A recovering masculine
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Operation Wounded Foot is winding down nicely and my right foot is on the mend, or at least isn’t as angry looking anymore. I understand that my resistance warrior credentials have taken a major hit after admitting to partaking in a little traditional medicine and intravenous anti-biotics. But, fear not, I’m currently glugging down some chlorine dioxide. Furthermore, on escape from the clutches of Portiuncla hospital my first port of call was to dip my feet in the healing waters of Lough Nafooey up in the wild hills of Finny.
I wanted to wait until I was well out of hospital before chatting about my fellow HSE in-mate. My next door neighbour or béal comharsa doras during my six night luxury vacation san oispidéal was an elderly gentleman who we shall call Larry for the purposes of this article. Larry and I had a few wonderful conversations during my stay but even more importantly some marvellous silences too.
If synchronised silence ever becomes an Olympic sport I’d fancy our chances together. I often wonder if finding someone who is at peace with your wordlessness is more vital than searching for people compatible with your words as part of the secret sauce to creating a happy and peaceful existance.
Anyway, Larry and I would often chatter away busily for fifteen minutes and then drift off into the private domains of our minds for an hour or two. Only to return again and pick up the conversation right where we left it. No hurt feelings, judgement or emotional neediness at play. As far as I could tell, the masculine and feminine was as finely balanced in his being as I’ve come across in quite a while. He was both a soft man and a hardy man. I put this curiosity, in part, down to a life lived on the land in partnership with a wife he clearly still loved as much as his fields even at ten years remove from her passing. He’d flick her name into conversation when talking about the things he loved doing like farming, football and gardening. As if adding a little salt and slab of butter to a plate of fatty bacon and spuds just so he could catch the pleasant aroma and taste of her once or twice a day.
He was a great man for the nicknames and each morning he cheerfully greeted the young trainee male nurse taking bloods as the Ahascragh vampire. I was the Lone Ranger due to my inability to lie still and remain on the ward for more than thirty minutes at a time and my stubborn refusal to allow visitors into the hospital. I had a rationale for this latter point although he wasn’t buying my story in the least.
“ Ah now, take it from an old man on his own. The older you get the more you realise life’s much better when your not sharing it alone “
Aye, aye Captain.
Now, Larry, on the other hand, could run for president with numbers enquiring after his well-being. After a couple of days of shadow-boxing, a light cloud of comfort, ease and good humour enveloped our two beds. I’d normally be the first to wake and by the time I’d be back from my first intravenous cigarette trip of the day, Larry would be stirring in the leaba beside me and putting a brave face on the indignity of having his nappy changed.
“ Jaysus, you’re still alive Larry. I was looking forward to having two breakfasts for meself this morning “
“ Still above ground, Still above ground “ he’d reply with a quiet, determined smile.
I suppose, reminiscing about Larry now gets me pondering on matters of intimacy. It seems a funny thing but the longer you travel on the road of life and build up scar tissue, the more difficult emotional intimacy with people can be to develop. Go so far, but no further. Whether those people be old or new. I guess it depends on how well each deals with the scars scratched into their skin.
As we paddle along our lives we adopt and accept roles, functions, labels, and dare I say it, masks to the world around us. The hospital environment was a revelation of sorts in this regard. It is one of the few environments where I’ve been thrown into close proximity to another person at random for an extended period of time. I had no choice in the matter. Strangely, after a couple of initial sparring rounds emotional intimacy came naturally with Larry. As I analyse why this was I come to the conclusion it was because, in the first instance, Larry didn’t matter to me and I didn’t matter to him. I was not invested in his life before I entered hospital and won’t be in the future now that I am out of it. Yet, as I sit here now, I can see somehow Larry mattered a great deal indeed.
Larry, was popular and his old flip phone chirped regularly each day with well-wishers enquiring after his gall-bladder. On Sunday, he confided the news that his sickness was noted at the Saturday night mass from the altar which he was happy to hear about. A sign and a relief to him, and many of his generation, that he is a cherished member of his community whose sickness should be marked and prayed upon.
“ I’m not into religion but sure it doesn’t kill anyone to spend thirty minutes a week saying the odd prayer and giving thanks does it? “
A practical, logical brand of faith which made me smile by its sheer honest simplicity. His son, daughters, relatives and others dropped into visit him everyday. Yet, his demeanour would often change, ever so slightly, to the one I came to observe as he adopted his role as father, retired farmer, and goodly neighbour. Sometimes our nearest and dearest know so much about us and yet nothing at all about what ticks underneath.
I liked Larry because his warmth and softness cushioned his strength. Although in his early eighties he was and is a strong man. His more traditionally male characteristics needed no formal introduction. You’d be introduced to them when and if you needed to be and at the appropriate time. All told he’d a lovely balance and humour to him or so it seemed to me.
When I think of spirit and faith in terms of energy fields or split these fields into the precise make-up each and everyone one of us possess of masculine and feminine energy I come to a surprising observation about myself. The feminine energy is the dominant sphere and that is probably due to collateral damage to the masculine in me at points along the road. I’m most comfortable and at peace operating within a spectrum of intuition, empathy, creativity and connection or interconnection. The damaged masculine in me will sabotage these states of being and I can knee-jerk into many toxic male traits at the flick of a switch but which are nowadays mostly confined to the interior of my car and the altar of St. Bridget as often as possible. But, maybe, I should let others be the judge of that.
A recuperating masculine saddled with a recovering alcoholic.
Sure, I’ll take it for the moment.
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The difference between rural Ireland and urban Dublin is that you'd be less likely to meet a Larry here nowadays. That kind of natural folk wisdom is still a bit more common in the country than it used to be, especially among the elderly. Larry's nickname for that nurse as the "Ahascragh vampire" reminded me of something that happened a good while ago.
My late aunt was a Dublin woman born in 1920. One day when she was in a local hospital I saw a young consultant doctor poking her arm with a syringe. He was apparently trying to find a blood vessel from which to extract his sample for the day (what do they need all this blood for exactly?). The young medic was becoming more and more frustrated as he continued unsuccessfully to prod my aunt's arm with the needle. He finally gave up and left after my aunt asked him wryly, but firmly, if he had to be trained to inflict such pain on his patients.
My aunt might be gone but I am glad there are still Larrys in the world.
You capture people so well when writing about them. Have you ever considered writing a novel? Or are you writing one?