared for the final time when she now stands right up against the mirror which almost causes me to jump back. She uses sign language to me, I struggle to understand the urgency in her request but gather she wants me to tell the outside world she's in here. Still with my hand on the glass, I nod, "yes".

I'm aware of a girl slowly leading me into the church. We stop at a magnificant stain glass window dipicting an image of the Virgin Mary with child in her arms. The young girl gazes up lovingly at the scene and several times says to me "Isn't he beautiful?" I respond "yes, he is". At this point I suspect she must have had a baby who was taken from her. I feel sad. She then leads me across to a wall which has a couple of holes in it. Her question startles me, "Did you hear him?" I respond, "no". My head is all over the place so I don't connect this question with the observation I'd just made a minute before. "They took him away". Still no connection. (Hours later it dawns on me, I feel so stupid!). We remain together a few moments longer then an older woman leads me right into the small church.

For the first time during these performances I feel a tremendous sense of peace. The brightness of this little building in contrast to the dark, austere outer rooms is a welcome pleasure to behold. My respite is brief because as I sit with this lovely lady I completely break down , constantly apologising through my tears. She reassures me it's OK, holds my hand then puts her arm around me. I feel guilty because I should be the one comforting her, not the other way around.

After handing me a tissue she proceeds to tell the the story of why she is still here. She did leave many years earlier and married but later in life when her husband died she could not cope with being on her own so chose to return to this place. It is beyond me why someone would choose this wretched life over lonliness. She seems very much at peace. We look at one of the stain glass windows portraying a beautiful image of the Virgin Mary, my comforting lady seems to like this one in particular. I finally stop crying. She gives me a lemon sweet which she says helps when you're distressed. I want to stay with this lady but it's time to move on.

We walk over to a confession box which she assures me is unlike any that I know. There I'm introduced to another young "Maggie" who's waiting for me in the warm glow of an amber lamp-light......

This vignette along with the remaining pieces will appear in the next and final part of this blog post.

Girl In Bath Image: Anu Productions and © Pat Redmond.
Other Images taken by me prior to attending the performance.

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"Laundry" Performing The Story Of Ireland's Magdalene Laundries (Part 1)

2011-10-17T15:14:00.000-07:00

I held off writing this post for over a week simply because, as it was still performing to audiences, I feared I might give away too much detail about Anu Productions' amazing piece of site-specific theatre, namely "Laundry". Directed by Louise Lowe it tells the story of Ireland's Magdalene Laundries where young girls and women were incarcerated, some for the remainder of their lives for sometimes nothing more than giving birth outside of marriage. It ran for over two weeks as part of the Ulster Bank Dublin Theatre Festival. On Tuesday, 4th October, ticket in handbag, I headed off for the 12.30pm performance with no idea of what to expect.

Not having the usual security of knowing what theatre I'd be attending I was a bit apprehensive to say the least because this time I would be walking through an area in north inner city Dublin that sadly hasn't got the best of reputations. I did feel safe though as I strolled along in the mid-day sunshine. Turning off Lower Gardiner Street I now faced the long stretch of Sean McDermott Street, the Magdalene Laundry standing far down on the right-hand side. Approaching the building I saw what looked like a security man slowly pacing up and down, a white camper-van parked outside.

As I wasn't sure how or when I should enter the building I checked with the two women inside the van who very kindly allowed me to sit with them until it was time for the next performance. Just before 12.30pm one of the ladies then took myself and the other two audience members, both women (only three audience members permitted to each performance ) to the main hall door where she banged loudly on its peeling red paint.

For a moment nothing happens. The three of us exchange relaxed quizzical glances, the last time we would make eye contact for the duration of the performance. Suddenly the small grid in the hall door is pulled open from where a pair of angry eyes peer out, flitting backwards and forwards across our faces. Then comes the sound of bolts being roughly dragged open. Once inside, the three of us are immediately separated.

The first woman is ushered into the tiny annex to the left of the first small hallway (see top image). The other lady to the opposite annex. A steel bucket half full of disinfectant is thrust into my hands and I'm told to remain where I am. From this moment onwards I'm completely drawn into the nightmarish scenario, reality and performance periodically blurring into one. I am genuinely scared, I had not expected this. Screams from the left annex make me jump sky high and through the door's top plate glass pane I can see the outlines of two people struggling with each other. One voice male, the other female. Surely the woman who has just entered isn't been attacked? I'm frozen to the spot but then reality checks in and tells me this is part of the storyline....for a while anyway.

All this time a young girl, a "penitent" stands in the corner next to the hall door, our eyes meeting every so often. I notice her red raw hands. I hardly notice the young man arriving next to me who by now is becoming extremely agitated. He keeps shouting things like, "What are they doing in there?", "This is ridiculous!" while all the time moving very angrily. Referring to my bucket, he asks me what's in it, I tell him I think it is Dettol. Suddenly he loses it, bangs on the glass panel of the inner door then storms out. During all of this loud shouts in a male voice are coming from the right annex. Now I am alone with the girl in the corner still eyeing me every so often. Once or twice a young woman carrying a bundle of white sheets charges out of the building and back in again, slamming the doors as she goes.

The lady in charge arrives back out, moves the lady in the left annex over into the right then me into the left. I am ordered to sit on the chair in the corner of the tiny space. In front of me sits a man, beside me within a hair's breath is seated a young girl. She slowly holds out her hand to me, I'm not sure what to do. I take it. The beseeching look on her face, her large sad eyes penetrating mine makes me respond to her plight. Through facial expressions and hand stroking I convey to her my understanding of her situation. Suddenly she jumps up, shouting at the man who then tries to restrain her. An angry exchange of shouts continues until the two of them are on the floor. The man gathers the girl, moves himself into a seated position against the wall then infolds the distressed girl's head in his arms. She quietens. She returns to her seat, holds out her hand to me, I take it in both my hands. The door opens and I'm moved out.

The annex on the right is equally small. This time my only companion is an extremely angry young man. He moves with the agitation of a caged animal, at intervals thumping the wall and banging on the door. With each thump I nearly jump out of my skin. Trying to conceal my terror I use the odd calming word to try and subdue him, fearful that at any moment he could strike out. Then a split second of reality comes through, this is just a performance...but I am very much part of it.

For some reason during a moment in his quietness I run my finger along the paper rail to get a feel of the place. I'm searching for the negative energy in the wallpaper and deeper still in the bricks themselves. To my right on the ledge of the long thin window sits a framed notice with the address of the laundry. It reads: Gloucester St. Magdalene Asylum. To me the word Asylum congures up images of the old Lunatic Asylums. The state of mind I am in just then might well lead me to believe I'm in one such place. I am once again removed, leaving the agitated man to continue his ranting.

After the lady in charge moves the other two ladies to other rooms she then leads me into the large hallway. Immediately another young girl rushes towards me and hands me yet another steel bucket of white liquid. Her whisper is chilling - "Breast-milk". I'm almost certain that's what she said. Suddenly I'm aware of a voice reciting a litany of female names. This girl slowly paces up and down, sometimes looking at me but mostly moving in an almost hypnotic state while she continues with her narration. When it dawns on me that these are the names of the young girls and women who were imprisioned in this hellhole I begin to cry. Quiet sobs. She then says "Remember these four names". I repeat each one back to her. As the list becomes longer and longer the real sense of the terrible horror that took place in here hits me with the force of a wrecking ball. Tears roll down my cheeks as I am completely overcome with sadness.

Continuing her roll-call the girl walks over to a filing cabinet which I hadn't noticed just behind me. She pulls open the two top drawers then continues her pacing. While she is slightly out of sight I look into the top drawer. Horror grips me as I see the locks of hair pinned to pieces of cardboard. The lower drawer contains huge amounts of carbolic soap bars. I cry even more.

The next room that I'm shown into is the one that still haunts me two weeks later.......

Details of that vignette along with the remaining pieces will appear as continuous posts in order to prevent each post being too long.

Above images of the Magdalene Laundry taken by me prior to attending the performance.

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Suffer The Little Children - Irish Church Adoption Scandals

2011-10-16T08:35:00.000-07:00

Ever since the time I was told I was adopted I've always longed to know my birth mother. (I will write about this in more detail at a later stage). I clearly remember that dark winter evening, the warm glow from the living-room fire grate softening the crushing words that were penetrating my small ears. I was not my Mammy and Daddy's little girl. They chose me from a small group of children being looked after in a home of some sort they said. My real Mammy had to give me up because I was "born out of wedlock" as it was always described, God's punishment to her for having me. That's what my little six year old brain had to try and take in that awful winter evening.

That story was repeated many times over in my lifetime while living with my adoptive parents, as if to firmly instil in me the sense of mortal sin associated with giving birth outside of marriage. Indeed, many's the time my father reminded me that if I ever came home pregnant I would be out the door with my suitcase before I could say Jack Robinson, whoever he is! When I asked where would I go he'd tell me, into one of the institutions they have for "people like that". I don't think my parents were much different from any others as that was the general thinking back in the 1950s, 60s and even 70s. Such sad times.

I was one of the lucky kiddies. Had I not been adopted at two and a half years of age I might well have ended up in one of the residential schools that were dotted all over the country. As it was, I spent some time in a north inner Dublin hostel for unmarried mothers in the Mother and Baby Unit with my birth mother before doing the rounds of foster families and spending five months with pancreatitis in St. Kevins, now St. James's Hospital. But as they say, it could have been so much worse.

So, this could just as well have been my own birth mother's heartbreaking story: "The Catholic Church Stole My Child" - see how lucky I am!

My next post will detail my reaction to attending Anu Productions' "Laundry" - a site-specific performance in the Magdalene Laundry at Lower Sean McDermott Street, Dublin.

Above image: Me, at around three years of age, shortly after my adoption.

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Along The Sands Of Time

2011-09-27T02:08:00.000-07:00

Now that summer has all but become a distant memory might I say at this point that I don't think it was the total disaster most people are making it out to be. We did have glorious sunshine, sometimes for days on end, but unfortunately part of that good weather happened in April which seems to be becoming a feature of recent years. Perhaps the Department of Education may have to re-think their summer school holiday schedule and aim for April/May instead. Just a thought!

Meanwhile, I was strolling along Sandymount Strand the other day where strong winds drove the gathering grey clouds at a fierce pace across the skyline. Approaching the old stone stairways dotted along the beach wall I noticed how time and the ravages of sea spray had corroded sections of the rusty iron handrails making them appear almost threadbare in parts. The sight of those stone steps took me back to the sweltering summers of my childhood at the beach. Sunday mornings in particular Mam, Dad and I would head off walking the fifteen minute or thereabouts journey to Sandymount Strand which meant we didn't need to get the No. 3 bus that took you all the way to the Martello tower.

Walking alongside the sea wall on Beach Road was always a joy to the senses. Women wheeling their babies in the magnificant high prams of the day, the excited laughter of their older children as they ran giddily ahead, the reassuring low hum of the car engines as they practically glided past, most cars back then being black in colour. The one memory though that has remained most vivid is that of the wonderfull smell of seaweed. I savoured it then and I still do now.

On most occasions when I visit the wind is coming from a favourable direction thus once again delighting my nostrils with the air of sand and seaweed.

Above images of Beach Road, Sandymount and Stone Steps taken by me in April 2011.

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Dark Thoughts

2011-09-10T02:25:00.001-07:00

The year: either 1973 or 1974. The time: between 1.00am/2.00am. The place: my bed-sit in Rathmines, Dublin. I was sitting on the side of my bed totally frustrated at not being able to get the words out of my head onto my notepad (the old journalist style spiral variety!). I wanted to scream out my fragmented thoughts to anyone who would listen but in that dark hour which is neither night nor day my anguish would have fallen upon sleeping ears. So it was I wrote these words:-

Dark Thoughts

Everything seems so strange.
I am trying to write exactly what I feel but seem only able to describe it in my mind.
When I try to write it down it all becomes meaningless.
It's no longer a feeling, just letters forming words in a sentence.
It's like living in a fantasy or dream world,
Everything is just what I want it to be because I make it that way.
I create my thoughts and live them within myself.
This to me IS my real world.
I see things only as they are through the sleeping eyes of fantasy,
Then abruptly the hand of reality shakes me awake.
I'm frightened.
I am forced to emerge screaming from the warm womb-like sanctuary I've created deep within my imagination.
Outside, a violent world is waiting.

© Ann Brien 2011

Above writer's block image via: www.ownbeat.co.uk

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First Journey

2011-09-09T16:23:00.000-07:00

This is a poem I wrote back in the late 1990s. It appears to be me pleading with my birth mother to ease my entry into the world.

First Journey

Decending ever deeper into the abyss my arduous journey has commenced.
Please mother, let there be a little less urgency in your desire to expel me,
You are taking my life's breath from me, mother
And I must breathe if I am to complete this voyage.
This is not a safe passage.
I am aware that I am not the author of this action,
The decision to remain or leave is not mine.
I have no choice.
I had no choice.
Fiery needles burn my flesh, I cry out but there's no cool hand to ease the pain.
So it is I arrive from the blackness of my pit into the blinding light.

© Ann Brien 2011

Above image via: http://fineartamerica.com

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Give A Little Happiness - Be A Childrens Hospital Volunteer!

2011-08-30T04:22:00.000-07:00

Several times a week I travel into the city centre and depending on which bus I get I will often pass the Childrens Hospital in Crumlin. To us Dubliners it's also affectionately known as "Crumlin Hospital" or "Our Lady's". Opened in 1956 it's Ireland's largest paediatric hospital and because of its excellent specialist facilities many patient transfers from around the country take place every year.

Despite the wonderful nursing and medical care given to its youngsters the hospital still suffers greatly from a severe lack of funding. One incident that still angers me took place back in 2003 when a two year old girl died in the hospital because her heart surgery had to be postponed owing to a shortage of intensive care nurses. Several weeks previously twenty five beds were closed in order to remain within hospital budget, yet, around that time, close on five million Euros was available to build the Dublin Spire on O'Connell Street. That money would have been better spent on improving the conditions in that hospital which would ultimately have attracted the required vital nursing staff. Mmmm.

Back in 1998 I began my training as a Children In Hospital Ireland (CHI) volunteer. I chose to work on the infant ward, St. Peter's, firstly, because from the time I was eight years old until seventeen I babysat every infant in our avenue, I was sort of equivalent to a horse whisperer, always managing to subdue the fussiest of nippers. Secondly, as the nursing staff are not always immediately able to come to the aid of a crying baby, I dreaded the long term effect on those children whose cries were left unanswered. To them it would seem a form of abandonment, of not being worthy of love. If I could give just a few hours a week to cuddling as many babies as possible within that time span then I would feel I'd helped in some small way towards providing the emotional support these little ones needed.

So, over the course of six happy years I spent two, sometimes three hours, twice weekly, up on the infant ward, not only looking after the babies but also allowing parents head down to the canteen for a much needed coffee and time with their other children when necessary. Some of the less sick children I took for walks in their buggies down onto the other floors just for a change of scenery for them, what adventures we had!

During the last couple of years of my time there I was very privileged to have worked on a voluntary basis (again for a few hours a week as my children were home to lunch from college at 1.00pm) as a nurse's aid on St. John's ward, the Oncology Unit. People often asked me how could I work in such a sad environment but never at any time was there ever a sense of gloom, only one of hope along with lots of laughs. My duties included: making sure the trays of varying size syringes were stocked up as well as having a stock of assorted IV bags to hand; helping with the preparation of the High Dependency ward when a bone marrow transplant patient was due to arrive; taking kiddies in their wheelchairs to X-Ray, some of them right cheeky little devils which was always great to see; helping with serving dinners which was usually good fun.

Although life on St. John's was for the most part a joyous experience for me there was one young ten year old girl whose courage and determination to struggle on even in the final days of her short life brought me face to face with not only the sad fact that this child's life was slowly ebbing away but as a parent myself I tried to imagine the indescribable pain her parents must have been enduring. I knew in my heart I wasn't anywhere near to understanding it. On the day this lovely little girl passed away I was allowed visit her in the ICU that morning where she was, would you believe, watching a cartoon Video! When I was leaving her Mum came out with me into the corridor and we talked for a short while about her beautiful daughter. I went home that day all the more aware of how blessed I was as a mother than I had been when coming in.

After I had my own little stint in hospital with my coronary artery blockage and spent the time recuperating as indicated by my cardiologist I returned to my volunteer work in Crumlin hospital. Shortly afterwards I began my acting career which I'd longed for since I was twelve years old. I was very lucky and soon the work began to come my way but the down side was I could not do my hospital work as often as I'd have loved. Reluctantly, about six months later, after an awful lot of soul searching, I gave up my volunteer work, vowing I would return as soon as was possible. I did drop in from time to time but maybe some day I will actually go back there, if even for a few months.

Above image: Our Lady's Hospital, Crumlin via www.cmrf.org
Bottom image: Spire of Dublin via Wiki

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My Day In The Life of an A & E Department

2011-08-17T03:25:00.000-07:00

On an all too regular basis we hear the news of yet another death in our hospitals' A&E Departments. Most recently a patient dying while waiting many hours to be assessed by staff. We cannot use the excuse of our country's recession for the deaths of these people. Our Government must invest the money needed to provide the staff and beds required to end this atrocity once and for all. I still think funds from the National Lottery could play a huge part in this. It just doesn't seem right that one person can win anything upwards of five million Euros while people are dying on hospital trolleys because of cutbacks in our healthcare - there's something terribly wrong somewhere!

Eight years ago, several days after having a positive Stress ECG, I was admitted through the A&E Department of my local hospital but lucky for me I only had a ten hour trolley wait. Because I'd been suffering from chest pain I was seen by the triage nurse almost immediately then brought in for assessment ten minutes later. The following sections are from a diary I wrote up on my discharge six days later.

Thursday:
"ECG then bloods taken. Sent for chest X-Ray. On my return discover a new occupant in my cubicle. Apologies offered and accepted I'm then shown to one of the vacant trolleys in the corridor. After a short while a nurse squirts a GTN (glyceryl trinitrate) spray under my tongue assuring me that this will help the pain in my chest. Some five minutes later, instead of feeling better, it seems like I am getting worse. Begin to feel dreadful again. A short while later (whether or not as a result of the spray) the pain leaves with just some discomfort remaining.

Sometime around 11.00am I seek permission to use my mobile phone to ask hubby, who is reading in the car, to come in. By this time most of the other trolleys in the corridor are now occupied by patients with varying degrees of illnesses and injuries, nothing too dramatic. No stabbings or gunshot wounds - yet. In fact for a brief while, it's only the sound of intermittent retching from a distant cubicle that disturbs the almost uncharacteristic silence of the unit...."

"It is after mid-day when I'm offered tea and sandwiches. As I don't drink "normal" tea I ask for hot water instead. Just then one of the cardiology team arrives to assess me. Says they will be admitting me and I will probably be having a test called an angiogram.

To facilitate a staff training exercise - coping with a major road traffic accident, all visitors have to temporarily leave the area and as my trolley is close to the entrance I'm moved into a cubicle alongside another lady. Quickly realise the need us human beings have for contact with fellow humans especially in times of distress. We introduce ourselves and I listen intently as this nice lady explains how she has successfully coped over the years with her heart complaint. Her words are very encouraging. It is now sometime after 3.00pm and hubby is allowed back in.

Shortly afterwards I'm taken down a short corridor from the main A&E thoroughfare to a large cubicle occupied by two elderly women and my trolley positioned between the two. Hubby remains with me for a while but as our son is soon due back from school, I tell poor hubby to go on home. He tells me he will return later in the evening. Exhausted, I resign myself to a lengthy wait, perhaps many hours, but am alarmed when the woman on my left explains she's ben here waiting for a bed since 5.00pm yesterday evening! A couple of hours later her uncomfortable wait is over and she is moved upstairs to her ward.

It's never easy trying to catch a few winks in hospital but as I feel absolutely drained I close my eyes in the hopes of drifting off even for just a few moments. That's about all I manage as I wake to the sound of my name being called. A female doctor whose face I recognise as one of the haematology team calls by to discuss my situation.

She explains the problems posed by my bleeding disorder in the event of me having an angiogram. Basically I could haemorrhage from the site where the wire is inserted through my femoral artery. Also, the test itself is not without its risks - at best, an angina attack, at worst, a stroke! All that, coupled with the chance of bleeding afterwards, makes for very scary nightmares indeed. Soon after the doctor leaves, the woman on my right is told her bed is now ready.

For the first time today I'm alone and scared, separated from the world by a corridor while life in A&E continues unabated.

Thankfully, my isolation is short-lived when another woman is wheeled in beside me. She is very funny and makes me laugh from the word go with her hilarious goings-on about her broken arm which she is due to have set tomorrow but reckons she will be spending the night in A&E. Also admits to being on a high from her painkilling injections!"

"....At last, it's now my turn to be given the great news that there's a bed ready for me and immediately I phone hubby to give him the ward name.

It isn't until 7.15pm that I begin the long journey to the ward. I'm lucky to get the corner bed, in fact the room is identical to the one I was in five years ago when I had the D&C prior to my hysterectomy. My corner bed is on the same side and the same corner. It is almost eerie.

I share the ward with five other women...." (The two ladies who stand out from that night are Nora, an absolute comedian. She was in her sixties, twenty odd stone and seemed to have been inflicted with every disorder under the sun. Opposite me was Amanda, a young woman who'd had her appendix removed the previous day but had to return to A&E after her operation because there was no bed available. If this had happend in some far off war-torn country I would be aghast but this was an Irish hospital, that through lack of funding, could not provide this woman with a post-op bed thus putting her life in almost certain danger).

"....Hubby arrives bringing with him the old reliables (nightdress, dressing gown, slippers and most importantly, knickers) plus my beloved fennel and camomile teas. For some reason I always feel like a child on my first night in hospital so I'm feeling a bit lonely when he leaves at 9.00pm.

The remainder of my night is spent taking a couple of strolls up and down the corridor (even though I've been told to remain in bed), writing up my diary and generally getting to know my room mates. All the while Nora continues to entertain with her unique brand of fun. Her ability to describe all her tales of woe with such energy and humour prompts me to suggest a new career in stand-up comedy! Due to exhaustion I have to pull out of the conversations but still enjoy listening in on all the banter".

Friday:
"Wake up around 7.00am...."

"Sometime around 10.00am a lovely technician arrives to take my bloods. She reminds me of Shakira, the blonde, shaggy-haired Columbian singer/belly dancer. As always, my veins refuse to give up their blood without the usual struggle but in the end the blonde lady wins them over and they pump copiously!"

"....I arrive on the CCU at 12.15pm where I'm taken to Ward 1 and as I'm being wheeled into the room the first thing I notice is that I'm definitely the youngest patient here. In a strange way I find this very reassuring". "....as I begin putting away my things into the locker I realise everyone is having their dinner and I'm instantly reminded of how hungry I am. I've been fasting since last night because of the angiogram planned for this afternoon". "...Later, another nurse comes in to start up my platelet infusion, set to go in over an hour.

As the curtain is still around my bed, I don't see the patient being admitted to the bed next to mine but on listening to the voices, both male and female, I'm shocked to discover that it's the man who will be beside me. I've never been on a mixed ward before and my first though is how old is this guy! I pray he is in his nineties. It turns out he is a very quiet, gentle soul probably early seventies".

"....Not too long afterwards another gentleman is admitted, this time to the middle opposite bed. Even though both men appear to be very gentlemanly, I feel somewhat uneasy in their presence. For me, getting in and out of bed would now have to be executed with the greatest of dignity, no more bare thighs!

Shortly before my drip finishes, the cardiologist tells me that the angiogram has had to be cancelled. The word devastated doesn't come close to how I feel. Having been so nervous since yesterday I was now going to have to go through it all over again. Seemingly the person who was to carry it out was called off but the message never got through to the haematologists, hence my platelet infusion. Communication breakdown, big time! The platelets I'd just received would be no good as their effect lasts only around six hours. I'd have to start all over again on Monday morning".

Sunday:
"....After dinner, my chest is still hurting a lot and also the sharp pain in the left side of my chest returns.

As I'm due my angiogram tomorrow I feel the need of some spiritual comfort so on seeing the young priest attending an elderly lady a couple of beds down from me I decide to ask him if he could bless me also. After he leaves the ward I head down to where he's talking with the nurses at their station. He introduces himself and is so kind when I tell him how nervous I am about my procedure.

Little did I realise how anxious I was because as soon as he draws the curtain around my bed and sits down I burst into tears. He just holds me and tells me it's OK to cry. I've never met a priest with such feeling. I tell him about all my fears for tomorrow, how I'm scared that if I die I will leave behind two children. I'm not afraid of the pain, just of dying and leaving my husband and children. He holds my hands and reassures me that everything will be alright. He then anoints my hands with holy oil, saying the most beautiful prayers which give me a tremendous feeling of great inner peace.

It is nap time (1.00pm - 2.00pm everyday) and the nurse draws all the blinds, once again transforming the ward ambience to that of a warm, secure nursery. I slip into a peaceful sleep from which I awake much more rested".

Monday:
To make a long story fairly short, my angiogram was yet again cancelled and they started me on the anti-inflammatory drug, Aulin. I never like these drugs as I think they interfere with my clotting process.

Tuesday:
"....At 5.50am the nurse arrives to start my platelet infusion which would go in over two hours. Don't really sleep after that, just lightly doze as I have to have my BP checked regularly. At around 8.15am I head off into the bathroom for a quick wash but while I'm in there an attendant arrives with a wheelchair to take me down for my angiogram. I race back into the ward and get into my paper gown and knickers quicker than a fireman dons his work clothes. How I didn't have a heart attack there and then is beyond me! Finally, we're on our way.

I walk into the test room with my blanket wrapped around me and climb onto the table where on of the girls settles me into position. The pretty girl with curly hair places a little pill under my tongue then the doctor tells me he will explain everything as he goes along but I'm not sure I want to know!

Looking at all the monitors I notice the middle one only has my name in huge lettering on it. I joke with the staff telling them I've always wanted my name in lights but not exactly under these circumstances then the doctor laughs and says "now for the film". Even his comical remark does nothing to quell my anxiety.

Standing at my right side he presses the top of my leg in the groin area, looking for a pulse, I think, during which I repeat how terrified I am. After the incision, the tube containing the wire goes in and after that all I can hear is the doctor explaining to the other doctor exactly what's happening on the screen. At one stage I quickly glance at the monitor to see the wire moving up my artery which very quickly makes me look away again.

Every so often I'm asked to take a deep breath but I can't hold it for long. At one point I hear something about a narrowing on the left which I assume is in the artery. Towards the end the doctor tells me he is going to flood my heart with a warm eye which sounds very scary indeed! The sensation is really strange because I can feel the warm liquid whooshing up all through my chest. He then flushes it through and it's all over. I'm so cold.

Decide to ask him what he found and he explains that 40% of my left artery has narrowed and that most likely I will be put on medication which doesn't sound too life threatening. While moving over onto the trolley, with tube still in situ, I have to keep my right leg straight which I think is to prevent bleeding but I can't stop shivering and shaking. I'm then moved into recovery.

There, the other doctor removes the tube and presses very hard on the incision for 10-12 minutes which is absolute agony. Still shaking with the cold so a nurse puts extra blankets over me and also checks my BP. I remain there for about 20 minutes before going back to the ward.

While being transferred from the trolley to the bed I again have to keep my leg straight. Blood pressure sounds like it's a bit low so the bed is lowered. I continue to get colder by the minute so the nurse covers me up with another couple of blankets which probably now number five in total. I'm anxious to let hubby know how things are so my very kind nurse gives me my mobile phone so as I can phone him. He's thrilled I'm back safe and sound.

After about an hour I begin to warm up a little. I'm allowed dinner at around 12.30pm but I remain in bed with all my blankets wrapped around me. Since returning to the ward I've been having my BP and wound checked regularly but now there is a small amount of bruising.

At around 3.30pm I take my first tentative steps, praying I don't bleed and after having a pee I slowly walk up and down the corridor once to see how I'm doing. Wound is a bit sore but chest is still tight so I rest for a while. I always find the time between tea time and visiting to be an eternity and today is no exception so when hubby arrives in at 7.00pm I eagerly tell him all about the day's events. He is almost as happy as I am that it's all over and eerything went well. I can't wait to see the boys tomorrow".

Wednesday:
"When I get up to pee at 7.30am I notice the bruising has spread down my leg a little. There is talk of some of us going home today so I ring hubby to tell him the good news.

One of the nurses tells me I'm starting on my new medication today which makes me feel a bit anxious as I have a bad history when it comes to drug reactions and the fact that this is heart medicine it makes going home on the first day of starting it somewhat scary. Nevertheless, I'm given my first beta-blocker, Atenolol, 25mg, this I'm told, is to slow down my heart rate so it doesn't need to pump as much blood as normal. Just as dinner arrives, the Prof. and all his doctors come in to see me. He tells me I'm going home. Says if medications (beta blocker) works he'll leave me on it for around six months, if not, he'd re-admit me and would have to consider surgery. I'm also prescribed a cholesterol-lowering drug, Lipostat, 20mg. (even though my level is way within normal level) plus a GTN spray. Anti-inflammatory drug, Aulin, has been stopped thank Heavens as I was never very happy on it...."

"After they leave I have my dinner. Unfortunately, I don't have time to finish my coffee as an attendant arrives with a wheelchair to take our luggage (two of the other ladies and mine) to the discharge room and we too have to go with her. Dreadful rush.

This is the first time I've ever been discharged this way and I can honestly say I feel it is not the best preparation for my re-entry into the outside world. From the comfort and security of the ward we're taken to a room that can only be described as resembling a bus or train station luggage area. Here we are formerly discharged. Our bags are labelled and put on a rack where I quickly discover another lady's name on mine and vice versa so I promptly get the nurse to reverse them. There are also several other people going home today.

Eventually, our doctor comes down to release us. The nurse tells me to contact hubby and tell him I'd be ready at about 2.15pm for collection at the main door. Out of our group, Teresa is the first to leave. With a big hug I wish her well and thank her for everything. She's a wonderful woman who lost her husband five years ago, has ten living children and twenty six grandchildren. She tragically lost seven children, three sets of twins and one triplet. I pray life will now be a little kinder to her, God knows, she deserves it.

The lady doctor then writes my GP's letter and hubby's letter which enables him to one month off work. Shortly afterwards the attendant arrives with my wheelchair. I kiss and hug Marie, wishing her all the best and telling her we might meet again one day in our local pub!

On my long journey through the hospital to the main entrance I meet the lovely male nurse on the first ward I was in and tell him I managed to survive it all and I'm now homeward bound.

I only have a few minutes to wait before hubby arrives. Can't believe I'm actually on my way home. Really looking forward to seeing the boys and our dog, Sandy.

Home just before 3.00pm".

UPDATE:
Within a week of returning home the bruising moved all around my leg right down to my knee. Rang the hospital to let them know, they asked me to come in immediately and proceeded to get a medical photographer to photograph the bruise as they'd never seen anything like it before!.

After three months I had to stop taking the beta-blocker, Atenolol (Prof's instructions) because I'd developed a dreadful cough from about a month on it. As I was never really able to master using the GTN spray, I gave that up too, so, by a couple of weeks later, I was feeling much better. Now at least I could walk again without developing a massive coughing fit! I did remain on, and still take, the Lipostat which I've discovered over the years is not without its side-effects.

Three years ago I developed severe pain in my right shoulder and upper arm to the point where I needed help taking a shower (I couldn't dry myself), combing my hair was a nightmare, what was left of it! Each washing and brushing resulted in losing handfulls, it was everywhere around the house. In order to maintain some degree of a normal life I had to resort to having physio on my shoulder for many weeks. Just before it completely improved the pain went over into my left shoulder and arm. I couldn't afford any more physio.

After many months of suffering I Googled cholesterol-lowering drugs and found to my astonishment that others also were severely disabled by arm pain. At this point I halved the amount to 10mg per night. It took another couple of months to notice a slight improvement so I then reduced it to 5mg per night. Only since the beginning of this year am I almost pain-free. There is still stiffness but I'm careful how I move. Last December my GP had my cholesterol checked and it's still well within normal levels, under 4.

In June of this year I had a heart CT scan which showed my heart still to be in great working order but most amazingly, the 40% blockage which showed up eight years ago on the angiogram is now totally disappeared! It has to be the Lipostat. The Consultant in the hospital suggested I should be taking 10mg but because of my normal cholesterol level and above all, the fear of getting the shoulder and arm pain back, I've decided to continue with the 5mg dose.

Not a day goes by that I don't realise how lucky I am and thank God that I'm still here, healthy and happy with my family around me.

Above image via: www.healthdirect.co.uk
Bottom angiogram image via: www.heart-valve-surgery.com

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Untold Story #2 - Working Title

2011-08-06T07:06:00.000-07:00

This little piece is from a dream I had back in May 1994 (I used to keep a dream diary) which I thought might make a storyline for a short animated film. Again, the text begins a little into the story. To get an idea of what I'm doing just refer to Untold Stories #1 - Working Title.

...."On the wall facing him hangs an enormous oil painting depicting an horrendous scene from Hell - a dark-red fiery pit from which tormented souls, with arms stretched upwards, cry out for forgiveness.

Directly behind him on the opposite wall an equally vast painting, in total contrast to its opposite companion, portrays a vision of true beauty and tranquility. It is Heaven. Cherubs with long golden curls hover above fluffy clouds of blue and pink. There is a feeling of total peace for this is not a place of suffering.

The small man, still seated on the bench is apparently deep in concentration. What is he thinking? Only I as the dreamer has the privilege of knowing the dark and disturbing thoughts travelling through his troubled mind.

He lifts his eyes towards the picture hanging before him. He is thinking: "Yesterday I was a bad man therefore I must be punished". Slowly, as if aided by some supernatural force, his body begins to enter the vision of Hell. He is immediately deafened by the pitiful cries for help all around him. There he will remain, condemned to agonizing torment, until he is fully satisfied that he has completely cleansed his soul from all its sins. Only then is he free to emerge from his infernal suffering...."

© Ann Brien 2011

Above image via www.fineartamerica.com

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Untold Story #1 - Working Title

2011-07-29T15:31:00.000-07:00

This is the first of my Untold Stories which I wrote back in the early 1990s and which I mentioned in an earlier post I would publish here. As yet none of them are complete so all are untitled. I shall refer to each as "Untold Story 1, 2, 3 etc - Working Title". All sections are taken from a little way into the stories. Just thought I'd put them out to you and see what happens!

"......It was a sweltering afternoon when the black Ford pulled up at the top of the long driveway leading to the house. A middle-aged woman, early sixties, stepped out onto the gravel path and slowly walked the remaining distance towards the grand entrance. Dressed entirely in black, the fine silk blouse and ankle-length skirt seemed almost in total contrast to the brightness of the warm July evening. Her thick yellowing hair was neatly brought together in braids across the top of her head.

Catching her breath from the exertion of climbing the several stone steps she lifted the heavy brass knocker and gave three loud resounding knocks. She waited. A sudden wind began to stir the leaves of a nearby oak. Following a short wait the wooden door opened to reveal a frail grey-haired gentleman.

"Good evening Sir" said the woman. "I believe this property is still for sale?"

"Yes, indeed it is Mam" replied the gentleman. "If you would care to step inside perhaps we could discuss the matter in more comfortable surroundings". His friendly tone almost suggested he was expecting her.

"Thank you" replied the woman. She stepped past the man and politely waited until he had indicated one of the rooms to the right of the hallway. It was a bright airy room with a large bay window which looked out onto the magnificant landscaped garden.

"My name is Isobella......."

© Ann Brien 2011

The above photograph is not the exact image of the story house, I just love sepia.

Above image via: www.fineartamerica.com

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Travels With My Aunt - Part Two - Illegal Aliens!

2011-07-17T06:08:00.000-07:00

Having now missed the return ferry home (refer to previous post) there was nothing for us five weary travellers to do but find something to occupy the long twelve hour wait until 3.00am the following morning! For some reason the song "The Day We Went To Bangor" sprang to mind and I immediately suggested it should be our next port of call.

There was a great hullabaloo at the train station with dear Aunty E insisting she buy all our train tickets. Always a woman to be easily parted from her money, under the influence, she became a philanthropist. In the end, common sense prevailed and Aunty E's hard earned cash remained untouched, safe within its leather pouch. Now, with tickets secured, we waited for our train to Bangor, of course not having a clue what we were going to do there once we'd arrived!

A couple of railway staff enquired if they could be of help and when we told them what had happened they laughed, telling us that we were now illegal aliens! With that, my friend's mother produced the bottle of brandy which she'd purchased on the ferry solely for home consumption and I, wishing to bring a sense of decorum to the proceedings, headed out to procure some polystyrene cups. Needless to say I did not partake of the liquid refreshment because by then the little man with his hammer had begun to pound quite loudly against my skull.

Our train arrived and off we set to our unknown destination. I can't recall the journey time but I know we were much relieved to find a cinema where we could rest our weary bones and allow the two senior members of our group to hopefully sleep off their excesses. The film showing was "Grease" and although most of us had already seen it, it nonetheless provided an excellent excuse to while away a couple of hours watching John and Olivia strutt their stuff. After a while the two ladies fell fast asleep as we thought they might.

Of the whole day's adventure this is the part I remember and treasure the most. During a very quiet moment in the film Aunty E woke up and enquired loudly in a very drunken tone "do you have the cabbage in for tomorrow's dinner?". I thought I'd die. Everyone turned around, I was mortified! I hastily answered "yes" and told her to go back to sleep which she promptly did. I don't think we stopped laughing for the remainder of the film!

Later in the afternoon we ate in a cafe, did some window shopping then headed back to the ferry terminal to wait and even dozed for a few hours until our ship arrived in at 3.00am. As I'd always wanted to see sunrise at sea, at around 5.00am while most people were asleep, I went up on deck. What a sight met my eyes - in the centre of the stillness shone a pale yellow sun streaked with sleepy dark cloud, its light reflected on the vast stretch of water which lay out all around me. It was worth missing our earlier ferry for.

We docked at around 6.30am, exhausted but very glad we got to extend our adventure. Our hubbies waited on the quayside to transport us to our respective abodes and yes, they laughed but we were beyond retaliating. I survived the car journey home only through the constant image in my mind's eye of my cosy bed and the several hours of blissful sleep which lay before me. All in all, a grand day (and night) out!

"Grease" film poster image via Wiki.

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Travels With My Aunt - Aunty E

2011-07-07T17:09:00.000-07:00

Aunty E and I shared a wonderful thirty six years in each other's company. Well, the first ten were wonderful, the remainder, a little less joyful. You see, during the early years, as I've mentioned in the previous post, we experienced life through, how shall I say, an alcoholic haze, mainly at weekends, or on the odd occasion mid-week if our meeting together was required.

Back in the summer of 1981 you could buy a very cheap ticket, I think it was around eleven pounds Irish money at the time, no Euros back then, to travel by boat to Hollyhead for the day. I rounded up two of my friends plus one of their mothers to keep Aunty E company and off we set sail. Think "women behaving badly" as opposed to the TV series "Men Behaving Badly"!

I must immediately point out that my two friends played absolutely no part in our missing the return boat journey.

To make a very long story fairly short: Aunty E and I were first to the bar as soon as it opened - it was a three hour sailing and no one was counting the scoops. My friend's mother proceeded to buy a bottle of brandy with the intention of bringing it home. On docking in Hollyhead, Aunty E and I each bought a pair of shoes, same colour, same brand. Along the main street there seemed to be some sort of awards ceremony in preparation where tables were laden with trophies of varying shapes and sizes. I of course, having never won an award, seized upon the occasion to hold high one of the cups while hastily instructing Aunty E to take a photograph.

We had dinner somewhere I believe. With not much time left we stumbled upon a wedding group having their photos taken outside a church. So beautiful was the bride and the bridemaids' hats that I just had to get a picture. My God, what was I like? Aunty E decided to tag along despite pleas from the others that if we didn't hurry we'd miss the boat. They slowly headed back to the ferry terminal while Aunty E and I managed to get ourselves lost.

With not one ounce of navigational skills between us we arrived back just in time to watch our ferry slowly pull out from the quayside. Oh dear! With the next ferry not leaving for another twelve hours - 3.00am in the morning, there was nothing for it but to while away the hours, preferably somewhere with seating facilities. As I'd never been to Bangor I thought why not avail of this opportune moment! Eventually it was agreed by all, well most, that that's where we'd head for.

This next escapade will require a further blog post.......

Hollyhead Road image via: www.itraveluk.co.uk
Stena Line image via: www.groundedtravel.com

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Birthday Wishes Aunty E

2011-06-30T14:30:00.000-07:00

Today would have been dear Aunty E's ninety-fifth birthday. It is with a deep sense of guilt that I have to admit to not missing her company these days. Thirty years ago the story would have been so much different. For a start we would certainly have celebrated her birthday with most definitely one too many whiskies, her preference always given to the Irish alcohol industry whereas I tended to (and still do) favour a fine Scotch malt.

The first ten years of our thirty six year relationship (she was my huband's aunt) was to say the least, passionate, at times, almost juvenile. There was nothing we wouldn't do for each other, we would never allow anyone to say anything hurtful towards the other. We got very drunk together, in fact, looking back now, I question if our deep friendship was not solely based on our mutual love of the old devil's brew, maybe not. We were kindred spirits.

During the early years we shared many adventures including a day trip to Hollyhead in Wales during which we literally missed the boat back to Dun Laoghaire, Dublin so got the train to Bangor....oh it gets better! Perhaps some future blog posts concentrating mainly on our happy, fun times? It seemed nothing could ever tear us apart.....or so I thought.

I have only just realized that we had known each other for as many years as was our age difference. That in itself is a little unsettling.

If Aunty E were alive today, of course I would be celebrating her great age with her with a glass or two of the golden brew while yet still struggling to rekindle the flame of our love that once bound us inseparable.

Above image taken by me in Allihies, Beara, Co. Cork. (The fuchsia was one of Aunty E's favourite flowers).

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The Workshop

2011-06-22T17:34:00.000-07:00

The workshop (window, far left) as it was affectionately known was a small room in my adoptive mother's family bungalow in Rathmolyon, County Meath where her father repaired the household footwear for himself, his wife and seven children. Indeed, his shoe repair service would have extended far beyond that of his family, most likely he was responsible for the upkeep of the surrounding neighbourhoods' shoe leather!

One abiding memory I have of visiting my aunt and uncle (my mother's sister and brother) in their cosy home was of going into that room and being met by the full-bodied aroma of real leather. Even though it had been many years since the room was used as a workshop, large squares of the skin still lay redundant on their shelves and of course the mighty cast iron anvil was centre stage on its bench next to the fireplace. That magnificant feat of engineering, the sewing machine, stood sturdy in the corner, its handle shined from decades of constant turning.

I loved that room, it had an air of tranquility about it, perhaps an energy from the time when my grandad worked in peace with the tools of his trade away from his seven noisy children! Beneath the window stood a large brown travel trunk, the kind you'd see in the old "pirates of the high seas" films of the 1950s.

One day while I was browsing through its contents I came across a large leather-bound army medical book and for the remainder of my two week summer holiday I sat out in the farm yard with my nose stuck in it at every given opportunity. The tropical diseases were fascinating and although some of the images of surgical procedures were truly gruesome they nonetheless intrigued me. I should have taken it home with me because when I looked for it a year later the trunk was missing. It was in that same treasure chest that I found a Penguin book of plays which I did ask to keep, I still have it!

Sadly, both my maternal grandparents had died by the time I came along. Lucky enough I have photos of them and judging by my grandmother's bright smiling face, having seven children served only to add to her beauty. My grandfather I'd say was the stern one, you can tell by his smile that he was probably thinking "Come on, hurry up and take the bloody picture", or words to that effect.

That is just another lovely memory I have of my childhood holidays spent down the country where life flowed at a slower pace.

Cast Iron Anvil image: www.buysellcommunity.com
Travel Trunk image: www.scaramangashop.co.uk

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Welcome Your Majesty, Mr President - A Week In Irish History

2011-05-30T05:30:00.000-07:00

I vividly remember that showery afternoon in June 1963 when President John F. Kennedy's cavalcade slowly drove past me as I stood waving with my mother at the front of the barrier in either Grafton Street or Westmoreland Street, Dublin. With me soon to become a twelve year old, politics certainly did not enter into the equation. No, the sole purpose of accompanying my mother was to view at close quarters the President of America no less. My newly acquired female hormones were by then sufficiently developed to recognise that this man was one truly gorgeous hunk. Also, he was the first person I'd ever seen with a tan! For weeks afterwards I probably bored the socks off all and sundry with my recounting of the day's events.

Fast forward now to May 2011 when the events that took place over the course of one week will enter into the history books for our grandchildren and great-grandchildren to learn how Ireland was so proud to welcome its first British Monarch in one hundred years and the 44th President of the United States.

First we had the visit of Queen Elizabeth II who genuinely seemed to enjoy her stay. (I too joined the throngs to see her emerge from Trinity College). We have yet to fully absorb the positive outcome for our two nations of her visit. The image of the Queen of England laying a wreath at the Garden of Remembrance, our memorial garden dedicated to the memory of the Irish men who gave their lives in the cause of Irish freedom then standing, head bowed, during the one minute silence will forever be etched in the Irish psyche.

Her visit to Croke Park, headquarters of the Gaelic Athletic Association and the site where on Sunday 21st. November 1920 innocent civilians attending a Dublin-Tipperary gaelic football match were massacred by British troops, was hugely symbolic. That barbaric event became known as "Bloody Sunday".

Later that evening during the state dinner in Dublin Castle which UK Prime Minister, David Cameron also attended Her Majesty delivered the speech that no one of my generation thought we would ever hear in our lifetime. Her opening line "A Uachtarain, agus a chairde" ("President and friends") both shocked and delighted dinner guests and television viewers alike, never in our wildest dreams did we expect to hear a greeting in our native tongue from the Head of the British Monarchy.

Half way through the speech came the words we'd been waiting to hear for so long "...to all those who have suffered as a consequence of our troubled past I extend my sincere thoughts and deep sympathy...". The Queen doesn't do "sorry" but this came bloody close and as my heart embraced those words I sensed a huge collective letting go of the painful history between our nations. My immediate words were "that's it" just like the jubilant football fan whose team has just scored the winning goal. I resisted the urge to stand and cheer. Perhaps now it is our turn to also apologise. One sentence has become the balm with which to begin the healing process.

Still high on the eurphoric wave from the Queen's speech it was with an almighty bang that we were brought back down to earth the following morning with the very sad news that our much loved statesman, philosopher, journalist and politician, serving twice as Taoiseach between 1981-1987, Garret FitzGerald had died. I was so happy to hear that in the twenty four hours before his passing he was very much aware of the Queen's historic visit to Ireland.

No sooner had the Queen's plane taken off when President Barack Obama's Air Force One landed!

We pretty much knew this would not be a State visit but rather a day of sheer entertainment and we were not disappointed. The President and his beautiful wife, Michelle began their day with a visit to Aras an Uachtarain where they met our own wonderful President Mary McAleese then planted a tree with her in the grounds. (The previous week a tree planting ceremony took place with the Queen, her eighty five years in no way impeding her ability to shovel the little mound of clay).

Early afternoon saw the Obamas head off to Moneygall, the small village in County Offaly where the President visited his ancestral home which his great-great-great grandfather left one hundred and fifty years ago to seek prosperity in the United States. There in Ollie Hayes's pub in Main Street, Moneygall, Barack and Michelle knocked back the Guinness, a pint for him, a half glass for herself. They were certainly in good spirits when they arrived back in College Green, Dublin.

I was there, one of forty thousand I believe. Like the song says, half a million strong, well... not quite, just felt like it! After our great actors, Gabriel Byrne, Stephen Rea and Brendan Gleeson, introduced by our newest brilliant young actress, Saoirse Ronan, whipped us into a patriotic frenzy with their powerful speeches we were then well on our way to all-out celebrity adoration.

Music from Imelda May, Jedward and Westlife to name but a few boomed throughout the length and breath of College Green and Dame Street, causing the odd rooftop pigeon to peer down and pace in an agitated state at the goings on of us humans. Then the moment Ireland and the remaining world had been waiting for, arrived. With his usual upbeat humour our good friend, TV presenter and radio broadcaster, Ryan Tubridy introduced our Taoiseach, Enda Kenny, the President and First Lady onto the stage and as they say, the rest is history, Irish history.

The speeches will be remembered and I personally don't mind that Enda used the first forty words of President Obama's victory speech, I believe him when he said it was a "tribute" to the President. The remainder of his speech was equally fiery and had the crowds cheering their socks off! Good man Enda!

During this very difficult economic period when there are moments when we feel where is this all going to end or during times when there is a sense that we've maybe gone down one time too many, will we ever rise from the ashes? Draw strength from a President's parting words, "Is feider linn" - "Yes we can". They've worked well for him so far.

President J.F. Kennedy Dublin visit image: http://declancashin.com
The Queen with President Mary McAleese image: www.telegraph.co.uk
Dr. Garret FitzGerald image: www.thejournal.ie
President Obama & Michelle in Moneygall image: www.thisisoxfordshire.co.uk
President Obama speech, College Green, Dublin image: www.thestate.com

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A Royal Wedding - William and Catherine

2011-05-01T10:02:00.000-07:00

Those smiles say it all...this newly married couple truly love each other. The reason I didn't choose the "kiss" photo was firstly because it was the world's media main Royal Wedding portrait and secondly, I thought the first kiss was performed purely for the cameras though I have to say that the second kiss, much longer in duration, was definitely a stolen private moment. No, mainly it was because, as a soppy romantic, I wanted to show an unstaged real moment of tenderness between them. I think the above image portrays just that.

I was a toddler at the time of Queen Elizabeth's coronation in 1953 so, too young to remember it. What I clearly remember with great fondness are the black and white photographs of the wedding of Princess Margaret to Anthony Armstrong-Jones in 1960 and one particular one of the Queen looking tenderly at Prince Charles lying, I think, in his moses basket. I would have been browsing through those in my mother's magazines at the time probably Woman's Own or Woman's Weekly, I remember the latter had loads of knitting patterns. That definitely was the beginning of my lifelong fascination with all things Royal!

Now, back to more recent times and I suppose to where it all began for William with the marriage of his parents, Princess Diana, then of course, Lady Diana and Prince Charles. I sometimes wish that Charles could have married Camilla instead of Diana but then the boy Princes would never have been born. Everything happens for a reason, I guess.

We all remember the joy we felt when William was born then when a little over two years later he was joined by his brother, Harry we could barely contain our delight! There is no questioning the love these two boys received from their parents but it's those images of the young Princes with their mother where clearly they are enjoying her company and she's showing such affection towards them that will always remain dear to us.

All I hope for William and Catherine, the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge as they are now known for the time being is that they are above all blessed with health and happiness and later the joy of children, everything else will follow.

Top image: www.telegraph.co.uk
Bottom image: www.lahore.metblogs.com

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Untold Stories

2011-04-17T04:22:00.000-07:00

For the past few weeks I've been browsing through some storylines which I began writing in the early 1990s. Back then my doodling was confined to handwriting in a refill pad!.

The reason I'm mentioning these is because I'm strongly thinking of completing each story with the view to one day seeing them either, in print in Eason's window (Ireland's leading bookstore) or perhaps one or two of them becoming the storyline for a short film.

I plan to post snippets here from each story and hopefully get feedback as to whether it has the potential to evolve into an exciting project. Beginning to feel excited already!

The above photo of me taken last June in Allihies, West Cork reminds me of that beautiful summer of almost constant warm sunshine and the sounds of the birds and bees along the bohreen hedgegrows. Me being ever optimistic of course is living in hope of repeat weather conditions this year!.

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Song For The Innocents

2011-04-07T15:26:00.000-07:00

Next month will mark the thirty seventh anniversary of the Dublin and Monaghan Bombings. Like all moments in history that mark death, whether it be expected or untimely, or as in this case the callous, barbaric murder of thirty three innocent men, women and children (twenty six people in Dublin, seven in Monaghan) May 17, 2011 will not only be a painful reminder for us not directly affected (although my friend was injured and had to have immediate surgery on her hand), but for the people who lost loved ones on that dark day, it will undoubtedly only serve to reopen the wounds that have in most cases never healed.

I was so shocked and distraught following that horror that one week later on Sunday morning, May 26, I wrote these words in my bedsit in Rathmines which would become my protest song against the use of killing machines of any kind.

Living Will Go On

(i)

They say that life's for living

We must live it every day.

Don't talk of hate for others

Be careful what you say.

For love is all around us

Share it each and everyone

Then when we love together

Living will go on.

(ii)

I met an old man yesterday

We walked beside a stream.

He told me how he longed to smile

How freedom was his dream.

So if we walk beside this man

Well, things they can't go wrong.

We'll all join hands together

And living will go on.

(iii)

Child of war lay down your gun

What right have you to kill?

You can't win what you're fighting for

You know you never will.

So forget about destruction

'Cause wars just can't be won,

Together let's try to find lost peace

Then living will go on.

Image: Me in 1971.

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The Summerhouse

2011-04-02T08:05:00.000-07:00

The summers of my childhood hold wonderful memories of Sunday afternoons when my mother and father would take me to visit uncles Bill and John in Lucan, a picturesque village about twelve miles outside Dublin.

The highlight of those trips was entering the house they lived in. It was a single storey, possibly thatched roof, creepy cottage set deep in a field surrounded by trees that shrouded the house like menacing tentacles. The main room with its open fireplace had one of those large wooden benches with the backs you see in period films but what I remember most about that room was the total lack of natural light mainly because the window was tiny. What more than made up for it though was the warm glow from the turf fire where black iron cooking pots hung from a black iron rail.

Outside the house was the huge field which had a gate lodge at its entrance. I got to know its occupants simply because they had a baby and of course wherever there was a baby to be held I was there.

Shortly before I'd leave uncle Bill would take me for a walk along a pathway behind the house which led to an old summerhouse. Uncle John, his brother, because of his poor eyesight would remain in the cottage for the duration smoking his pipe and chatting with my parents.

I keep promising myself to return there some day but I think what's preventing me from going is the fear that the strange little cottage, which incidentally reminds me of the little house in the Hansel and Gretal fairy tale, may have been demolished to make way for a housing estate. I sincerely hope I'm wrong.

In order to preserve my memory of those lovely times I've put together a few words of dedication to both the summerhouse and my long departed uncles. May they rest in peace.

The Summerhouse

Along the winding path we'd stroll
William pointing out a pretty flower here and there,
I'd ask its name, he'd tell, but the passing years have stolen its label.

This sanctuary with its soft earthy footing,
Framed on either side by trees with arms entwined like fragile ballerinas,
Fed the hunger of my fledgling imagination.
The gurgling unhurried weir sauntering alongside our footsteps,
The cooing wood pigeons pledging love across the treetops,
Both these sounds created for me a world momentarily devoid of suffering.

At the end of that magical pathway stood the summerhouse;
Its round frame enveloping me in its paint-flaked wooden arms
I'd dance, round and round, my own arms outstretched
Touching the vertical bars until I was dizzy, dizzy, dizzy!
Exhausted, I'd stretch along its circular seat amidst the bird feathers
And dead leaves from winters long past.

Outside, William, or Uncle Bill as he was to me, would wait with
Job's patience for my emergence.
Then, hand in hand, we'd make our way back to the little house
Between the trees.

© Ann Brien 2011

Gazebo image via: www.scenicreflections.com
Hansel and Gretal image via: wikipedia

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Stepping Out With My Baby!

2011-03-16T14:22:00.000-07:00

Yesterday as hubby and I were walking along the lovely country road to Ballydonegan Beach we came across these guys. At first they were quite a distance away but when I called to them they came over, thinking they were going to be fed. I couldn't disappoint them so as the only edibles I had on my person was a package of crisps (they'll be my downfall!) I squashed a handful and threw it into them. Like all chucks when food appears they dived in like hooligans! Had great fun watching them.

Tomorrow we're heading back to Dublin for a few days so probably won't get around to much tweeting or blogging. See you soon, stay safe.

Cheers!

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Words In Progress......

2011-03-13T13:44:00.000-07:00

This evening I took my scribbling pad, pen, meditation cushion, bath towel, cosy blanket, cup of herbal tea, mobile phone and a few drops of creative juice outside to see what words might form themselves on the page.

Earlier, despite the constant biting wind, the sun had great warmth in it during the moments when there was stillness. By now the skies had begun to darken somewhat, pale grey clouds slowly inching their way in from the sea, I was not deterred.

I seated myself on my meditation cushion, my back supported by the fence over which I'd draped a bath towel to shelter me from the cold wind, around my legs I wrapped my cosy blanket, drank my herbal (fennel) tea, positioned my scribbling pad on my knee, took my pen in hand (left as it happens!) and let my creative juices flow, later I used my mobile phone to snap the above image.

The resulting words "The Work Room" are still at their embryonic stage, not yet ready to be born.

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To The Waters And The Wild.....

2011-03-11T15:02:00.000-08:00

One of my favourite poems, "The Stolen Child" by W.B. Yeats, has provided me with a line that I feel is perfect for this post title.

Incidentally, that poem is very special for me as it was the one I read with huge emotion, at fourteen years of age, to our English class taught by drama teacher, Mr. Rogers. When the bell rang and everyone was rushing to leave, Mr. Rogers called me up and suggested I join his drama school. Alas, owing to my parents not having the necessary spondoolicks, it never came to pass. Of course, many, many years later my dream was realised!

It was on a wet and extremely windy February afternoon that hubby and I set off for Ballydonegan Pier, Allihies, West Cork. On approaching the pier, my nostrils now filled with sea spray and the smell of seaweed, in my head I was once more back on the slipway of a pre-1970s Ringsend, Dublin.

Each footstep on the slippery slipway cobblestones brought back memories of hours spent watching the men hawl up their rowing boats and securing them to the sea wall, running screaming from the crabs still walking around after a catch or just standing on my own, after my friend had gone home, staring out to sea.

I considered myself blessed to have experienced the sea giving one of her finest performances with the mist providing the perfect backdrop. She was at her wildest. I was in Heaven.

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New Season, New Life

2011-03-01T13:18:00.000-08:00

On our way to Barness, Allihies yesterday we came across these cute baby lambs who look to be a few weeks old at this stage. No matter how quiet I was on my approach I managed to startle them immediately after I took this photo. Here is one example where a zoom lens would have come in handy!

I'm hoping over the course of the next few weeks to meet a farmer who'll allow me hold a newborn lamb and maybe get a close-up shot of it with its mother, that would be a life long dream come true. So, being ever optimistic, when my wish is granted I'll post the pics immediately!

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When The Boat Comes In....

2011-02-24T03:10:00.000-08:00

Every Wednesday hubby and I head into Castletownbere, West Cork to stock up on groceries and order our mid-week take-away dinner of haddock and chips for me and pizza for hubby.

During the time we spend waiting for our dinners to be cooked we usually take a long walk along the quayside where the fishing trawlers are docked. (Even though I grew up in the fishing village of Ringsend, Dublin, my knowledge of sea faring terminology is zilch, so apologies to any fishermen reading this!

Each time I'm close to these great monsters I think of the brave men aboard them who brave the wild seas every day to bring to our tables our favourite sea foods. When I'm not in sight of them I suppose, like a lot of people, I take it for granted that the fish just arrive in the chip shops and on the butchers' and supermarkets' shelves and never give much thought either to the risk to life involved with each catch.

The fishing paraphernalia, on the right, brings back memories of my days on the slip-way in Ringsend. Rowing boats, fishing nets and those cages that I guess shell fish are caught in would all be lined up along the slip wall but it's the combined smells of fish and seaweed that will always hold the greatest memories of my early life by the sea.

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There's A Grand Stretch In The Evenings....

2011-02-21T03:59:00.000-08:00

Hotel Isaacs, 48 MacCurtain Street, Cork.

Hubby and I have returned once more to our favourite spot in West Cork, namely Allihies. This time we decided rather than make the five plus hours straight journey we'd stop overnight in Cork City so chose the Hotel Isaacs as our place of rest. An excellent choice as our room was absolutely huge, more like an apartment, separate bedroom, living/kitchen and massive bathroom, and above all for me, it was a Victorian building!

Cork English Market, Cork City. Image via: www.iguide.travel.com

As we didn't have to check out until 12.00pm we headed into Patrick Street to do a bit of window shopping and came upon a food market, the likes I'd never seen before. It's known as Cork English Market and is just off Patrick Street. We must have spent a half an hour walking around it and even at that we didn't see all of it. The mixed aromas of herbs and spices and baked breads were a real feast for the old schnozzle!

Speaking of breads, I was able to buy a lovely brown bread which was yeast-free, dairy-free and sugar-free only unfortunately to discover after three days of eating it that my chest became clogged up after years of being gunge-free! It was the wheat that did it so I'm now back on my boring old rice cakes.

View from our living room, Allihies.

So, at around 4.00pm last Monday we arrived at our holiday home in Allihies. As soon as I walked into the house I felt I had entered our second home, everywhere had a wonderful familiarity about it. The landscape is just as we left it at the end of last year. Back in Dublin pre-recession times another apartment block would have sprouted in that short time space.

Twilight over Allihies.

We've arrived at a lovely time of year when you can clearly notice the longer stretch in the evenings, twilight now not decending over the countryside until well after 6.30pm as the image above shows. I'm looking forward to living in this beautiful part of Ireland through all four seasons this time and experiencing their every change of colour, smell and sound. Well, three of my five senses will be in Heaven!

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A Window Of Light In Darkest Winter

2011-02-05T02:34:00.000-08:00

The above image I came across one Christmas several years ago in a Sunday newspaper. Its dipiction of terraced houses on a winter's night, their windows bathed in bright orange light, brought me straight back to my childhood in our avenue in Ringsend. The photo had such an effect on me that I cut it out and framed it. It's been on my dressing table ever since.

There's something about the combination of the coldness of the snow and the warmth coming through the window panes that triggers the memory of me walking home as a teenager from school and work on dark winter evenings.

The last ten minutes of my journey would take me past a long row of terraced cottages some with their curtains not yet drawn. It was the glow from the windows that would attract my gaze just as a moth is compelled to seek the light. Walking past I would look in, the room appearing so cosy in contrast to the misery of the cruel weather conditions outside. I would comfort myself with the thought that I would soon be entering my own warm abode, our tele too would be broadcasting the evening news and I would soon be sitting down to a warm dinner of Irish stew.

The final leg of my journey would take me up our avenue where maybe a hall door might be open. Again, the illuminated hall shone like a beacon through the darkness of the street. Winter for me has some memorable contrasting themes - warmth and coldness, light and darkness.

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Note To Self: Must Write Frequent Blog Posts

2011-02-01T14:36:00.000-08:00

Image source - www.wikipedia.org

Sometimes it's so difficult to sit down and write. It's either a case of, I'm overwhelmed with so many ideas that are all bursting to jump out onto the page together only to find that at that particular moment something more urgent is demanding my time so I don't get to give birth to my words or, I suddenly find myself with endless time on my hands and decide now would be a good time to hit the keyboard only then to discover the old creative juices have completely run dry. What's a blogger to do? Just write, I guess!

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Homes From Home

2011-01-17T03:24:00.000-08:00

Leaving home first time, top floor, 3rd door from right, Rathmines

When my parents moved down the country I had to make the choice of either travelling with them and working in the local post office or remaining in Dublin. Being a seventeen year old made my decision to stay on in the city a lot less painful, so, for a while I lived between two homes, one in Rathmines the other in Cabra. In each of those homes I lived with an aunt and uncle.

Houses similar to aunt's house in Cabra. (source: dublin.ie)

After my parents decided to return to Dublin I moved back with them for a couple of years then moved out permanently. I spent the next three years in a beautiful bedsit in Rathmines until I got married.

Bedsit in Rathmines

A couple of weeks ago hubby and I walked through Rathmines on one of our long walks into the city centre. The amazing thing was we passed by two of the homes and as I never had a photograph of either building I decided this was the opportunity to snap them. So glad I did. Memories of adolescent freedom.

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A Brief Distraction From Our Monetary Woes

2010-12-02T14:24:00.000-08:00

View From My Bedroom Window 2/12/2010

I'd like to believe that this unseasonal snowfall is God's gift to the children of Ireland. After all they've been exposed to so much negative energy these past few weeks: from their parents, one of whom may have lost their job; from their teachers, whose futures now seem very bleak indeed; from every tv and radio station blasting out the same old mantras of how Ireland is financially doomed. Children being children pick up on these things.

So, the good man above has decided enough is enough. What better way could he light up the faces of our children than for them to wake up to a magical winter wonderland! Yes, that's exactly what happened.

My Snowcapped Recycling Bins

The past week has been amazing. The depth of the snow has taken me right back to my childhood in Ringsend where my friends and I would build giant snowmen and bring them to life by the usual means of eyes, nose, hat and scarf. Thank goodness I'm old enough to remember the harsh winter of 1963, not to mention one or two earlier ones!

My Front Garden

While the present weather conditions are a source of great fun for a lot of people, I am very aware that for some it's causing nightmares. Apart from people being stranded on motorways etc, one couple in County Wexford had what might have been a very serious situation turn into a joyous occasion. The mum-to-be was rescued from her rural home and later delivered not one but three beautiful boys in Wexford General Hospital. Wow!

OK, while God probably had some hand in providing the much needed relief from our money problems, I'm more inclined to believe Mother Nature played a major role!

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Before We Had A Telly

2010-10-25T07:16:00.000-07:00

I was around twelve years old when my Dad finally agreed we could have a television and that was because not only was it coming up to Christmas it was also that he wanted to see the horse racing which I remember started around St. Stephen's Day and ran over a few days. I loved the English commentator's posh accent which sadly you don't hear any more and so much did I love it that in recent times I've actually YouTubed races just to hear that voice again!

Well, prior to having our own telly I was invited sometimes twice a week by a neighbour at the top of our avenue to watch the childrens' programmes on our national broadcasting station, Telefis Eireann, which started at 5.00pm. She was a lovely lady, Mrs. Reston, whose husband worked for Urney's, the chocolate manufacturers. He used to drive the company's Volkswagen van and got to bring home all the broken chocolate, a lot of which his dear wife would every so often give me tons of in a brown paper bag. It was like living next door to Willy Wanka!

Back to the telly. The first programme that comes to mind and which I continued to watch for many years was "Let's Draw with Blaithin", (Irish name pronounced "Blawheen"). A simple, yet extremely well presented programme where a young lady with an easel and large white sheets of paper showed us in great detail how to draw basic images such as bowls of fruit, flowers etc. She would then complete the picture which looked as good as any great work of art. All that of course was in glorious black and white.

Other great favourites were the cartoons, "Tom and Jerry", "The Pink Panther", not to mention "Felix The Cat", I adored him! All of these were viewed in the comfort of Mrs. Reston's front room with me seated in an armchair (what luxury!) with a little coffee table holding my slice of cake on a lovely patterned plate and a glass of lemonade. That hour twice a week was my time in Heaven.

I did have to make sure I left at exactly 6.00pm because that was when Mr. Reston would arrive home from work. It was always drummed into me that when the husband came home you left because it was very bad manners to be in the house when the family were about to have their tea. (Tea time back then was always between 5-6pm).

Two more programmes I remember with great affection, especially the latter were "The Flintstones" and "National Velvet", the beautiful story of a young girl whose dream was that her horse would one day run in the Grand National Steeplechase. Those I got to see in our neighbour's house across the road on a Sunday afternoon because I used to mind their baby, even on a Sunday, I loved it. A few years later when I would babysit their then two children on a Wednesday night I'd get to see "The Wednesday Play" on BBC 1. Oh my God, if only my poor mother knew what I was watching!

We didn't have any of the UK channels because we didn't have the aerial on the roof, just the cat's ears sitting on top of the telly! God be with the days when a good thump, usually from my father, on the telly top or a few minor adjustments to the cat's ears always got the picture back to some degree of focus not to mention straightening out the zig zag lines! The snow of course was an accepted part of our viewing, if it was slightly less on some nights we had an excellent picture! It's scary how far technology has since come.

So, there's my happy memories of early 1960s Irish television, one station called Telefis Eireann and do you know what - the quality of their programmes was far superior to a lot of what is shown nowadays. Maybe television should close down again at 11.00pm, sure after that it's just complete rubbish!

To end I will use the nightly phrase of the television continuity announcer which was "Oiche mhaith agus codladh sámh", translated from Irish means, "Good night and sleep well".

Vintage TV Image via: www.monsterbashnews.com
Telefis Eireann logo Image via: www.rte.ie
Felix The Cat Image via: www.flixster.com
TV Rooftop Aerial Image via: www.electrician4leicestershire.co.uk

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West Cork Beckons One More Time

2010-10-06T02:20:00.000-07:00

At some point during our holiday earlier this year in Allihies in the beautiful Beara Peninsula we decided we'd return for a while towards the end of the year to experience a little of the harsh Atlantic winds that beat the south west coast during the winter months. (See previous two posts for holiday and location link details).

Well, we're back here, perhaps a little too early to experience any great weather change but nevertheless to enjoy once again the beauty and tranquility of the place decribed to us last time by some of its residents as "magic". I'm inclined to believe them.

Hubby has been down here two weeks ahead with me joining him last Wednesday. My immediate feeling was that I never left the place since July, yet at times it feels like it was sometime last year, very strange indeed. Each time I visit I'm beginning to feel more and more that I'm coming home, the only other places having that hold over me is my hometown of Ringsend and London.

We're continuing our usual travels with strolls down the long bohreens, along the Ballydonegan Bay coastline and lots of hill climbing on the Beara Way walks. What is amazing is the weather, there are days when the sun feels as strong as it was during July so along with the clear blue skies it's difficult to realise we're into the first week of October!

The only clue to the season is when walking along the bohreens you notice that the berries have all but died on the bushes and the flowers have begun to wilt, what was once green is now taking on autumnal shades. Beautiful nonetheless. I'll be here until the end of the first week of November so meantime I'm really looking forward to some exciting weather conditions with dark skies and lashings of rain and fierce winds blowing in over the moors. I shall be in my element! Until then....

Top centre image: Autumn foliage, bohreen towards Allihies.
Top left image: Berry bush, bohreen towards Allihies.
Bottom right: Wooden gate, bohreen towards Allihies.
Bottom left: Ballydonegan Bay Coastline, near Allihies village.

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Journeying Onwards - Beara Holiday

2010-08-25T05:59:00.000-07:00

A lot of walking has taken place since I last posted. I reckon my level of fitness has increased by well, a little bit. I never did manage to write up the posts I thought I'd have so much time to do but I'll give you a little glimpse of some of the lovely places we visited over our eight weeks in the Beara Peninsula, West Cork.

We spent our first week revisiting all our favourite places which included walking along scenic bohreens (the Irish for back road or lane), one of which leads from our holiday home to Allihies village and taking a lovely walk from behind the house up to where there were lots of sheep with their baby lambs and some beautiful doe-eyed cows, they too with their young ones. The weather during this time was so warm with constant sunshine that along with the breath-taking scenery you would be forgiven for thinking you were in any one of the mediterranean hot spots, not that I would have traded this for any of them.

During this first week we also found a house for sale which we immediately fell in love with. On and off over the past twenty five years we've been searching for our country home where we will eventually settle to live out our remaining years. This house welcomed us warmly. It had a feel to it that I've never felt in any other house we looked at before, like we belonged there. I'd begun to decide what colour we'd paint the outside, turquoise perhaps to compliment the blue-green sea which lay below and was accessed from the land surrounding the house, the sale of which was included in the price.
Week two was wonderfully exciting in that we had a visit from both sons and the fact that at one point we were all together of course made me deliriously happy. At the end of their stay I returned home with them for a few days to check that all was well with the house and give it a bit of an airing.

Four days in Dublin was all that was needed to tell me that, although I still love my fair city, I was aching to return to the quiet of the West Cork bohreens and sleepy country roads. During my Dublin stay one evening on my way home from visiting my youngest son I was awestruck by the beauty of one of our most famous streets, Merrion Square. The evening sunshine had provided a magnificant light in which to capture this great Georgian street at its finest. For a brief moment Dublin was tugging at my heart-strings.

The remaining weeks of our holiday were spent absorbing the beauty of the Beara countryside through long walks (many hours at a time) which usually ended with us visiting our local watering hole, O'Neill's Bar & Restaurant in Allihies village. There you'll be served the most delicious fresh cod/haddock and chips you'll find anywhere in Ireland. They do a good shandy into the bargain!

We made Wednesday our shopping day, so off we'd head for the weekly groceries into the nearest town which was Castletownbere, about a ten mile car journey. Back to the subject of food, Mama Mia Pizzeria in the Square, Castletownbere was my favourite place to get, guess what? fish and chips, the fish so fresh they were almost still hopping about as they didn't have far to travel from the sea across the road!

Half way through our stay we had the pleasure of having a lovely couple, friends from way back, visit us for a few days. As none of us had ever been to Dursey Island we decided this was as good a time as any. To make a long story short, it turned out that as our friends wanted to do the extremely long walk we decided they should go ahead as I knew I wouldn't be able for the very steep climb and would have only held them back. Hubby and I knew we could do the shorter walk at any time. Luckily our friends went ahead with the cable car trip as it was closed down a few days later due to a mechanical problem!
Our holiday would not have been complete without a visit to the Dzogchen Beara Buddhist Retreat Centre, Garranes, Allihies. Over the years we have visited the Centre many times including attending retreats and just sometimes for nothing more than being in a quiet space. I can't begin to describe its sense of peace and tranquility but even as you enter the grounds a feeling of calm comes over you, you know you're in a sacred place. We've been there in sunshine and cloud but for me, it's when you sit in a meditative state in the quiet of the shrine room with the mist and stormy sea raging below the cliff top that you most feel its power.

During the two months of almost being cut off from civilization as we know it in Dublin I had the time to get to understand myself a bit better. Apart from discovering how physically unfit I am I realised I'm mentally stronger than I credited myself with. Maybe it comes with older age but I've a confidence in myself now I didn't have years ago. For instance, a simple thing like making important decisions has become easier and even if that entails deciding to move to the country, when the time comes, I think I'll be OK with severing my city connections. Of course I'll still be in touch with family and friends and have them visit as often as possible.

We didn't succeed in buying our beloved house but we're hoping that if property prices continue to fall then maybe we might be in with a chance. If it's meant to happen then it will.

Above images from top:

View from trail from Barness to Garnish.
Bohreen from holiday home to Allihies village.
Fuchsia bush along bohreen to Allihies village.
View from land of house for sale.
Merrion Square, Dublin.
O'Neill's Bar & Restaurant, Allihies village.
Mama Mia Pizzeria, The Square, Castletownbere, West Cork.
View towards Dursey Island.
Dzogchen Beara Buddhist Retreat Centre, Garranes, Allihies.
Sunset from our holiday home, Allihies.

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Revisiting The Beara Peninsula

2010-05-25T05:22:00.000-07:00

It doesn't feel like nine years since hubby and I rented our holiday home in Allihies, Beara, West Cork along with our two sons who were then middle and late teens. It is to this same house we have now returned, minus the sons who will be visiting at some point during the vacation.

At the time of booking the house I was a little apprehensive because I worried that perhaps there would be too many memories of when we were a complete family there (including Sandy, our deceased golden labrador) and that I'd miss the boys terribly. Somewhere along the line I've realised that they've grown up and are now living quite independent lives, so, three whole days into the holiday I'm completely happy with just hubby and I enjoying this lovely time together.

The house is exactly as we remember it except for one or two minor furniture changes and the views haven't changed at all!

I will update this holiday diary every few days as I'd like to share with you what I feel may be one of the most important trips we've undertaken in a very long time. This is more than just a holiday, it's a spiritual journey for both of us.

Top image: Babbling brook, back road to Allihies Village.
Bottom image: View from our hall door.

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Gerry Ryan - Much Loved, So Sadly Missed

2010-05-03T00:27:00.000-07:00

Irish radio listeners will this morning be trying to come to terms with the fact that they will not be hearing the familiar voice of one of their favourite morning DJs, that of Gerry Ryan. Gerry, broadcaster with RTE radio 2FM died last Friday aged just 53, his untimely death throwing the whole country into a state of complete shock.

My own reaction when the news first filtered through was "it can't be THE Gerry Ryan", seconds later my worst fears were realised. Sometimes when a person dies before their time it makes you angry, you ask why? Why is it always the good people who are taken from this world?

Gerry was not only a great radio and television presenter he was someone the public felt they knew personally. During his morning radio shows listeners would call in to discuss many topics including sometimes a most intimate and painful event in their lives. Gerry would listen with all the listening and empathy skills usually associated with a trained counsellor, he was completely there for them, a confidante. Another side to his big-heartedness was of course his involvement with many charities, including UNICEF.

Who knows what the future held for Gerry? Ironically, the day before he died he had just signed contracts with RTE (Ireland's national radio and television network) to extend the running of his radio show and begin a Saturday night television talk show, the latter fulfilling a long held dream.

My thoughts and prayers are with his family, friends and colleagues whose grief must be immeasurable. Gerry, may you rest in peace.

Image via: storyuken.ie

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A Short Stay In Paradise

2010-03-29T12:12:00.000-07:00

Last week I had the great pleasure of spending a couple of days in Drum, a beautiful location just outside the town of Boyle, County Roscommon. It was my work on a short film which took me to this magic place, its haunting ambience providing the perfect setting for the film's storyline.

My overnight stay was in the magnificent Abbey House (above) which is just a five minute stroll to Boyle Town Centre. A large Victorian house set in the grounds of the 12th century Boyle Abbey, this B/B has everything to offer its visitor. If you are a lover of old world charm then this is the place for you! From the moment you walk into the hallway with its antique furnishings and decor you feel you've entered a time past, which for me, is like coming home.

The view from my room was a balm for the senses, calming, reassuring and most inspiring. My gratitude goes to my hosts, a lovely lady and gentleman who made me feel very welcome and who, on the morning of my departure, provided me with my glass of warm water with lemon slice and also topped up my bottled water.

I'd also like to extend my heartfelt thanks to the family who provided us with lunch on both days and dinner on the first evening. We were many in number and the lady of the house seemed not in the least bit phased by her huge catering task. Many thanks to her and her family.

Top Image: Entrance to film location.
Centre Image: Abbey House B/B, Boyle, County Roscommon.
Bottom Image: View from my B/B room window.

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Progress Brings Its Changes - Not All Of Them Pretty

2010-03-23T17:25:00.000-07:00

It was during a return visit last week to my old hometown of Ringsend, Dublin that I truly became aware of the ever changing village landscape. As I was not tied to time on this occasion I spent a leisurely few hours (camera phone in tow having forgotton to recharge the Canon!) sauntering down the avenues and alleyways that were once very much part of my childhood.

The most devastating change has to be to the view along the Pigeon House Road where once to your left hand side lay an uninterrupted view of the sea. Now above those blue waters stands a docklands, its giant cranes and massive stacks of freight containers dwarfing the coastguard station opposite which still houses several families. Also along that road I noticed the once magnificent house whose family I used to babysit for now lying derelict, black hoarding on its windows. Around the corner from that, my avenue where I lived for fifteen years has also fallen victim to the credit crunch with one of its properties now also lying abandoned, it too boarded up. Absolutely soul destroying to see that.

On a brighter note, Ringsend Park is still pretty much the same as I knew it except for the addition of an all-weather football pitch and other sports areas which I'm sure are very welcome facilities indeed. Mind you, the railings running parallel with the park could do with a coat of paint!

Below are some then and now photos all taken by me. Time, as the song goes, changes everything!

Left: Coastguard Station 2001. Right: Roof of Station barely visible 2010.

Left: Detached house, 2005. Right: Same house, derelict 2010.

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A Scare At Playtime! - Early 1960s

2010-03-04T14:39:00.000-08:00

I know it was a time while I was still in primary school so that would have been pre-1963. My friend and I, always on the lookout for a bit of excitement on our way home, decided one day to visit the childrens' ward in the general hospital right next door to our school. As I loved minding young babies and toddlers I strongly suspect it was I who instigated the mischief, our visits continuing for some time.

On this particular day after we had played with the children who were well enough to be up and about and I had cuddled a lovely little baby boy one of us decided we should take a look in the place where they kept the dead people. We were so excited at what we might see! I'm not sure how we knew that the building was called a mortuary (probably from watching the tv series, "Dr. Kildare") but we recognised it when we saw the word over the door.

I clearly remember us cautiously walking into that strange room and seeing a body on the table covered with a white sheet. We stared for a moment then it happened! An arm fell down and you could see the hand hanging from beneath the sheet. Never had I been so terrified in all my short life! We screamed and ran as fast as our little legs could carry us vowing never to return. For a long time afterwards my hospital visits were scary times imagining a mummy-like creature lurking in the doorways of every corridor!

Above image of Baggot Street Hospital formerly known as Royal City of Dublin Hospital (next door to our school) via Wikipedia.

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Irish Healthcare - September 1968

2010-02-25T08:23:00.000-08:00

With all the emphasis now on long hospital waiting lists and outrageous periods of time spent in A&E Departments I thought I'd share this somewhat lighthearted experience I had in hospital many decades ago. It was an era when you would be admitted in jig time following your doctor's referral (and that would be as a public patient) in fact, you would be in before you could say "Ooh Matron!"

As it was over forty years ago I've used some diary entries to recount the event.

Another return trip to my local hospital, this time for my first D & C. I was admitted on a Sunday afternoon at 4.00pm to an eight bedded ward and what I clearly remember is that a lot of the beds were empty most of the time I was there, no bed shortages back then! During my pre-op assessment the doctor expressed a great interest in the hairiness of my legs. Hadn't started to shave at that stage so my legs were akin to those of a footballer's.

My trip down to theatre the following morning and my subsequent waking up afterwards are all but a blur for some reason. Maybe they decided not to wake me from my pre-med slumber. It was night time, around 9.00pm, when the woman in the bed next to me set off down to the kitchen to make the supper - tea and biscuits, seemingly this is what she did every night.

I don't know if it was something to do with my hairy legs and arms but I now feel that they were carrying out some sort of research on me. All my pee had to be collected in a jug plus they were taking blood samples twenty four hours a day which included through the night. Even back in the 1960s you only remained in hospital for a couple of days following a D & C but they held onto me until the Friday afternoon, five and a half days in all. It wasn't all bad in fact I had a very interesting time observing everything going on around me. The nurses were a howl, one of them was always singing the Mary Hopkins song, "Those Were The Days" which was a chart topper at the time.

Another thing I was very aware of was how particular the cleaners were when carrying out their work. The beds were taken out into the middle of the floor to wash behind them and the head-rests were wiped down with a damp cloth. Often when Matron entered she would swipe her finger along a ledge to check for dust, and when the nurses knew she was coming they would very quickly tidy the bedclothes and lockers.

The supper-making lady in the bed next to me on my right hand side had goitre, I think she was waiting for her operation. From my second night onwards she allowed me accompany her to the kitchen to prepare the supper. The elderly woman in the corner opposite me was dying and it was heartbreaking every time she would call out for her son. The woman in the bed next to her wasn't in good shape either. The other beds remained empty.

On the Thursday afternoon a poor soul was brought in, obviously a psychiatric case. They put her in the bed two down from mine and had to restrain her arms because she was completely hysterical. Shortly afterwards she went to sleep no doubt because they had tranquillized her. Even though I felt very sorry for her I was terrified she'd wake up and kill me! My fellow patient was scared too. I explained my fears to the nurse and it was decided that both my friend and I would be moved over to the ward across the corridor. As the poor woman would only be there overnight the other two patients who were both too ill to notice were not moved. The same day painters arrived on the ward, just as well I liked the smell of paint back then.

Life on the other ward was a bag of laughs so much so that I was really sad at having to leave the next day. I'd made friends with a girl who was about thirteen or fourteen, we got on great sharing stories and having a good old giggle as teenagers do. Later I watched Paul McCartney singing "Hey Jude" on Top Of The Pops, it was a real treat as we didn't have BBC at home because we only had the "cat's ears" on top of our telly. That Thursday night we sat around the bed of a woman who was also up for a laugh, listening to a pop music programme on her transister radio and telling jokes. God, I didn't want this to end, it was the best fun I'd had in ages.

It was around 11.00pm by the time we all settled down and as the young girl and I were still a bit afraid of the psychiatric lady I asked the nurse could she and I sleep together. Surprisingly she said we could but we would be in trouble if Matron came in! We took the chance and whispered and giggled till God knows what hour.

Friday arrived and little did I realise how sad I'd be at leaving all my new found friends. I got talking to another lady on the ward who'd recently had a hysterectomy, I'd never heard of it before. I didn't really mind her explaining the gruesome details of her operation, in fact it was very interesting. I'd learnt something new and facinating about the intricate workings of the human body.

It was early afternoon when I bid farewell to my friends and kind nurses.

To sum up my feelings about my overall care as a patient I would have to say:

Nursing Care - Excellent. Nurses had time to sit and talk with patients. No bed shortages. Clean wards.

Where did it all go so horribly wrong?

Above image of my then local hospital taken by me in 2002.

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Getting Things Into Perspective

2010-01-18T14:59:00.000-08:00

Today, I moaned because I stepped in cat poo.
Today, a child in Haiti moaned because his broken body lies trapped beneath the debris.
Shame on me.

Above image sourced at: Reuters/www.dailymail.co.uk

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Nature's Christmas Gift

2010-01-05T09:26:00.000-08:00

While England, Scotland and parts of Ireland were experiencing heavy snowfalls we here in Dublin had to wait a little longer for our white Christmas and boy, was it worth the wait. New Year's Eve was about to spring a beautiful surprise!

As my family and I watched telly in the warm comfort of our living room outside the first snow flakes of the year had begun to silently fall creating a magnificent Christmas card landscape. To add to the magic we drew back the curtains and watched the snow fall through the orange glow of a street lamp. Heaven.

New Year's Day and hubby had me up at 10.00am sharp. Armed with my best digital camera (Canon IXUS 300) we headed off to our local park which on entering looked like a scene from "The Snowman". Right that moment I became a five year old again, all my senses awakened by the beautiful sight which lay before us. I was actually bouncing up and down!

At times we walked in silence listening to the crunching sound of our footsteps in the snow.

Now and then a bird called out and I worried that his tiny feet might be cold.

I am so thankful to Mother Nature for granting me my Christmas wish. Enjoy the images of her present.

All photos taken by me, New Year's Day 2010. (Hubby in the foreground!)

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On A Cold Winter's Evening

2009-12-22T15:22:00.000-08:00

Always at this time of year my thoughts return to my childhood in Ringsend, Dublin where at night time my small avenue was lit by two wonderful ornate street lamps, one in the middle of the street the other at the end corner. When it was foggy, and that was quite often with sea fog and smog from the coal fires, I'd be mesmerised by the orange glow from the street light shining through the thick mist which swirled around it.

Inside my house the living room would be in darkness, the only light coming from the coal fire blazing away in the open grate. The mantlepiece was one of the old beige tiled types which you don't see much of nowadays. Another distant light would be from the kitchen where my mother would be busy cooking dinner. You accessed the kitchen from the living room down a steep step.

Winters in the 1950s and '60s were harsh and as I'd lie curled up on the sofa in that semi-darkened living room I'd listen to the howling winds whistling through the gaps in the sash window while also listening to Radio Eireann, Ireland's only radio station at the time. Once a week at around 5.00pm the voice that enthralled me was that of the late Eamon Kelly, the "seanchai" (an Irish word meaning "storyteller" or "old talker").

In his wonderful Kerry accent he'd tell you stories that would either have you falling around the place or sometimes tales that would scare the life out of you. I especially loved the creepy ones which were usually set in the middle of winter with atmospheric howling winds and lashing rain and always had some sinister goings-on in the dark lonely countryside. Every story began with the words, "Fado, fado", meaning "long, long ago" (the "a" in "fado" is pronounced "ah"). How I loved those stories that would, for fifteen minutes each week, completely captivate my young imagination.

One more beautiful memory is again of sitting in our living room, lights out and in the silence watch the coals sink in the fire grate, making that comforting sound as they'd settle. All was well on a cold winter's evening.

Above images sourced at:

Cambridge Avenue: Taken by me in 1969.
Coal Fire: eHowdotcom.
Eamon Kelly: diddlyi.com

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Solace In Familiar Places

2009-11-26T02:52:00.000-08:00

The journey along Dublin's main O'Connell Street onto Parnell Street was an uphill struggle against battering winds and heavy rain made all the worse by the fact that I was trying to hold up an umbrella. While the end of my journey brought some physical comfort away from the atrocious weather it would not give much in the way of psychological consolation as I was to collect my husband's recently deceased aunt's Death Certificate from her family doctor. Another stark reminder of her passing.

Around the corner from the doctor's surgery stands the Dublin Writers Museum which many years ago was my old School of Commerce and Retail Distribution. There's also a wonderful little cafe in there so it's to it I headed for a much needed cup of Camomile tea (I bring my own everywhere and just ask for boiling water!) and some relaxation.

While sipping my warm brew I began to remember moments from my time as a teenager in that building. Apart from the usual classroom memories my most vivid recollection is the sound of our footsteps thundering down the stone steps to the kitchen where lunch was eaten seated on benches at long wooden tables. I clearly remember shiny tiled walls, huge sparkling stainless steel containers and the kitchen ladies who wore white coats and hair nets. As I was leaving the museum I glanced into two of the ground floor rooms where once I was taught English, Maths and Book-Keeping (the latter two holding no great appeal for me!).

From there I headed, a few doors down, to The Hugh Lane Gallery where, as a student of the aforementioned school, my chums and I would sometimes visit usually on wet days. Our knowledge of the fine arts was of course next to nothing but I did enjoy getting lost in some of the classic pieces. It was also a great place to sit quietly and finish off your homework that you should have had done for the afternoon!

Forty plus years on the gallery is much brighter, the old paintings still hang on its walls along with the many collections acquired over that time period. While there I decided to visit the Francis Bacon Exhibition which is on view until March 2010. I've always been fascinated by artists whose works have been hugely influenced by their tortured lives. Francis Bacon was one such man. Out of all the pieces from the exhibition the one that touched me deeply was his studio which has been donated to the Hugh Lane Gallery and contains its entire contents from South Kensington, London.

It's very cleverly done in that you feel you are actually stepping into the studio while in fact the only thing that separates you from the room is a glass doorway. Immediately I felt as if I were walking in uninvited into somebody's living room while they were out. I was trespassing. Gazing in almost disbelief at the arrangement of the items as they would have looked in the London studio I realised that in my sense of awe I was holding my breath. Having first felt that I shouldn't really be there I then went on to find it difficult to leave, almost as if I didn't want to abandon the artist to his chaos. I finally left the gallery feeling spiritually enriched by my experience.

The final leg of my journey of comfort then took me across the road to the Garden of Remembrance, a memorial to the people who gave their lives for Irish freedom in 1916. I was a student at the college opposite when this garden was first opened in 1966 by our then president, the late Eamon de Valera.

It was a great place to spend lunch time especially when the weather was sunny as we'd eat our sandwiches on one of the garden seats then set about once again catching up on left-over homework. We only ever got caught once doing it and that was when the geezer from the art gallery reported us to the school for which we were then hauled up to the principal's office to face the music. Whoever said schooldays were the best days of your life must have also had fun trying to get one over on the teachers! Great times!

Above images sourced at:

O'Connell Street: Wikipedia
Dublin Writers Museum: Travelwebshots.com
Francis Bacon: www.telegraph.co.uk
Garden of Remembrance: Wikipedia

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After A Long Absence

2009-11-06T03:43:00.000-08:00

Usually when something profound is happening in my life I tend to write, write, write. Over the past few weeks my husband and I have watched his one remaining aunt slowly die from Alzheimer's Disease but it was a severe chest infection which finally released her from her torment.

During that time and since her death two weeks ago I've not been able to put two words together with the exception of some tweeting.

I have not lost any of my Followers and for that I am so grateful and thank you all sincerely. Also, my apologies for not getting around to reading your posts but I will get there very soon. Looking forward to it.

Until then take care everyone. See you soon!

Above image: Ringsend Park in twilight taken by me Nov '08.

My First Visit To London - August 1973

2009-08-19T13:00:00.000-07:00

This was my first trip abroad, first time ever to leave Irish soil and first time to set foot inside an aeroplane! Life would never be the same again.

My fiance (future hubby) and I set off on a wet Sunday evening bound for Dublin Airport. He of course had been to foreign parts many times before so he wouldn't have shared my excitement at the prospect of flying thirty odd thousand feet in the air. Only the astronauts on their first moon landing wold have come anyway close to experiencing the exhilaration I felt at that moment. That said the flight was uneventful and over all too soon.

On landing at Heathrow we were greeted with a whoosh of warm air even though it was a couple of hours off midnight. Having just come from a somewhat wet, coolish Dublin this warmth was very welcome indeed. What was amazing though was that when I stepped off the plane a very strange feeling came over me. It somehow seemed that I'd come home, that's the only way I can describe it. It was like the environment was very familiar I'd been here before, not in the actual airport of course but just in this part of the world. I'm sure those who understand these phenomena will know what I mean.

So, into a taxi we popped and headed off to Kidbrooke where we were to spend the next two weeks with fiance's granny who wasn't really his granny but a friend of his family who was known to all as just "granny". On arrival we were met by a neighbour who informed us that poor granny had been taken to hospital so we would have the place to ourselves. We had of course to inform fiance's family back home of the situation and needless to say their anguish came not from their worry for the poor old lady but rather the fact that fiance and I would be living together, unmarried, under the same roof for the next two weeks! Later when writing the postcards I purposely decided not to use the phrase "having a good time" for fear of it being misinterpreted.

Each day we visited granny Browne in hospital which was conveniently situated on Shooters Hill Road within walking distance from the house. She was a nice lady who enjoyed listening to the snippets of news from home (Dublin) relayed daily to her by fiance. We also reassured her that her cat, Terry Roo, who we were minding during her absence was safe and well and blissfully living feline life to the full. There were the odd occasions when his life may have come into real danger and that was on the mornings when he crept under the bedclothes and nibbled my toes! Shredded feet apart, Terry Roo and I enjoyed every minute of our all too short holiday together.

Despite the intense heat in the city centre most days we headed in there via bus and tube. From memory we got the bus to Blackheath then the tube to Charing Cross. I'm so glad we didn't have a car as those almost daily journeys became cherished memories. Travelling in the tube also somewhat helped me overcome my fear of tunnels (breaking down in one would be the absolute death of me!) but I've still a long way to go.

Looking back now I wish I'd kept a diary of the visit but as time has net yet quite dimmed my power of recall I still remember my first view of the main attractions.

For instance, Trafalger Square with it famous fountain and sociable pigeons and of course one cannot forget to mention Buckingham Palace which I did photograph but it turned out too dark. (Back then I was still using the good old Instamatic with the glass flash cube which unfortunately didn't have the option to delete a bad photo!). Then there was Westminster Abbey which I also made a kibosh of photographing as I managed to cut off the top of the clock tower.

One place I used to love walking along was Carnaby Street with its psychedelic footpath and shops that sold all the wonderful hippy clothes I had a passion for then and still do. While I was browsing through a clothes rail I turned around to see a guy with one of those old cine cameras filming me, he just smiled and walked off. I wonder where that piece of footage ended up? Perhaps I'm owed royalties, hmmm!

While in Lewisham one afternoon we decided to go to the flicks where "That'll Be The Day" with David Essex and Ringo Starr was showing. What drew me to the film was not only the chance to ogle at the very handsome Mr Essex but to hear the fabulous music of the sixties in splended cinematic sound.

Finally, I can't close without mentioning once again my feline friend, Terry Roo who used to meet us each night as we returned from the pub. One night we decided to return using another route. After a while we realized that pussy was nowhere to be found until fiance remembered he'd be waiting for us at his usual spot. Like a thing possessed he took off and returned with poor Terry Roo who had been still waiting patiently for us. He took full advantage of our remorseful situation as we apologised profusely and cuddled him to death. You could almost see the smug look on his beautiful little face. I still remember him fondly.

Over the years we've returned to London and other UK parts several times and indeed to many other world locations but for me, whatever the reasoning behind it England will always feel like my second home.

Granny Browne sadly passed away during the mid 1970's.

Above Holiday Images:
Fiance and Terry Roo, Kidbrooke, London.
View from Granny Browne's house, Kidbrooke, London.
Me reading "The News of the World", New Cross Railway Station.
On train to Charing Cross, fiance's feet also in shot.
Trafalgar Square, London.
Oxford Street, London.

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Things That Make Me Happy

2009-08-09T06:07:00.000-07:00

The following is a list of six things that make me happy, pretty much in order of preference although they could change from time to time but never the top one!

1) Having the whole family together for dinner.

2) The cooing of the wood pigeon.

3) The lazy sound of chickens on a hot summer's day.

4) Walking on the beach under skies of blue or grey.

5) Listening to poetry on the radio especially when the reader is Andrew Motion.

6) A phone call with the offer of exciting work.

The above image of Sandymount Strand looking towards Ringsend was taken by me in June 2005.

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A Study In Apprehension

2009-07-30T16:34:00.000-07:00

Turning into the laneway
My six year old mind
Is once again filled with anxiety.
What shall I learn today?
More to the point
What will I not understand?.
Almost there now,
Past the red bricks
And the four stone slit windows
Then sharp turn left
I'm on the final leg of my journey.

To my left
The red brick building
Beckons to its charges,
The solitary cross on its rooftop
Portraying a false sense of holiness.
No going back now,
Mother's tight handgrip
Preventing all chance of escape.
Greying snow crunches
Beneath my sensible school shoes.

© Ann Brien 2009

The above sentences describe my anxiety which I felt each morning as I headed off to school with my mother. I have a vivid memory of walking past the red brick secondary school then turning left into the final laneway which took me to the side gate of my school. Always hoping for any excuse not to go, Winter-time usually granted my wish in the form of burst water pipes caused by the severe frost we encountered back then. I can still see and hear the semi-frozen snow crunching beneath my strong shoes.

The top image, taken by me last Summer, shows the first laneway before turning onto the next which I'm delighted to report hasn't changed at all over the years. Everything is exactly as it was.

The second image, taken by me two years ago, shows the final laneway to the school. Again, the only changes here are where the road has been re-surfaced and to the left, the area where once stood a small row of cottages now houses an exercise area.

Thought I'd share these memories with you.

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My Dad - A Soldier To The End

2009-07-23T04:15:00.000-07:00

Recently I've been thinking a lot about my Dad who passed away just over nine years ago. Although he wasn't my natural father he was my adoptive Dad and I loved him very much. The one thing that makes me sad is that he didn't live to see his grandchildren graduate from college and grow into adulthood, I know he would have loved to have had real man-to-man conversations with them and would have been so proud of them too. I feel sad for them also that they no longer have elderly family members except for one paternal grand aunt who has now reached the great age of ninty three. (Above image: Dad on my wedding day).

I remember when I was about ten or twelve Dad telling me he'd been a soldier in the Irish Army and that he rode a horse and carried a rifle! To me that was amazing and I probably bored the socks off everyone telling them about my brave Dad and his military adventures. He even had the nickname of "Gunner". Of course he never fought in a war but knowing me I most likely invented some gruesome stories about his bloody battle days! (Above image: Dad in uniform, 1930's?).

The early life of this brave soldier was tinged with so many sad events. A few years following his death I wrote: "My adoptive father also had more than his fair share of sadness to contend with. As a baby he lost his parents and sister to illness and a tragic accident and as a result he and his siblings were raised by his grandmother. Not a great start to life.

I gather times weren't too bad during his adolescence and early adulthood although he did leave school at ten years of age. His marriage, which should have brought him the long-awaited happiness he deserved, ended in tragedy. His wife died thirty six weeks into her pregnancy from a "retroperitoneal haemorrhage" according to the death certificate. Of course, the baby died along with her.

Two years later he married my adoptive mother who sadly was not able to give him any children either. So, given all the sad and traumatic events in his life, it sure doesn't take a degree in psychology to figure out where his hurt was coming from. Still, for the most part, he was a good father to me and a loving husband to my mother...."

"....one of my happiest memories as a child was when my father, on our way home from Mass on Sunday, would buy me the Beano and Dandy comics and read them to me before dinner. It's those kind of moments that I hold dear and despite everything they were the best parents I could ever have hoped for. In some ways, they were as innocent as children themselves".

After my adoptive mother died Dad's own health slowly went downhill. Although he had a heart condition for years it was his wheezy chest that was always his problem. Still, that didn't stop him attending all of the activities that were arranged for the senior citizens in his area and even going on holidays around the country with them. He lived life to the full and was loved by one and all. At just over eighty years of age he got his first passport and flew to Lourdes telling everyone that the flight was just like a car journey!

I'm so happy that he lived into the twenty first century even if it was for only six months. His death was a total shock as he'd gone into hospital for a bronchoscopy and was expected to be discharged within a few days. Unfortunately, following the test he had some bleeding which at first didn't seem too serious. He continued going about his business as usual, watching tele and playing cards with his fellow patients in the day room. Exactly one week following the test just as he had returned from a card game in the day room and was getting ready for bed he had a massive haemorrhage which took his life within minutes. At the hospital that night I was told by the nurse that he whispered my name as he was dying. I was also told he didn't suffer and that makes me extremely thankful to God.

These days when I remember all the wonderful times we shared I consider myself so privileged to have known this man and even happier that he was my Dad. May he Rest In Eternal Peace.

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Michael Jackson - One More Soul To Grieve For

2009-07-01T11:17:00.000-07:00

I clearly remember what I was doing when the news came through of Elvis Presley's death - I was in bed listening to Radio Luxembourg. The shock and disbelief I felt that night in August 1977 was comparable to that which I experienced last Thursday when Sky News announced the death of Michael Jackson. I ask the question: What is it that arouses in us a grieving process similar to what we would feel at the death of a close friend?

After all, we do not personally know these people. We feel we know them through their music, films, reality shows etc but for most of us we've never actually met them let alone had a close physical or social relationship with them. Yet when they are taken from us, especially before their time, e.g. short illness or tragic accident, we are devastated by their passing. Perhaps mass hysteria plays a small role but I suspect it is something that goes much deeper than hysterics, something other than not being able to see or hear them again.

What was it that drew us to them in the first place? I can only speak for myself. In the case of Elvis it was definitely his music and good looks certainly in the early years because in the fifties and sixties I was too young to have any interest or indeed understanding of his personal problems. It wasn't until the early seventies when I became aware of his drink and drug habits and how he sought solice in food that I began to see that here was a real person with real sadness in his life. While I continued to love his music it was his emotional pain that reached out to me. It made his dying all the more sad in that nobody was able to save him from himself.

I was in my kitchen ironing when my son alerted me to the Breaking News on Sky that Princess Diana had tragically died in a car crash in Paris. The month was again August but this time twenty years on. Again it was not just her great beauty or the fact that both her sons were each born a year earlier than my own two boys that made me feel close to her, no in her case it was her intense lack of self confidence, the images of her looking so alone, her battle with bulimia that made me wish I could be her friend. Her death was so shocking there are still times when I find it difficult to believe she is no longer with us.

While Jade Goody's death was not exactly sudden, we had known for about two months beforehand that her fight for life would soon be lost it was nonetheless also shocking. At just twenty seven years of age and a mother of two young children she had everything to live for. (I have written my tributes to Jade in two posts, one of them prior to her death, Jade Goody - A Shining Star Whose Light Is Slowly Fading and Jade, The Brightest Star In The Sky).

For me it was not what Jade achieved in life that attracted me to her although I was delighted at her success, it was her dreadful childhood circumstances and everything that went with it that made me feel connected to her. Out of all that suffering grew a strong, independent young woman who lived life to the full and had so much love to give to those around her. Her untimely death is still very difficult to accept and painful when I do acknowledge it.

Now the world has had to endure yet another painful loss, that of the great singer/song writer and dance artist, Michael Jackson. Over the decades Michael has consistently entertained us with his unique songs and later his music videos. I was never what you would call one of his die-hard fans but I do love his songs especially the ballads but also the strong beat one like "Beat It". His "Earth Song" really tears at the heart strings.

Like so many people I always felt that Michael had a kind nature always giving of himself to those in need. So when the dreadful allegations of child sexual abuse started coming out I felt deep in my heart that he was totally innocent and would be cleared of the charges against him. Watching him having to endure that five month trial was heartbreaking. A man who sought only to bring joy into the lives of these poor children to be accused of such crimes must have felt that he had been dealt life's cruelest blow. How could you ever recover from that? It is my belief that that whole episode was the beginning of his downfall.

So what is it then that endears these people to us? Their ability to entertain us certainly plays its part but it's when their souls are laid bare before us and we witness their suffering that we really begin to connect. It's an inborn thing I guess, our need to comfort our fellow human beings in their time of need. We open our hearts to them and in doing so become so drawn into their lives to the extent that we need to know their every move, how they're coping etc. These days, twenty four hour news channels satisfy that hunger.

I once heard it referred to as "grieving by proxy" but call it what you may, it is a very real experience for some people and can be every bit as traumatic as losing a close friend. After all, isn't there a universal bond that ties each and every one of us? Perhaps there lies our answer.

May Michael rest in eternal peace and God give strength to his family and friends at this very difficult time.

Michael Jackson image: www.contactmusic.com
Elvis Presley image: www.photobucket.com
Princess Diana image: www.telegraph.co.uk
Jade Goody image: blogs.conventrytelegraph.net

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Adventure At Sea Inspired By Enid Blyton!

2009-06-08T13:37:00.000-07:00

(Left image taken by me in 1968 shows the white structure in the centre which was earlier the concrete foundation slabs that our boat rowed over).

Summer in Ringsend, Dublin during the late 1950's and early 60's was pure magic. For me it was something to do with the sounds of summer. Living so close to the sea, my most cherished memory of summer was listening to the dredger cleaning the bottom of the river on a warm sunny day, that sound always signified summer holidays! The other sound was of course the cry of the gulls. These magic moments I've written about in a previous post called A Touch Of Nostalgia. It was during those childhood years that my imagination was probably at its wildest.

(Left image taken by me in 2001 shows Ringsend Library).

I was about twelve years old when I joined the local library. Books like the Richmal Crompton "Just William" series and other suchlike stories where the central character could always be trusted to get into some sort of mischief by the end of the day were my favourites. Later I began reading the good old spy stories set in the then Cold War era not to mention the wonderful crime novels in which the Chief Inspector nearly always had marriage problems which he dealt with by consuming vast amounts of bourbon and smoking cheap cigars while at the same time managing to solve the many varied mysteries his daily work presented him with. Heavy stuff for a young teenager but it all went over my head.

It wasn't until I began reading Enid Blyton's "The Famous Five" series that my imagination really took flight. For those not familiar with the stories each book, twenty one in all, told of the adventures of four children and their dog. The children were two brothers, Julian and Dick, their sister, Anne and Georgina, their cousin, or George as she preferred to be called along with George's dog, Timothy. To make a long story short every adventure the children had involved them at some point heading off in George's rowing boat to either Kirrin Island (George's island!) or some castle in search of horrid gansters who they (the children) would round up with the help of Timothy and hand over to the local police for locking up. Each story always had its happy ending.

(Image, Enid Blyton sourced at Wiki).

A few years later with my imagination still fuelled by these fantastic escapades I decided one summer evening to have my own exciting experience. As my friends consisted of two sisters, their brother and their dog we seemed the perfect combination for our own Famous Five team.

Less than a five minute walk from my house and literally just across the road from my friends' house was the slip-way where small boats including rowing boats would rest against the sea wall until their next venture out onto the ocean waves. On this particular evening a young neighbour of my friends whose family was very much involved with the sea happened to be in the vicinity and the fact that one of the rowing boats was conveniently lying by plus he was an excellent rower was enough to make me persuade him to take us out for an evening cruise. Bearing in mind that this young chap was only about fourteen or fifteen at the time and I was the eldest at sixteen made this venture an extremely dangerous one. In the end only one of the sisters and her brother, plus a couple of very young children, the boy who owned the boat and myself set sail. The dog had more sense and remained on the slip-way.

The boat owner and myself took the oars and with a little coaching from him I managed to row without spinning the boat around or horror of horrors, dropping the oar into the water. After a while we were really on our way out to sea and I was beginning to pretend that we were heading into our own Famous Five adventure. By now the clouds had begun to darken and brave as I had been earlier I was now quite scared as were the younger kiddies. We decided to turn back. While on our return journey we noticed waves bubbling around the boat and wondered where they could have come from. Just then I looked up and saw in the distance a giant passenger ship heading straight for us! Definitely one of those times when your life flashes before your eyes.

(Right image taken by me in May 1969 shows to the left, after the bus-stop, the slip-way. You can just about see one of the rowing boats).

With shouts from the boat owner of "Row, row", I worked the oar with all the strength my little arms could muster. In our state of terror we'd completely forgotton about the enormous concrete foundation slabs barely visible beneath the water (these were the beginnings of what would later become the massive re-development of our Docklands) so the scraping sound of the boat's bottom (sorry I don't know the terminology) against those stone monsters sent us into hysterics.

As we approached land we could see that the tide was going out and that we would have to walk the short distance across to the slip-way. We didn't really care as we were so relieved we'd made it in one piece. I was able to walk across carrying the smallest child on my back with the boat owner having to make several return trips for each of the other passengers! If we thought that was bad worse was still to come as our parents stood anxiously waiting for our return. I got into the most trouble simply because I was the eldest and was repeatedly told I should have had more sense. The fact that only two of the people in the boat could swim didn't seem to deter us in the least.

I should at this stage point out that I do not ever recommend anyone, children or adults alike, to go out into the water without proper safety measures in place.

Oh! well, looking back it was one of the greatest adventures I ever undertook but also one of the most dangerous, well maybe not. There was the time I convinced my friends to accompany me on an underground journey through sewer tunnels that possibly led out under the sea. Lighted candles were used! Maybe for the next post!

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Ireland's Shame - Someone Should Have Spoken Out

2009-05-23T05:41:00.000-07:00

As an Irish citizen and Roman Catholic I feel compelled to voice my overwhelming anger at the horrific atrocities carried out in our Industrial and Reformatory Schools across Ireland over a period of nearly sixty years. The perpetrators of these evil acts of mental and physical torture were not WW2 concentration camp guards but men and women of God, namely priests, nuns and Christian Brothers. Those were the people supposedly responsible for the welfare of these vulnerable children some of whom were placed in the institutions simply because a parent had died. What God in Heaven could have allowed this to happen? I never thought I'd hear myself ask that question.

The very houses set up in the mid-nineteenth century as places of refuge were to become akin to prisoner of war camps, their staff inflicting such appalling abuse to their young charges that words fail to describe. Punishments is not the term I'd use in this case as the children did no wrong but the acts of violence include; rape, horrific beatings, starvation, not allowed a drink of water from mid-day onwards so forced to drink from toilets, humiliation. The list is endless and far too harrowing to describe in detail.

Although the physical scars may have long since healed the horrendous emotional abuse these unfortunate children suffered at the hands of those bastards will surely have left them with scars no amount of counselling may ever heal. For them, the recent so-called heartfelt apologies by the representatives of both the clergy and state must have served to drive the dagger even deeper into their wounds. Words are cheap. Justice is what these people need in the form of acknowledgement of and apology for the wrong doings directly, where possible, by those personally responsible followed up by appropriate financial assistance from the religious orders concerned. The men and women who carried out these atrocious acts should be named, shamed and brought to justice regardless of their seniority.

What also disturbs me is the fact that our State has no plans to clear the "criminal" records of those youngsters sent to Reformatory Schools whose only crime was petty theft. What kind of mentality could continue to impose such cruelty on these unfortunate individuals? Has their suffering not served many times over as their sentences?

I feel I should point out that there were also acts of kindness by members of staff towards the children. One woman recalls being given a sweet once a week by a nurse. These kind souls it appears were also terrified of their evil colleagues as the gestures were made in secret.

My heartfelt admiration goes to Christine Buckley and all the other victims of abuse who have so courageously brought this litany of evil into the public domain where it is now in a five-volume Report, evidence that their stories are real, they were not imagined as some people cruelly insinuated.

For all those who suffered in the dark I pray their stories will light the way towards a brighter and safer world for our children and those yet to be born.

Should you wish to read the Report it can be viewed here The Commission to Inquire into Child Abuse

Above image sourced at http://www.childabusecommission.com

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Connemara Revisited!

2009-05-18T05:33:00.000-07:00

Our arrival (hubby and I) a little over a week ago in Spiddal, Connemara, County Galway was greeted by warm sunshine along with a gentle breeze blowing in from the Atlantic Ocean. It seemed summer had finally arrived on Ireland's West Coast.

(Above: View over Spiddal Quay, Connemara, County Galway)

Not too much has changed in Spiddal since our first visit exactly thirty seven years ago when we, along with a group of friends (most of whom we still meet up with fairly regularly for a few scoops) arrived in Spiddal in the lashings of rain looking for a suitable field to pitch our tents. Oh! those were the days when slogging it was the only way we knew for none of us even had the price of B&B accommodation let alone possessed a car!

(Above: Sunrise over Spiddal Quay, Connemara, County Galway)

Another area we visited was Carraroe. In 1972 we spent a wonderful week there with friends this time in more upwardly mobile accommodation, a caravan!

(Above: Coral Beach, Carraroe, Connemara, County Galway)

(Above: Rugged Landscape, Carna, Connemara, County Galway)

Of all the locations we visited the one place I was really eager to see again was Clifden, Connemara's largest town. Again, back in 1972, we spent a week there long before the developers were given the go-ahead by greedy politicians to build structures not in keeping with the surrounding landscape.

Walking down Clifden's main street brought back the memories of all those years ago but something was not quite the same. It didn't take too long to realise that what was ruining the street was the car parking on both sides. Every inch of road space was packed with high-sided SUVS and vans making it impossible to enjoy what is left of a one-time beautiful, easy-going thoroughfare.
[Above: Main Street, Clifden, Connemara (www.travelireland.org)]

Times change and populations increase but that's no reason to forfeit the beauty of an area when all that is needed is some good common sense planning. I was heartbroken to discover that the holiday chalets (where we spent that wonderful week in 1972) with the remains of the old railway station building in the background have all been replaced by a shopping complex and apartments. If I had been in charge of planning my main requirement would have been that all those buildings be just two storey in height with similiar brickwork. I'm amazed the Galway County Council didn't insist on it but then I'm no expert on such things.

(Above: Holiday Chalets/Railway Station Building in background, Clifden 1972)

(Above: Beach Road towards Clifden, August 1972)

(Above: Another view from Beach Road towards Clifden, August 1972)

Overall, development disasters apart, we had a most enjoyable holiday in one of Ireland's most scenic locations and to add to the joy we were blessed with five continuous days of glorious sunshine, almost unheard of in these parts. Hopefully we won't wait another thirty seven years to return.

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"Atishoo, Atishoo We All......."

2009-05-01T05:29:00.000-07:00

In recent days I've been remembering my adoptive father telling me about the 1918 Spanish Flu to which, as an infant, he lost his mother then one week later his sister.

His grandmother, who later reared him following the death of his father in an accident in Wales, told him that his sister was actually the first in the family to contract the virus. As her mother would have been her sole carer it's not surprising that she too would eventually succumb to the infection given that hygiene conditions back then would not have been at their best. What I find amazing is that none of the other family members were infected.

As a youngster it was quite frightening listening to Dad talk about what sounded like a deathly plague from the Middle Ages so last week when I first heard the news reports of a possible flu pandemic it immediately sent a familiar shiver down my spine.

My feeling is I don't think we have to panic just yet, if at all, because this time around we not only have the treatments but thanks to modern technology and twenty four hour TV channels we now have up-to-the-minute information on how the virus is being transmitted, whether those affected are coming from Mexico or person-to-person plus simple hygiene precautions to prevent its spread.

The 1918 flu pandemic claimed up to fifty million lives, I hope and pray that those statistics remain well and truly confined to the history books.

I thought this link might be of help to anyone wishing to read up on Swine Flu: NHS Swine Flu Q&A

*The above image, sourced from Wikimedia, shows American Red Cross nurses tending to 1918 flu patients in temporary wards set up inside Oakland Municipal Auditorium.

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Ode To The Humble Bread Soda!

2009-04-17T03:08:00.000-07:00

As this is the season of Spring and all thoughts are turning to household cleaning (mine haven't moved much beyond the thought stage yet) I wonder if I might share with you this tried and tested tip for both cleaning and deodorizing. It's cheap, non-toxic and kind to the environment - it's none other than simple baking soda or bread soda as I know it.

Although I'm sure it can have many different uses the main ones I use it for are cleaning my sinks and keeping my washing machine and the clothes I've washed in it smelling good. With the exception of when I use the 60 degree wash for towels and sheets I always put 3 - 4 teaspoons of bread soda in alongside the washing powder in my 30 degree washes. The clothes come out smelling like fresh air and the fragrance remains in the machine, particularly important especially when washing running gear!

Another area I find the old soda very good in is cleaning sinks and taps.

I rub a tablespoon of dry soda on the draining board and in the sink and a small amount around my kitchen and bathroom taps. After giving the surfaces a good rub I then wash it off well with warm water and dry to prevent any streaks and above all to promote a good shine!

While I think of it, instead of spraying my rooms with chemical air-fresheners I usually place a small container of soda in an inconspicuous area such as behind a couch or suchlike. The rooms smell slightly like you've just been baking. So, maybe the next time you need your house smelling wellcoming and you don't have time to bake, place a little bread soda in your hoover bag, get hoovering and your guests will truly enjoy that bakery aroma!

Above images via Wiki.

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A Good Office Job!

2009-04-14T03:10:00.000-07:00

I was just under thirteen years old when I had my first typing lesson. I'd become a student for a year in the Holy Faith Convent School in Clarendon Street, Dublin and the reason I got to do typing was because shortly after I started the term I developed pneumonia and so missed out on a lot of class subjects particularly algebra. As I was hopeless at even basic arithmetic it was decided I should enter the typing class while my other classmates slogged at maths. I was thrilled!

To this day I remember the teacher drumming into us the "home" keys of the typewriter from which you moved onto every other letter. (See image below)

As I'd taken to the typing like a duck to water my parents were delighted as they always wanted me to have "a good office job" as they described it. I would be set up for life, I'd meet people from an educated background and hopefully one day marry one of them! After Clarendon Street I spent two years in the School of Commerce and Retail Distribution, Parnell Square which now houses the Dublin Writers Museum.

It was there I excelled at the old typing coming first in every exam much to the horror of my fellow classmates who felt I had an unfair advantage having already had one year's experience behind me. Maybe they were right!

In the summer of 1967 I began my working career firstly as a clerk typist using a typewriter that would now be considered by the young as an ancient relic. It was an old Remington similar to the image below.

Over the course of four years I belted out letters, statements of accounts, credit notes and receipts on that sturdy monster of a writing machine that sometimes left you with aching fingers as a result of the sheer physical effort required to hit each key. Other drawbacks were having to change the spool ribbon when it wore out and if you hit the wrong letter the only way to erase the mistake was by using a piece of Tippex paper inserted behind the thingy that the key struck against. Hitting the key against the paper removed the offending letter whereupon you then typed the correct letter. God, how time-consuming!

The following five years saw me working as a book-keeper (what was I thinking?) for various establishments but thankfully for the final seven years of my working life I was back at the old keyboards again. This time it was an up-to-date twentieth century machine, an IBM electric golf ball typewriter, later to be replaced by the IBM self-correcting (one letter at a time if I remember correctly).

Looking back now I often wonder how us office workers managed without our high powered computers. I suppose like everything else, what you didn't have you didn't miss. You just got on with it.

Above images sourced at: Wiki, Travelwebshots.com, The Classic Typewriter Page and Typewriter Museum.

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Jade, The Brightest Star In The Sky

2009-03-23T04:19:00.000-07:00

Yesterday morning I woke to the news that I'd been dreading yet that was so inevitable, Jade Goody had passed away peacefully in her sleep. We were given the precise time of her death by her Mum, Jackiey, 3.55am.

As with any death no matter how long it's expected when it actually happens it's a total shock to the system. The passing is difficult to accept. For me it's the finality of it all, knowing that I'll never see that person again, that's the hardest part. Every time someone dies who meant something to me it takes me right back to the awful emptiness I felt at the deaths of my mother and father.

This morning is rather strange for me. My routine is slightly different. For the past seven months every morning I've been checking the online newspapers to see how Jade was doing even though in recent weeks the headlines and images that accompanied them were painful to view. This morning I did check the papers but this time to find out where Jade's two little boys had spent their day yesterday. Seemingly they were with their Dad, Jeff Brazier, who had the profoundly sad task of breaking the awful news that "Mummy's in Heaven, she's with the angels now". Those must be the most difficult words any parent will ever have to say to their child. I don't know where that strength comes from but I guess it comes from a combination of God and the loved one who has passed on.

Jade, please forgive my selfishness but I'm not quite ready to let go of you yet, my sense of loss is too raw but the memory of your beautiful bright eyes and that gorgeous smile makes it a bit more bearable. I hope with all my heart that is the image your family, especially your beautiful boys Bobby and Freddie, will forever remember you by.

I chose the above image of Jade that I've now named "Princess Jade" because that is what I see when I look at it. I see beauty and innocence but above all I see the little girl that perhaps once dreamed of looking like this when she grew up.

Jade, you told your children that when they are missing you that they should look up and you would be the brightest star in the sky looking down on them. Somehow now I imagine I too will be looking skyward from time to time. May you rest in eternal peace.

Above image sourced at: LivingTV.

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A Touch Of Nostalgia

2009-03-18T08:35:00.000-07:00

I'm putting it down to the beautiful sunny weather we've been experiencing over the past few days. Yes, it's always the sunshine that triggers them. Memories.

Happy childhood recollections from a time when playing games didn't involve sitting at a computer monitor. No, these games were purely physical in nature. Skipping, playing ball against your house wall (one, two, three o leary!), beds (nearly every street had the chalk markings where you hopped from number one to number eight kicking an old polish tin, Nugget, I think the makers were, which you'd filled up with gravel to give it some weight), chasing, oh! the list goes on and on! All of that along with walking to and from school every day definitely meant you got all the physical exercise you ever needed.

Above is my avenue where my pals and I played all of the above games. Taken by me in 1969.

You might also notice from the above image that not many of my neighbours had cars. Only the families where the husband had any kind of a good job were the ones privileged to own such luxuries and some of these people even had a telephone installed in their hallways! We had neither car nor phone but what you didn't have you didn't miss.

One of my nicest memories of my summer childhood was when I'd be watching out for my Dad to arrive home on his bike just after mid-day for his dinner, yes, back then we had dinner in the middle of the day and tea at between five and six o'clock. While I'd be waiting for him the bread man, driving a Kennedy's electric van, would hover up the avenue to deliver his freshly baked loaves and pans but not to our house. We only got white bread from him on a Saturday as a treat because during the rest of the week my mother baked her own brown bread. Being a country woman my mother only approved of white bread being eaten in small amounts. What she didn't know was that sometimes my friends, when they'd go in for something to eat, would bring me out a jam sandwich or nicer still, a mashed banana and sugar sambo. I can still feel and hear the sugar crunching between my teeth! Sadly my molars' sorry state still bear testiment to those moments of Heaven.

Another treasured memory is again during the summer months when the monotonous sound of the dredger cleaning the bottom of the sea (my avenue faced onto the sea wall) and the subsequent cry of the overhead gulls looking for food would take me into a very relaxed state of mind, it was almost hypnotic. I still long for that sound. Those were moments I usually enjoyed by myself without the constant distraction of conversation. (You can view some of my Ringsend photos on: My Flickr Photostream) As a kid I was very aware of the sounds around me e.g. traffic in the distance (thin on the ground in those days), again the cry of the gulls first thing in the morning and on a winter's night the fog horn, its eerie signal guiding the ships home through a dense sea fog.

Above was the view from the end of my avenue. Taken by me in March, 1981.

It was wonderful living so close to the sea and of course we also had Sandymount strand on the other side, sure we were blessed! My dream is to retire back there some day. Some of the sounds may have long since been silenced but it's still a magic place no matter.

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It's About Belonging

2009-03-09T03:00:00.000-07:00

I am not good with gardens. In fact, I have not the slightest knowledge of how to create and maintain even the simplest little patch of blooms but there is something I do have an understanding of. I know that if a sapling is planted in poor soil and not tended to regularly it will not grow into a strong healthy tree. It will always be weak and at the mercy of the elements. I think the same applies to humans and animals.

I see the family as the soil. If we are born into a secure environment, our needs taken care of and are loved and nurtured by the people caring for us then we have a pretty good start in life. In other words that beginning, with our roots firmly planted and constantly showered with love and affection, will in times of upheavel and insecurity provide us with a strength strong enough to weather even the most violent storm.

Above images at: www.photosearch.com

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Hysterectomy Anniversary - Cause For Celebration? - Yes, I'm Alive

2009-02-23T07:05:00.000-08:00

I'm writing this post in the hope that it encourages those of you who've been putting off seeing your doctor for fear of examinations or whatever to seek advice and not continue to say "maybe it'll go away".

For the most part that's exactly what does happen, it does go away but there's always the danger that the next time you may not be so lucky. Leaving persistent symptoms of any kind to sort themselves out is really taking an unnecessary risk with your health and even your life.

In my case, thank God, the outcome was very positive but had I neglected my symptoms for much longer, who knows where I'd be now.

Eleven years ago today, by day and date since I had my Total Abdominal Hysterectomy & Bilateral Salpingo-oopherectomy, in simple english, removal of my womb, ovaries and fallopian tubes. I also had surrounding lymph nodes removed as a precaution because, as had been explained to me on the morning following my operation, had I not had the surgery when I did I would have ended up in a pre-cancer situation. (Copy of hospital letter to my GP following my discharge mentions "adenomatous hyperplasia" which I discovered is a crowding of glands which are irregular in shape and size). I also remember, groggy as I was, the surgeon telling me that my life expectancy had now gone from possibly six to eight years at most to living into my eighties! That was a shock and a half.

I was totally stupid in not doing something about my intermittent bleeding during the few years prior to my hysterectomy. Seven years earlier I had two small cysts removed from my cervix and twenty years earlier again I had a huge cyst removed from my left ovary and a smaller one from my right. I knew this bleeding was serious but I kept saying it would go away. It didn't and it got worse. After almost three weeks of continuous haemorrhaging which left me totally drained and feeling like death I eventually contacted my Haemophilia Society (I am a member because of a bleeding disorder) questioning whether my prolonged blood loss could be associated with my disorder. I was immediately ordered to head to my hospital where I received my intravenous treatment which only gave me cover for about ten hours.

However, the following evening I became quite ill, severe nausea, terrible weakness and I was bleeding yet again. As I'd been asked to return to the hospital if I'd any problems my husband and I decided it would be best to check out what was happening. To make a long story short I was admitted and remained there for six days during which my blood loss greatly increased. The resulting D&C confirmed I had a problem with my womb (including a large fibroid) that required a hysterectomy as soon as possible. I was put on the urgent list.

The following are snippets from my diary of my sixteen day stay in hospital following my hysterectomy and second operation to remove blood clot. Along with the painful, in every sense, stuff there are some very funny moments that happened along the way.

Monday, 23rd February, 1998:

"At 6.30am I was gently eased out of my slumber by some kind nurse who gave me my second pre-op antibiotic (again, up my bum)...

..It was around 8.00am when what seemed like the entire Gynae team plus the Haematology people descended upon me - one lot to go through all the gory operation stuff while the other lot chased after my blood!...

...At close on 2.00pm, the theatre trolley arrived up and as usual my nerves had to endure the short wait while my ID was being checked out. With the reassuring words of "best of luck" from my three room mates and a final wave from me to them, I headed off down the long corridor feeling how I can only imagine the condemned prisoner feels when facing the lethal injection.

When we eventually arrived on the surgical floor, I was taken to a "holding bay" area where I got the shock of my life when I saw all the other sleeping bodies on the trolleys, all looking very much like something out of a science fiction film. I honestly thought they were dead. In fact, we were all waiting our turn to be taken into the anaesthetic room...

...By the time I arrived in the operating room I was pretty much a nervous wreck, talking rubbish ninety to the dozen and generally trying to sound really funny (this is my usual way of coping with nerves). The remainder of my waking moments is somewhat blurry but I do remember having the little monitor attached to my finger, talking to the professor and receiving the muscle relaxing injection through my IV. Now it was time for me to go sleepies. Just before the syringe delivered the liquid that would finally render me senseless, I suddenly needed to remember what is was like to feel a complete woman.

Sometime between 8.00pm and 9.00pm: Arrived back on the ward (no beds in the ICU). Opened my eyes and ears to the sounds and visions of people preparing to transfer me from the trolley to my bed. I screamed out in pain each time they moved me even though they pumped me with some morphine from the machine I was attached to. Fell alseep. Woke to the sound of the professor's voice then passed out again...

Tuesday, 24th February, 1998:

There was no official waking up time. The morning continued from the night before with me still holding on for dear life to the morphine plunger, my "little friend" as I nicknamed it and slipping in and out of consciousness...

...Every so often I was aware of the nurses emptying the two drains which were coming out from both sides of my wound and also the urine bag which was attached to the catheter coming from my bladder. I was also on a saline drip through which I was receiving two antibiotics. Sometime during the evening I decided I felt like taking a short walk to see how I was doing. Very slowly, supported on either side by a nurse, I made my way from the bed to the door and out a little bit into the corridor. Painful as it was, it felt such a wonderful achievement to be able to walk at all. I was thrilled with myself and so were the nurses and I also got great cheers from my fellow room mates.

Wednesday, 25th February, 1998:

Woke up at 2.00am in absolute agony. Had to have an injection to ease the pain because, as the nurse discovered, my catheter had become blocked. It felt like my bladder was going to burst.

It was around 8.00am when I again woke up in excruciating pain, this time it was a crushing pain across my chest, shooting up into both shoulders. The nurses got me to sit out while they made the bed and it was then that I nearly passed out with the pain. Got another injection...

...I sobbed my heart out, pleading for relief from anyone who came near me, including my favourite cleaning lady. A while later the pain relief kicked in... Later on in the morning I had my catheter removed which wasn't at all as uncomfortable as I thought it would be...

...It was early afternoon when one of my haematologists informed me that my blood count was only 6. He said I was extremely pale and needed to rest and that they were organising a scan and blood transfusions...

...By the time they were ready for me I felt really sick and light-headed but that was nothing to the agony I experienced trying to settle myself on the scanning table. During the painful process the end of my left drain opened which resulted in its contents spilling out all over the floor. My night dress and dressing gown were absolutely soaked. Each time the radiographer pressed the scanner into my tummy I yelled out in pain. Within seconds the scan revealed a massive blood clot lying on top of my bladder. I remember the guy exclaiming "God, it's huge" to the nurse beside him...

...By the time I arrived back I was in agony and exhausted. Shortly afterwards I was hooked up to the first of four blood transfusions which were to make a new woman of me...

Thursday, 26th February, 1998:

Felt so much better after my four units of blood. Later I was taken down for a chest X-Ray... ...At around 1.00pm the theatre trolley arrived to once more take me to theatre to have my blood clot removed...

...Once again I found myself in the "holding-bay" area but this time I knew all those sedated figures on the trolleys were alive... ...As like Monday, my first waking memory is of being transferred from the trolley to the bed. I remember moaning a lot and wondering why I was covered with aluminium foil which must have had me resembling a turkey coming out of the oven! Slowly I began to hear a lot of machine noises around me, one of which I recognised to be an oxygen tank. A nurse told me that I needed help with my breathing as I had two anaesthetics very close to each other. The pain was dreadful even though I was once more rigged up to my morphine "friend".

At some stage hubby was sitting beside me and I was hallucinating. I could vividly see a cleaning lady, scarf on head with bucket and mop trying to clean around my bed and I actually asked hubby to move aside to let her through!. The next second she was gone... ...The remainder of the night is almost a complete blur except for the fleeting moments of consciousness when my only means of knowing I was still alive was hearing the incessant rhythmic gurgling of my pumps and a fellow patient's agonised coughing.

Friday, 27th February, 1998:

...Very soon I discovered that once more I was peeing through a tube, had two new corrugated drains in situ, was still receiving my medication through the IV and was also still attached to my morphine "friend"...

...At around 7.00pm hubby and the children came up to see me. It was only one week since I'd seen the boys but it felt like an eternity so I treasured every minute and was proud to introduce them to my room-mates.

Saturday, 28th February, 1998:

The early part of the day is a complete blank except for the time when they removed my catheter and disconnected the drip. Now I was a free woman again...

Sunday, 1st March, 1998:

...Just after tea-time we had a new lady admitted. She was a great talker but sadly (for us) she also had a bit of a hearing problem. One of my room-mates's reaction to her constant chatter, not to mention her flicking through the TV channels, had to be witnessed to be appreciated. For me, it was the best tonic ever...

...In the evening a couple of friends called in and said they'd been to see The Full Monty and strongly recommended seeing it as it was hilarious but I knew it would be some time before my newly acquired wound would allow that kind of laughter... ...Later my bowel was again in uproar. Between the post-op pain, the soreness in my bladder and the wind and continuous cramp in my gut, I was in horrendous agony...

...later conversation with my two other friends was hilarious with me wondering if my hormone implant was really a tracking device or worse still, the surgeon who implanted it was probably an alien who was researching how us human beings function (no doubt the double lot of morphine had taken its toll on the old brain!).

Monday, 2nd March, 1998:

On waking, felt very nauseated along with terrible wind pains in my lower tummy. At one stage I was actually crying with the discomfort and asked the nurse for anything...

Tuesday, 3rd March, 1998:

When the nurse went to remove one of my corrugated drains it was missing!. My own feeling was that it had made its way inside me because it had not been secured on the outside... ...If the whole thing hadn't been so very serious it would have been extremely funny. By now the nurse, doctor and myself were searching the bed for the elusive drain, with suggestions of its whereabouts coming thick and fast from all concerned. Panic was beginning to set in as the doctor informed us that if it had made its way inside me then I would have to have it removed under local anaesthetic! This I was not looking forward to so desperate measures were now called for.

After doctor went outside, nurse returned and we frantically searched the bed again but to no avail. Having decided that it must be in my belly she proceeded to clean the wound in the usual way. As soon as the scissors holding the piece of gauze moved across the drain site, she could feel something hard underneath. Relief, followed closely by terror, would aptly describe my reaction.

Nurse asked if I would like if she tried removing the drain and without hesitation I gave her the go ahead. Anything, to avoid going through another, even if very small, surgical procedure. So, with me desperately trying to distract myself by intently watching Sky News and gritting my teeth, nurse, quick as a flash, whipped out the mislaid drain.

Wednesday, 4th March, 1998:

After breakfast I decided to chance taking a shower as my hair was in a dreadful state. My favourite nurse came in with me and set things up. I was absolutely terrified the wound would open but she was brilliant and helped me overcome my fear. She stayed with me 'till I got used to the water then left me for a while but checked in every couple of minutes.

One of my room-mates got the news she'd been waiting for - she was going home. Dancing around the place like a two year old, she had everyone falling around laughing and within jig time of getting her news, she was dressed and rearing to go. We were all so happy for her... ...By lunch time I was beginning to feel anxious about losing my friend as she had become a mother figure for me...

Thursday, 5th March, 1998:

As per usual the phlebotomist had a dreadful time trying to get my blood because of my awful veins. By now my hands and arms were black and blue, both from IV lines and blood tests... ...I'm not sure if I became exhausted because of the operation or because I was feeling a bit depressed but I just wanted to be left alone to rest.

Friday, 6th March, 1998:

Another battle with my veins. The poor phlebotomist was more upset than I was because by now there didn't seem to be a vein left anywhere that could produce blood... ...I was delighted to see hubby as by then I was feeling very insecure and lonely for my "old" room-mates...

Saturday, 7th March, 1998:

...When hubby arrived at around 2.00pm, I was all excited about going home the next day... ...Before he left I decided that I wanted to see if I could walk up and down the stairs, so we went out onto the stairway and I managed (very slowly) to scale the dizzy heights of one section of steps without any serious damage to the body...

Sunday, 8th March, 1998:

...While I was waiting for the doctor's discharge letter I packed the remainder of my things then began saying my farewells to my new room-mates and during all of that, hubby arrived.

On reaching the nurses' station I couldn't wait to hug my favourite nurse. She'd been so kind and sympathetic just when I needed her. She was indeed a true ministering angel. She organised my letter and antibiotic prescription and gave me some antibiotics to keep me going for a couple of days plus a bunch of sterile dressings for my wound. My haemotologists were also at the desk and wished me all the best.

While slowly making my way down the corridor with hubby I was aware that I was still wearing my slippers simply because I didn't fancy having to get into a pair of shoes. I waited in the hallway while hubby drove the car up to the door and during those couple of minutes I thanked God for this moment because, if it hadn't been for the prompt action of the haemotologists, circumstances might have been a lot different".

When my hormone implant ran out one year later I decided not to have it replaced or to take HRT. Instead I relied solely on my Evening Primrose Oil of which I increased the quantity to 2000mg daily.

Above image via Wikipedia.

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Jade Goody - A Shining Star Whose Light Is Slowly Fading

2009-02-15T15:19:00.000-08:00

As recent as August of last year Jade Goody was given the devastating news that she had cervical cancer while she was appearing on India's version of Big Brother, "Big Boss". As a huge fan of Jade since her first appearance on Big Brother 3 in 2002 I was shocked like so many to read those headlines. Little did anyone know then we would now be reading about her impending death.

Over the years Jade has come in for a lot of criticism and cruel comments not least from those green with jealously of her success. OK, she made a few mistakes, don't we all, perhaps her biggest and most controversial one was the "poppadom" incident with Shilpa Shetty on Celebrity Big Brother in 2007. Too much was made of that and I've always felt that the only reason Ms. Shetty caused such an uproar over it was because she saw Jade as a threat to her chance of winning CBB. She cleverly used the moment to secure her win with sympathy votes.

Life for Jade had always been an uphill struggle, missing out on schooling because she had to become a carer at the tender age of five to her brother and drug addicted parents, at one point dragging her doped-up mother from their blazing home. With her father in and out of prison and her mother with a paralyzed arm as a result of a horrendous motorbike accident Jade never got the chance to live her childhood in the carefree way every child deserves. She should not have had to take on that responsibility so young.

Big Brother 3 in May 2002 gave her the opportunity to temporarily escape her dreadful home environment and live her life where at last she would only be responsible for herself. The freedom must have been immense. Life in the BB house was not always fun and games for Jade. I felt her intense desire to be loved was taken advantage of by one or two of the male housemates. I particularly remember her having feelings for one of the guys and having spent some of the night with him he then rebuked her advances the following day. My heart broke watching her approaching him for a hug only for him to just walk away, I think that was when I really connected with her.

Alongside the sad moments were times when Jade was also highly entertaining with her hilarious outbursts. Although she only came in fourth (I still think she should have won) her BB experience would take her on a personal journey that only most of us could dream of. There were times during her adventures when I thought perhaps it was too much not necessarily too soon. There was no end to this sudden roller-coaster ride.

June 2003 saw the birth of Jade's first baby, a boy she called Bobby. Fifteen months later in September 2004 she gave birth to her second son, Freddie. Shortly following the birth she separated from Jeff Brazier, a television presenter and father of her two boys. Another painfull episode in Jade's life only this time she had the children to love and take care of.

The years leading up to the present were peppered with highs and lows, most notably, becoming a winner in yet another television show "Celebrity Stars In Their Eyes" and collapsing while participating in the April 2006 London Marathon. In May and June of the same year she released her first autobiography "Jade: My Autobiography" and launched her first fragrance, Shh! It seems that some time after that she was tested for bowel cancer.

The following year was a bad time for Jade. In January 2007 she returned to the BB house for Celebrity Big Brother with her boyfriend Jack Tweed (who she now plans to marry within the next week or so) and her mother Jackiey Budden. That was when the ill-fated episode with Bollywood film star Shilpa Shetty happened and the world just seemed to turn against poor Jade from that moment onwards. Bookstores removed her book from their shelves, her perfume wasn't selling any more and life must have been a total hell for her. Not anything to the hell she would face a year and a half later when once again reunited with Shilpa Shetty this time in India on their version of BB called "Big Boss" she would receive the earth-shattering news that she had cervical cancer.

Up until a week ago Jade had a huge fight on her hands, she was going to beat this basterding disease. Then last Friday, February 13th, her doctors hit her with the bombshell that she was dreading but probably secretly guessed, her cancer was now terminal. The life-saving surgery performed the previous week to remove the golf-ball sized turmour from her bowel succeeded only in the sense that had it been left she would surely have died from complications associated with a bowel blockage.

Now the previous hope of a 40% chance of recovery was cruelly replaced by no hope at all. A couple of months at most are all that remain of her short life but Jade being Jade is going to make the best of that time.

She has already drawn up a will leaving all her money and properties to her two adorable boys. They have always been the love of her life and even when she first received her cancer diagnosis it was her children that her thoughts turned to and how they would be looked after should she not make it. This young beautiful mother's world revolves entirely around these boys and she has already taken care of their private schooling expenses until they are eighteen. She desperately wants them to have the education she was so cruelly denied.

The other love of her life, Jack Tweed, himself just a twenty-one year old but now with all the worry and responsibility of a man many many years older has asked Jade to become his wife. With a spirit that only Jade Goody could possess she mustered the energy to leave her hospital bed accompanied by Jack and his mother (Jack wheeling Jade's wheelchair) to travel to Harrods Department Store where its owner, Mohamed Al Fayed presented Jade with the wedding dress she'd chosen as a wedding present. At some point during the day she and Jack exchanged wedding rings in an emotional private ceremony on the banks of the Thames.

Jade is also making plans to have her children christened because she wants them to know that their “Mummy will be looking down on them from Heaven”. She is refusing to use the word “dead”, she doesn’t feel she needs to right now. I’ve a feeling that this real life “Love Story” will remain in our hearts long after the 1970’s film has faded from our memories, after all, that was fiction. Jade, Bobby, Freddie and Jack are very real people who are about to embark each on their own journey. For Jade, it will be a journey to a very special place where there will be no more pain or suffering and from where she can look down upon her family and friends, especially her adorable children, Bobby and Freddie. In time they will grow to realise the wonderful loving mother they had in the person we’ve come to know and love as Jade Goody.

Above image at: www.bbc.co.uk

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"Never Put Off 'Till Tomorrow......

2009-02-08T07:38:00.000-08:00

Three days ago I lost an aunt I hadn't seen in over thirteen years, a lady who was so beautiful and who I adored as a child but as I grew up and moved on in my life I'd neglected to contact. I'm filled with all the guilt and sadness that comes with leaving it too late. I thought about her so many times. In recent years I did have phone conversations with her although because of her worsening deafness those little chats were becoming more difficult. I should have written to her, her eyesight was still good. Above all I should have visited her. I'd been told she didn't encourage visitors and the fact that she would not then have recognized me, rather than upset and frighten her, I decided to put it off until another time. There should never be "another time" because "another time" can sometimes be too late. I'm left with too many should-haves.

Yesterday I attended her funeral, I took that lonely train journey that perhaps would have been more beneficial to us both had I taken it many years previously.

Above image sourced at www.media.photobucket.com

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Farewell Bill Frindall, "Test Match Special" Scorer

2009-01-30T16:16:00.000-08:00

I am deeply saddened to hear of the death of Bill Frindall, the greatest voice of cricket as far as I'm concerned.

I know absolutely nothing about the game, its rules or players but I do know that I will greatly miss that wonderful awfully posh voice on my radio when Test Match Special comes around again. I actually didn't know anything about the man except that he seemed to have a vast knowledge of his beloved cricket. It was a real treat listening to him giving the scores and above all when he and his co-commentator just chatted away like two elderly gentlemen in straw hats sitting in a field of buttercups on a summer's evening. I will miss that voice.

My prayers are with his family and friends, may he rest in peace.

Above image at: www.bbc.co.uk

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Travels With My Camera

2008-12-19T01:19:00.000-08:00

It must be the time of year but for some reason I find myself thinking a lot about my childhood lived in that wonderland I knew as Ringsend.

I'd like to share with you a few more images from that time before the construction of the toll bridge, the new roads, the bringing of the ships over to "our" side of the sea wall and the property developers' arrival changed the Ringsend landscape as we once knew it. It's all in the name of progress but I'm not that easily convinced.

Above, Pigeon House Road with Coast Guard Station and old ESB chimney stack. To the left of the picture you can just about see the two upturned rowing boats lying against the "slip" wall. Taken in 1969.

Below is the beautiful sea view from between the Coast Guard Station and the ESB (I would spend a lot of my time just staring out there, it was so calming). Taken in 1968.

Below is St. Catherine's Home, a one time convalescent home for TB sufferers as far as I know. I've been told it is a listed building so I guess it still stands. It's directly across the road from the sea view image above. Taken in 1968.

Below is an image that takes me right back into my early childhood. Here we would play cowboys and indians, yes, I also played with the boys. Many's the shoot out took place from those bushes! The houses you see are actually the back yards of the Cambridge Avenue houses where I lived. That image has dramatically changed over the years as many of the families have now built large extensions. Taken in 1971.

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Snowfall From Yesteryear

2008-12-18T15:38:00.000-08:00

Is it the fault of climate change or what that we no longer wake up to a blanket of snow every January? There are children in this country who have never seen snow, well maybe the odd flake now and then but nothing like we knew as children. It would take weeks to melt.

The great thing for us kids was that when we'd have to return to school after the Christmas holliers the pipes would be burst! Oh! how I remember the thrill of arriving at the school gates only to be told I had to go home again. I can still feel that excitement as we walked back along London Bridge Road gathering snow in our gloved hands to throw at each other, our screeches probably heard a mile away. (In those days we walked to school, about two miles in my case, getting the bus only if it was lashing rain).

(London Bridge Road image above).

Back then I didn't need a mobile phone to let my mum know I'd be coming home early because for the most part she'd be there. If she wasn't she'd just be out at ten o'clock Mass and would be back fairly soon. I could play in the avenue until then.

Getting back to the snow issue here are a couple of photos I took in January 1982 depicting the beautiful landcape that once was Willington Lane, Templeogue.

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Winter Twilight

2008-11-24T02:47:00.000-08:00

Last Friday I fulfilled a longstanding desire to visit my beloved Ringsend park during the twilight hours. I wanted to capture on camera the memory I have carried since childhood of a silhouetted church steeple against a skyline bathed in pink light. I would not be disappointed.

As I strolled through the park aware of the many changes made over the years (extended enclosed playground, a new all-weather floodlit football pitch, the planting of numerous trees) I felt totally at peace, not fearful of being alone as if this is where I truly belong, a place I shall frequent when my soul passes on. Ringsend is my spiritual home.

The above image is my memory projected onto the page for all to see. Isn't that wonderful! Despite the raindrops on the lens and I not having adjusted the exposure compensation function I'm still pleased with the resulting heavenly scene.

Enjoy!

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America Has Chosen!

2008-11-07T16:38:00.000-08:00

Perhaps the reason for my delay in posting this blog is that I'm still pretty much whacked after staying up 'till 5.30am Wednesday morning having shared during the night America's euphoria brought about by the historic election of its forty fourth president, Barack Obama.

Not since President Kennedy's visit to Ireland in June 1963 when I stood with my mother at the front of the barrier lining O'Connell Street have I felt such a huge rush of emotion for a political leader. Well, perhaps just once and that was when Bill Clinton was first elected president back in 1993. He too was Kennedy-like, handsome and oozed heaps of charisma, still does.

What I admire most in Barack is his total honesty. He has not promised that all this change will come about in his first few months in office. Indeed he has said in his first news conference this evening (Friday, 7/11/08) that some problems may still not be resolved by the end of his first term. I somehow think the world will be patient. It was very touching to hear him answer the personal question asked by a member of the media about what kind of puppy his daughters would be getting. We heard from him that his eldest daughter, Malia, is allergic to I guess animal fur so they have to be very selective of their puppy choice. That revelation really showed the man as a human being not the imagined cold-hearted political figure who will be living in his ivory tower. No, he is a concerned loving parent just like the rest of us.

I wish president-elect Barack Obama and his family a long, safe and joyful residence in their new home.

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Tomorrow's US Decision Decides Our World's Destiny

2008-11-03T04:22:00.000-08:00

All we can pray for now is that this US President, whoever he may be, has recognised the mistakes made for the past eight years by President Bush and will do everything in his power to prevent such atrocities ever happening again. Thank God I am not the mother of a son or daughter serving in Iraq but if I was I know who my vote would be going to. When I listen to Barack Obama assuring these parents that their children will be brought back home from a war that I feel and millions like me, should never have happened in the first place something in me believes his words.

Whichever of the two men on whose shoulders this huge world leadership responsibility falls they will have many difficult issues to deal with and I pray God to guide them in their decision making.

Let's wait and see what tomorrow brings.

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Shame On You Jonathan And Russell!

2008-10-29T03:19:00.000-07:00

I've always liked these two guys for their unique, quirky sense of humour. There's nothing so funny as Jonathan on his Friday night tv show embarrassing the life out of some of his more quieter guests or him then being quite sensitive when necessary. He's also an excellent and perfect presenter for the Film show.

Russell, is a strange but lovable man. He grows on you. I loved him on Big Brother's Big Mouth, he used to have me on the floor in stitches. He was adorable as a guest on our Late Late Show. In addition to his fabulous good looks I feel he is a highly intelligent young man.

So, what made him and Jonathan do what they did? For the benefit of readers who may not be familiar with the story, basically, a series of indecent messages were left on the answering machine of actor Andrew Sachs (Manuel, of Fawlty Towers fame) stating by Jonathan that Russell Brand had slept with Andrew's grand-daughter which was then aired on their BBC2 radio show. The messages were sexually explicit but I won't go into that.

Two grown, supposedly responsible men behaving like school boys while the teacher is out of class. The audience for these radio shows I imagine would be mainly younger people so if we're supposed to lead by example then surely this is one very bad demonstration of how to behave responsibly. After all, Jonathan has a young family himself and I'm sure he would not be pleased to hear of his son or daughter distressing an aging member of society as he has done.

All I hope is that both Jonathan and Russell have the decency to publicly as well as personally apologise to Andrew Sachs and his grand-daughter for the hurt caused to them and radio listeners. If they do that well then I'll forgive them their moment of foolishness and continue to enjoy their devilish wit. They're good at their jobs -just let's hope they still have them this time next week.

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