Scars that Run Deep (25 page)

One late October evening, tired from writing, I decided to meander out by the sea, determined to return with the new exciting title. My mind went to work as I strolled by the railway line. As I came towards the bridge I could see the tall trees silhouetted against the late autumn sky and, nestling behind them, the grey stone beauty of Saint George's church close to the railway line. Its tall spire has become a famous landmark pointing to the heavens.

Arriving home that night I still hadn't come up with the right title. I wrote down a list of all the titles I had thought up. All of them began with the word ‘Fear'. And as I went through the list with my family after tea that night, ‘Fear of the Collar' was the only one that everyone liked.

But even though I finally had the right title, I suddenly realised that evening how behind I was with my education. I had given my children everything that I lacked. They were so far ahead of me in modern life and learning. They studied Shakespeare and Arthur Miller at school; my days were filled with hard labour, prayer and punishment. I was proud of them, but daunted with the writing process ahead of me.

While I was writing
Fear of the Collar
my nightmares came back and I was talking in my sleep. This was clearly linked to the writing process, and reliving memories that I had tried to
suppress for years. I found it was a most difficult task, to sit down until two or three in the morning, tearing up much of what I'd written on previous occasions, to replace it with better material. The shadow of Artane School, and its harsh military-style system, took over my whole mind, body and soul. I'd go to bed exhausted and within moments I'd enter my dark childhood back in Artane.

I was having some awful dreams of the Apeman beating dozens of us boys, all naked and lined up with our hands joined as though we were praying for mercy. For some unknown reason I'd wake up when my turn came to be flogged by the Christian Brothers. I was often writing about Driller the Killer on duty in the shower rooms. Once I dreamt that I was Driller the Killer. I marched the seventh and eighth division, all naked, from the snow-covered parade ground. I was standing on a wooden platform shouting, ‘Left, left, lift them up, left right left.' As I marched the two naked divisions into the showers, we met up with the Artane band marching out, playing the ‘Bold Fenian Men'. The boys got so excited I began to flog each one of them while the band kept on playing. I woke drenched in perspiration.

‘You've been at it again, Pat,' said a smiling Pauline.

I felt embarrassed. ‘What do you mean?'

‘Shouting orders in your sleep. I was one of your dirty
pups and you actually ordered me to bend over and touch me toes. And I had to take off my night-shirt. Imagine that now.'

‘What did you do?' I was in fits laughing.

‘It's a good job it was for boys only.' Her smile was so radiant, and always tempting . . .

Writing
Fear of the Collar
was in a real sense having to relive my eight years all over again. The fact that I was dreaming and talking in my sleep simply confirmed to me that I was telling the real facts. But I made the decision not to reveal the full horrors of the systematic sexual and physical abuse I suffered inside. I wanted to save my wife and our three young children the embarrassment I believed it would cause them.

That decision I made back then turned out to be the correct one for all of us in the family, particularly the children. Furthermore, whenever I made an effort to describe in detail the form or methods employed by the Christian Brothers who performed such acts of sexual and physical abuse on us, it was indeed way beyond my station back then. As it was, I was finding it a very difficult task to write down the basics and to get my story told. As I write this at the end of 2007 I find it is less stressful.

It took me four years to write
Fear of the Collar
, and while I was worried about another ex-Artaner telling his story before me, I was anxious to get the facts straight. When I felt that
my story was ready to go into the world, I started to approach Irish publishers. I anxiously awaited the postman, fearful of rejection, though at the same time realising that many successful authors had been rejected more than once before they had their work accepted.

I will never forget that evening in November 1990 when I contacted O'Brien Press. I was amazed to hear that the editor had been meaning to contact me about it, and although there were a few other publishers interested, I thought I had found the right one in O'Brien Press.

When I set out to write my story I did so for a few particular reasons. One was that I believed I had a good story to tell, which I knew had to be told. I had prayed to God that I would be the one to tell it. I was of the opinion that it needed to be told and in a balanced way, and that I was the one to tell it. I'm so glad I'm still writing to this very day. 'Tis hard to believe it really, particularly with my lack of education. As I look back to the beginning, in 1985 to 1989, Pauline was always there to give me encouragement and help. I was blessed I had such a beautiful and devoted wife, as Pauline was, to be there for me. As it was such a very difficult story for me to explain in great detail I doubt I'd have made it without her. She was my light and she gave me hope, and the will to succeed in revealing the dark secret of my stolen childhood. Pauline was as surprised as anyone on hearing of my secret past.

IT WAS SEPTEMBER
1998. A beautiful time of the year, September, when the corn is ripened gold. The countryside is rich in colour, mellow dark yellow, rustic and gold. I love the scent and warmth of autumn as I did as a child when I lived in the cottage home of my dreams in the hillside of Barnacullia in Sandyford, south county Dublin.

For me, those fond and cherished memories were indeed happy and carefree, growing up in Barnacullia in the hillside and going to school in Sandyford. And returning home through the fields and leafy glades, and filling our pockets with shiny mahogany-coloured conkers, a sign that autumn is here for certain.

That autumn I decided to take Pauline and our youngest daughter Suzanne to the Algarve. Suzanne was extra excited because we had agreed that she could take a schoolfriend, Silvie, with her. Once we arrived in the Algarve, we were knocked by the heat – it was at least thirty-five degrees Celsius.

To my astonishment I began to feel as though I'd found I had energy to burn. We agreed to let the girls go off together to fun parks, water worlds and that sort. That allowed Pauline and I to travel and explore places like Lagos, Alvor, Rio Lobo and Monechoro. Though it was mid-September the temperature was reaching heights of almost forty degrees.

But although Pauline was having a wonderful time, and fell in love with the old town of Portimao, and Lagos in particular, I couldn't help but feel uneasy about her, especially when the evening closed in. Dancing in the open air on sultry evenings overlooking the great long, golden, sandy beach below which hundreds of couples chatted and drank Sangria and wine, I began to notice a sudden change in my wife. Though I could feel it, and see it, I couldn't quite put my finger on what was wrong. She would cling to me as we walked, danced or simply just stood gazing at the wonderful beauty of the Algarve at night. Pauline was holding on to me as though she might fall if I let go.

On the few occasions I ventured to ask her whether she was okay, her instant brilliant smile quite simply helped to alleviate my concerns for a while. Though I was concerned I didn't let my concerns spoil the holiday. Pauline looked great, more attractive than ever, and her smile became even more radiant.

I noticed that Pauline was dragging her left foot. Her shoe was so worn down on the heel, it became very noticeable. I
was very concerned, though I had no idea as to what was the cause of it. Never once did I hear Pauline ever complain.

A few days after we returned from Portugal, when I got home from work Suzanne told me that her mother had fallen over again. I was stunned. ‘What do you mean by “again”?' I asked my youngest child.

Suzanne's expression was one filled with apprehension as she told me it was about the fifth time Pauline had fallen since we returned from the Algarve. We stared at each other for an empty, silent, awful moment. Suzanne was worried about her, but didn't want her mum to know that she had told me about her falls.

Pauline was never one to complain, and hated the embarrassment it would have caused her, so it wasn't until a few days later, when we were having a drink in the pub, that I asked her how her ankle was. When she looked at me, her voice was soft. ‘Oh, so you've noticed after all.'

‘Yes, in fact I'm quite concerned. Have you been to the doctor?'

‘Yes, I've to have it X-rayed soon. I was told to go to the Lourdes Hospital.' Later that evening at home I had a look at Pauline's foot and suddenly feared something was very wrong here. It's very blue, very stiff, no movement. ‘How does it affect you, is there any pain?' I asked her.

She kept smiling at me. ‘No, none. I just find it's not normal, it's so stiff and very dead.' We had to put our trust in the hospitals now. But we were soon to realise that was a big mistake.

Despite going to both the Lourdes and Mater hospitals, nothing could be found. But I knew something was wrong. Being involved in soccer, having to keep fit, gave me the gut feeling something was very wrong. I was very concerned.

It was late in the evening towards the end of November. I was in the sitting room watching TV. I heard a commotion, screams. Pauline was lying on the floor. ‘She just fell over, Dad. She was talking to us,' Suzanne said.

I looked down at Pauline sitting on the kitchen floor. I was amazed that she was smiling. ‘Can you do anything to help Mam?' Suzanne pleaded.

‘Come on Pauline, let me lift you up,' I said. As I carried her in my arms to the sitting room, her spontaneous burst of laughter filled the house. God, how I loved her.

The next morning I drove Pauline to our doctor's surgery. The surgery was in a beautiful old red-bricked Victorian style. I helped Pauline out of the car. Our eyes met. ‘Are you worried?' I asked.

She simply looked at me and said, ‘I leave all the worrying to you, Pat. Let's go inside.'

I certainly felt nervous as I entered the doctor's office. ‘Hello Pauline, let me take your coat and hat.' I watched Dr Alan gently help Pauline off with her coat. He wanted to examine Pauline in private, so I left the office to wait.

Finally, the door opened; the doctor's voice was very soft. ‘Patrick, it's not good news, I'm afraid. I will need to refer Pauline to a specialist to be sure, but it seems to be that she could be suffering from MS.'

Dr Alan explained multiple sclerosis to me as a highly individual experience for every different person with the disease. He warned me that Pauline could be confined to a wheelchair, but that that would depend on what form of MS she had.

We were referred to Dr Orla Hardiman, a consultant neurologist at the Beaumont Hospital Clinic, where I had worked as a porter all those years ago. But before then was Christmas, and, as usual, Paula and John came to stay. As I watched the gifts being unwrapped I kept my eye on Pauline. If she had a serious problem, then she was doing a remarkable job at hiding it from us. Not for a mere brief moment did any of us think that this was to be the last Christmas dinner we'd enjoy together with Pauline.

Ten weeks later the family had gathered around Pauline's bedside to hear the worst possible news. Paula and John sat
close together while Suzanne sat close by her mother's side. Pauline had a very aggressive form of Motor Neurone Disease, or MND, and her prognosis was bleak. I stared at the consultant in disbelief as we were told the news that MND is incurable and fatal. We were told that Motor Neurone Disease is not contagious, nor is it an inherited condition. Nobody knows for certain why one person contracts it and another doesn't. Many sufferers may have had it for most of their lives before it took hold. The consultant told us how sorry she was, but Pauline was unlikely to survive the year.

It was as if the sky had fallen in on me. We were told by the doctor that all we could do for Pauline was to care for her needs in a gentle, loving way, but since the Beaumont was a recovery hospital, it was not possible that Pauline could stay, as her condition was non-recoverable. But nor should Pauline return home. In fact, the best place for her was a nursing home, where she would receive quality of life and round-the-clock care. It was explained to me that it was going to be very difficult for me to give Pauline the kind of care she needed.

But Pauline wanted to stay at home. So against the advice given to me by the doctors and nursing care team at the Beaumont, and the IMNDA – the Irish Motor Neurone Disease Association, I stood by Pauline and her wish to be taken home. As far as I was concerned Pauline was now the
only person in the world that really mattered. Once I got Pauline home everything simply fell into place. Suzanne was wonderful. Every day when she would return home from school, her voice would ring out, ‘Hello Mam, Mam, I'm home. Dad with you, Mam?' We were helped enormously by the IMNDA, who brought us a bed that would put Pauline in a sitting position at the touch of a button, a chair, a hoist and they organised some home help for us.

The disease progressed rapidly. It was now April. I heard from a friend in Balbriggan town that there was a trip to Lourdes going out in May. I couldn't wait to get home to Pauline to tell her the news. ‘How would you like to go to Lourdes?' Tears of joy swept down her flushed cheeks. Her voice was soft, very soft. ‘Love it, love it.' Though I didn't expect a miracle, Lourdes gave Pauline a wonderful lift. It raised her spirits and kept her smile radiant to the end.

Pauline's condition worsened every week. As the dreadful disease attacked, Pauline's speech became slurred. The movement in her left hand died slowly as time passed agonizingly by.