An Irishman’s Diary on a year that had me in stitches

I suppose the “bookends” were spring 2013 and new year 2015. Between them a variety of titles jostle for attention. The artistic removal of carcinoma from the temple and its cosmetic concealment by the deft application of skin generously donated by the neck. Cranial haemorrhage, resulting from a stupid late-night fall, hardly worth its dog-eared pamphlet, but there to complete the record. A big, well-thumbed volume on the introduction to and ongoing management of diabetes type 2. Shingles and its tendency to lead to serious eye infection and double vision. A slim volume on a nasty little doofus on the toe called a diabetic ulcer. And the big finale of the Heart That Couldn’t. So many delightful ills that flesh can be heir to, and my name’s on the fly-leaf of every one of them.

But to begin at the beginning, on C-Day. “Your non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma,” I heard the doctor say, “is Lew Grade’s.”

Thinks: what has a deceased show business impresario got to do with it, even if old Hodgkin has washed his hands of it?

“Not Lew Grade, you idiot,” the doctor didn’t say, but might easily have, had he been reading my thoughts, “LOW grade!”

Oh, low grade? Yes, apparently in Lymphoma Land “low grade” is accounted a Good Thing, or at least better than a Bad Thing. Anyway, several daycare sessions of chemotherapy ensue where many crosswords are completed in one of Mary O’Brien’s books.

I hadn't been in hospital for nigh on half a century. I wasn't expecting Grey's Anatomy and I wasn't disappointed. For those who haven't yet had the experience here are some of my findings. The hospital will contain comely handmaidens called nurses who say "Pair-fect!" a lot; in some cases it will offer food about which a file needs to be sent to the Director of Public Prosecutions; and there will be surgeons and consultants who pop up in your room at all times of the day or night, as if they had no homes to go to. Or maybe that's what's meant by dedication.

I met a neighbour in the hospital. The odd thing is it was in the operating theatre. I was lying on the trolley waiting to have the carcinoma removed under local anaesthetic and chatting to the mini-United Nations of junior doctors who were about to treat me as a teaching aid. Turned out one of them, an Australian, lived in the same apartment complex as myself, on the other side of the city from the hospital. What odds would Paddy Power give on that? We exchanged neighbourly notes.

And so to that final bookend, just last Christmas. It starts with the realisation that you’re gasping for breath after walking 100 metres on the flat. You betake yourself to the emergency department. They want to admit you straight away in the clothes you’re standing up in, but you’ve been caught out by that one before. You insist on going home briefly (not very far) to collect a few necessities, like a toothbrush, change of linen, etc.

The next thing you know is that, on Christmas Eve if you please, the surgeon is (presumably, I never actually witnessed this) fingering the teeth on his little saw and eyeing your breast bone speculatively, and you’re hoping he’s concentrating on the job and not on what Santa is going to leave him. After you surface, the ultimate assurance that, like so many new bypasses that have been opened by ministers in recent times, yours – a six-lane beaut – has come in on schedule and possibly even under budget. Then on to the dubious joys of learning to walk again, 70 years after the last time.

I think that'll do me for the moment. Over the last two years I and my excellent teams of expert elves have fought off impertinent assaults from the most unexpected quarters, coming hard on the heels of each other. So a slight sniffle next winter, if you must, but no more, thanks all the same. I've enough raw experience piled up for a dozen ER episodes.

But the memory I will hold on to is of the little aspiring midwife from Manchester who, when I was being discharged on one occasion, insisted on carrying my bag, which was quite heavy, not just out of the hospital exit, but down the street to the Luas stop as well. For such occasions was the expression Little Acts of Remembered Kindness coined.