THURSDAY
DAY 11,998
‘The Battle of Ventry’
Bo’s last Thursday on earth was a sparkling gem of a day.
I was doing another interview. Halloween week, the season of radio shows about folklore. In the old days, on Halloween, the sidhe or the raths opened and the fairies sneaked out, the graves opened and the dead walked the countryside. Now the radio producers’ minds open and they want to talk about old customs, old ways, old tales. This time it was to be a panel discussion on storytelling. It would take place from three to four in the afternoon, in RTÉ. I was going to say something about the kind of stories we told in Ireland. The challenge in these discussions is to say something that is true, but not too complex. People expect you to describe stories as if there were only a few, or a few kinds, while there are hundreds of thousands, and many different genres. It is like being asked to describe Irish literature in a line or two. Impossible. But that is the challenge.
I thought I should have a few examples. One of the stories I like to tell is ‘The Man Who Had No Story’. Once when I asked Bo what his favourite Irish folk tale was, he said it was this particular one. It’s a story that illustrates the importance of storytelling in the Irish community. As the title indicates, it’s about a man who has no story, but who goes on an outing, has some strange experiences, and comes home with a story to tell. But I knew – for some reason – I should mention Fenian tales and I didn’t really know any very well. I consulted Seán Ó Conaill’s Book – I think – or some other collection. I read ‘The Battle of Ventry’. Wrote a few notes.
Went to the hospital.
It was about noon. Bo seemed much the same, perhaps a little weaker. The bag of urine was depressingly light. The drip was dripping much faster than it had been, and I realised that it was not functioning properly at all last night when I was visiting, and perhaps for the entire night after that. Who would have checked? The doctors on their rounds this morning.
Bo’s voice was weaker. His stomach was more swollen. His ankles were swollen. Oedema. I pointed this out to a nurse. She shrugged and did not seem unduly concerned.
He was lying back and had little energy.
I told him I’d leave for a few hours in the afternoon, that I was doing an interview on RTÉ about storytelling. Kelly Fitzgerald, with whom I had collaborated on Halloween night, a week earlier, would also be on it. I said I had been trying to tell ‘The Battle of Ventry’.
‘Never try to tell “The Battle of Ventry”,’ Bo said, with a flare of his sharp humour, but in such a weakened voice. ‘It is a terrible story.’
‘Which one should I tell?’
‘“Fionn in the Cradle” is good,’ he said. He began to tell it but gave up before the end, although it’s a short tale.
Lunch was served. Fish and potatoes and soup. He waved it away. The sight of food made him feel sick – he probably felt very sick all the time. There was a dessert, jelly and ice cream, and I fed him a little of that. I gave him drinks of water but now, for the first time, a nurse came and told me not to. The drip was enough. At two I left, took the 145 to RTÉ, and did the interview. After the recording, the producer told us it would be broadcast on 28 December, after Christmas. A question popped up in my mind, out of nowhere, out of fear that was obviously gripping me then, although in the hospital they were saying Bo would be fine. I asked myself this: Will he be alive when this programme is broadcast? I could not imagine what it would be like, if he were not.
Kelly, who is a very warm, kind young woman, walked along the road with me towards the bus stop. She told me that Brenda Ennis, the author of The Secret of the Sleeveen, which I had launched just one week earlier on Halloween, was very anxious to meet me, to give me a present. I knew this since Brenda had mentioned it to me on the night of the launch. I explained that Bo was in hospital, so for the moment I’d rather not make an arrangement to meet. Maybe in a week or so. Kelly was surprised, and rather alarmed, but I calmed her down and said it was nothing serious, he would be fine soon. I said this. I still believed this. Bo was at the end of his trial period. Actually he was past the end, so why wasn’t I hearing about the next phase of treatment? They would try something else now.
Back at the hospital, there was a new development. Bo was wheezing. I saw a young doctor, the night doctor, who looked like an intern. She gave him a nebuliser, which helped his breathing and seemed to give him some energy.
That evening, Marja, Ragnar, Olaf and Nadezhda, came to visit. Again we were quite a crowd in the ward, and there were no seats for anyone. Nadezhda had brought a little tub of fresh fruit – melon, grapes, pineapple – and she fed some of this to Bo. She knew he loved melon. He ate it.
We were cheerful. Bo was glad to see everyone. Two nights before, when he was stronger, much stronger, he had looked at the departing Ragnar and Marja and Olaf with pride, and said how well they looked, intimated that he was glad that he had such presentable children. Now he could not say that but he enjoyed having them around his bed, and talked excitedly, at length, but in such a weak voice that we couldn’t really hear what he was saying.
We left obediently at about nine. Marja offered to spend the night in Shankill, with me, and I was glad of the company. We drank some wine and talked about strategies. Marja and Ragnar would get an appointment with the consultant the following morning, and persuade him that Bo should be moved to a hospital where he would be more comfortable. They would be calmer and better negotiators than I could be, I knew, and I felt reassured. My plan was to drop Marja up to the hospital, then go to UCD and teach my Friday class. I would not get back to the hospital until about five. But Marja and Ragnar would be there, and with luck Bo would be moving to a better hospital.
‘They’re closing down the A&E in Loughlinstown in a few weeks,’ Marja said. ‘It was on the news last night.’
I laughed. If Bo had fallen ill a few weeks later he could not have been taken there. He was among the last cohort of patients that were ever admitted to that A&E.
We went to bed at about midnight. At half past twelve, my mobile rang. I had a moment of panic. The hospital.
The call was from Bo’s mobile, which he very seldom used, although I had called him a few times in the hospital on it, since he had no bedside phone, needless to say. Indeed there was no telephone access to patients except by way of their own mobiles. But although the screen told me the phone was Bo’s a nurse spoke first.
‘Your husband asked me to phone. He wants to speak to you.’
She gave the phone to Bo.
‘Hi darling, what’s up?’ I asked.
‘I am in such terrible pain,’ Bo said. He emphasised the word ‘pain’. ‘They don’t understand what I am saying.’
‘I’ll go up there,’ I said.
‘No no no no no!’ he shouted, insofar as he could shout. ‘Do not come up here. Talk to them.’
‘Okay, okay,’ I said. ‘I’ll talk to them. Take it easy now, darling, I love you.’
I spoke to the nurse.
‘He is in terrible pain,’ I said.
‘I will give him some painkillers,’ she said.
‘Ring me if anything happens,’ I said.
‘He will be all right. He has been agitated.’
What do they mean when they say a patient has been agitated? Do they mean he has been shrieking with pain? Begging for help?
‘I will ring you if there is anything.’
I went downstairs and told Marja. I wondered if I should go to the hospital. But I had had two glasses of wine, I didn’t think I should drive.
But couldn’t I have risked it, for once?
Couldn’t I have got a taxi?
I was going to teach in the morning. I was still in ordinary time, watching the clock. I still didn’t get it.
I went back to bed.