Hearbeat/Maurice Neligan:"He casteth forth his ice like morsels: who is able to abide his frost?" - (Psalms)
Taking this at its most literal, certainly it is not me. Tennyson's Avilion, "Where falls not hail, or rain or any snow, nor ever wind blows loudly;" is more to my taste.
It wasn't always so, and in schooldays we looked forward to snowfalls, snowmen and ice slides. I remember playing a version of ice hockey with "borrowed" hockey sticks and a shoe polish can filled with frozen earth as a puck.
This mayhem took place in the current bird sanctuary of Booterstown Marsh, topographically vastly different then from now. Occasionally, taking to the ice too early or endeavouring to prolong the season would lead to some miserable participant being delivered home, freezing and dripping to face his or her maternal wrath and recrimination. We scattered like snowflakes in the sun lest we be included in the radiated anger.
I remember the carefully nurtured slides with water applied before dark, particularly a very extensive one on the main avenue in Blackrock College, down which an endless stream glided, seemingly oblivious to any danger to life or limb. The authorities moved early to ban any member of the school football teams from participating. Presumably the rest of us were free to break whatever we liked.
I remember chilblains and stone hot water bottles and bed socks and ice forming on the windows. I remember inadequate insulation and little central heating. I remember turf and coal fires and kindling sticks and using newspapers to create an updraught in the chimney. I remember the excitement of a chimney fire and the arrival of the fire brigade. This was high drama, provided it wasn't your house.
I quickly grew out of appreciating the magic of ice and snow in my surgical registrar days. Such weather brought chaos to the accident departments. Added to the usual quota of fractures came the legion of ice injuries. They were frequently linked to osteoporosis and inadequate nutrition. They were prevalent among the elderly and unlike much A&E work, there was preponderance in daylight hours.
Fractured wrists, arms, hips and femurs, and fractured noses and jaws were among the most common, but just about every kind of fracture and dislocation was possible. The workload increased incrementally as the weather persisted. More serious trauma from vehicle accidents on icy roads added to our problems. The work seemed endless.
The Mater hospital at the time was not among the best heated buildings in the country. Flying down the freezing stairway from the residence to the emergency department was not pleasant. The department was not much warmer, the doors being frequently opened to admit an icy blast accompanying the latest victim.
Sorting, prioritising, triage and resuscitation, arranging X-rays and operating theatres became all-consuming in this time of ice and snow. At the time, the hospital had only one orthopaedic surgeon who was struggling to establish the specialty among his general surgical colleagues, all of whom felt that they could do any surgical procedure. This added another cross to the lot of the registrar; the dangerous trudge through the minefield of competing surgical egos.
"Why did you ask Mr M to see my patient?" Real answer: "Because he's better at the problem than you." Diplomatic answer: "I couldn't find you, sir, and he just happened to be passing."
One of our best surgeons, Mr O, entertained few if any doubts about his expertise over all areas of surgical practice. In fairness, he was among the best abdominal surgeons I ever saw. An orthopaedic surgeon, he was not.
One icy morning at 2am, a patient with a fractured shaft of femur, midway between hip and knee, had been admitted after his motorcycle had skidded on the ice.
In a cold operating theatre, with everybody shivering, Mr O called for a piece of apparatus called a Balkan beam, essentially a substantial long straight piece of wood. The orthopaedic equipment room, however, was locked. "It's that ****** M who has done this," he averred, on no evidence whatsoever.
"Shall I get Sr G out of the convent to open it?" I asked. "No, we'll improvise," he replied, and strode out of theatre down to his surgical ward, opened the broom cupboard and removed six brushes and brooms. He smashed their heads off and bound them together with tape; hey presto, a new beam.
We duly admired his enterprise and skill but wondered silently how Sr M Augustine, the real power in the ward, would view the night's depredations. We needn't have worried.
"Sister, I had to use your brooms last night in dire emergency, but I've brought you six new ones in replacement."
"Aren't you wonderful Mr O," she said "and so resourceful." Not for the first time, I realised that there was more to establishing a surgical career than mere technical skill.
The same surgeon, in the same ward, with the same sister, blessed himself daily on conclusion of the ward round. One day he became angry about some matter or other and stormed out, omitting the blessing. His intern unhooked the font and followed him: "You forgot to bless yourself, sir."
Looks don't always kill.
• Maurice Neliganis a cardiac surgeon.