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February 17, 2005

What about my lump?

Some weeks ago, I detected a lump under my right arm. I paid no attention to it, assuming it would go away. It didn’t...

Some weeks ago, I detected a lump under my right arm. I paid no attention to it, assuming it would go away. It didn’t, so I went to see my doctor who prescribed penicillin. When this failed to vanquish the foreign object, he suggested I have a biopsy done. Having always had private health care insurance, he assured me I would be seen to immediately. He promptly wrote me a referral letter and told me to telephone a certain private hospital and make an appointment a.s.a.p.

I started phoning the said private hospital on a Monday but was greeted by a very non-descript answering machine. I repeatedly left messages that I needed to make an urgent appointment with the surgeon. After several failed attempts and no response, I thought perhaps the phone number to be temporarily out of order, so I contacted the general number of the said hospital.

Harp of hell

Having endured 8 and half minutes of detestable harp playing, an anonymous woman eventually answered. I explained my situation to her and asked if the number was out of order.

‘’No, actually the number is not out of order. I’m afraid the secretary is out sick at the moment,’ she explained.
‘I see,’ I said ‘so can you tell me who is the stand in and how I can make an appointment with someone else?’
‘Oh, I’m afraid there isn’t anyone else,’ she went on.
‘Excuse me?’
‘I’m afraid you will have to wait till the secretary of Mr. X returns from work,’
‘I see,’ I say a little taken aback ‘this is the private hospital I am on to?’
‘Yes,’ she confirms.
‘I see. So let me get this straight. I have a lump under my arm and could be dying of terminal cancer or some other horrific disease, and I have to wait till the secretary returns before I can see a surgeon?’
‘That’s correct I’m afraid,’ the anonymous voice sounded a little embarrassed.
‘I’m not sure you understood me,’ I say quietly ‘but I may have a life threatening illness and I would like to see a surgeon as soon as possible. There must be something you can do for me? Can you at least find out for me when this secretary will be back?’
‘I can try,’ she says warily ‘please hold,’

I am wearily entertained by Michael Flatfoot and Company, his intermittent yelping guaranteeing the onset of a migraine of gargantuan proportions.

However, I am determined not to hang up, it took me twenty minutes to connect with any sign of the living in the first place. I ponder have I been mistakenly transferred to the mortuary? Just as I am putting the finishing touches to my epitaph and last will and testament, Mrs. Anonymous receptionist returns.

We wish we could help you

‘As far as I know Mr. X’s secretary has a bad cold. She may be back by Thursday, I can’t say for sure,’ she tells me.
My heart bleeds for the secretary. I make a mental note to send her flowers.
‘And what am I supposed to do in the meantime. What about my lump?’ I demand sulkily.
‘I wish I could help you. I’m afraid you have to wait till she comes back,’ she says solemnly.
‘What? Until Thursday? I’m on my mobile phone. It will cost me an arm and a leg to hold on that long, what if I die?’ I point out ‘it’s hardly a life threatening illness she has, its just a little sniffle for Gods sake!’
‘Can you please hold. I have to take another call,’ she says abruptly and I am left holding again. I am furious. I had desperately wanted to tell the anonymous voice that she too could be soon facing a life threatening illness if I ever managed to get my hands on her.

Another ten minutes of Michael Flatfoot and I am beginning to show alarming signs of ‘Riverdanceitus’. My head is jerking spasmodically and my feet are beginning to tap frantically without my permission. I decide I might as well have my daily nap while I am waiting. At 4p.m. I am brought back to consciousness by the sound of another woman’s voice.

‘Hello?’ she is yelling down the phone ‘is that the private hospital?’
Great. A crossed line. A strike up a conversation with Mary whose husband is waiting three years for a heart transplant. She spends most of her days trying to get through to the hospital and has moved the kitchen and bedroom out to the hall where the phone is. She claims it’s more comfortable. We come up with an elaborate plan. If either of us sees an ambulance going less than 50 miles per hour, we’ll thrown ourselves mercilessly under it. When the driver gets out, we’ll ambush him and knock him out with some ether. She promises me, if she gets lucky first she’ll mill around to Kilbarrack and drive me straight to casualty. By the time I’m finished talking to her I know the ins and outs of her thirty-year marriage and that grapes are a great remedy for piles. I in exchange, have promised to send photos of the kids by scanner on the e-mail.

A click, and anonymous is back.

Ambulances

‘Hello? You’re holding for?’
I reiterate my story.
She vaguely remembers me.
‘I’m sorry but if there was anything I could do for you I would,’ she says whilst yawning heavily in to my swollen ear.
‘Would it help if I hacked off my legs and called an ambulance, surely that’s an emergency?’ I suggest in desperation.
‘I doubt it,’ she sighs ‘we already have an epidemic of hacked off leg patients and the ambulance men have copped on,’ she informs me matter of factly.
‘What if I drove in myself, in my own car?’ I ask.
‘How could you, with no legs? Unless you have a friend who is willing to drive you?’ she says.
Massive intelligence. I’ll give her that.
The line suddenly goes dead.

It doesn’t matter, I say to myself. I conclude I have already contracted cancer from the mobile phones radiation waves. After all, it’s been stuck to my ears for three hours.

By the way, please note that all the above characters are completely and utterly fictitious. As is the notion of private medical health care insurance in Ireland.

Click here for more information on cancer from The Irish Cancer Society

Posted by damien at 01:24 PM | Comments (0)

February 01, 2005

Irish Girls About Town

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Posted by suzanne at 04:30 PM | Comments (0)

Who is Catherine Barry?

Can looking good on the outside, heal the inside? This is the basic question which drove Irish author Catherine Barry to explore the modern fascination with plastic surgery...

‘The world is obsessed with the outer person, with shows like 'Extreme Makeover' and 'The Swan' making people believe that they can change who they are and heal all the hurt in their lives, if only they had a smaller nose/bigger boobs/whatever,’ says Catherine.

‘That’s what I wanted to explore in Skin Deep. The idea that my heroine, Finn, could be happy and erase all the bad things that have happened to her, if only she goes under the knife.’

Writing about inner scars is Catherine Barry’s trademark. This Dublin-born writer says she loved reading as a child. She contributes this to her fathers love of literature, who took her to the local library every week. Her passion for writing was born. However, in the great tradition of writers says, ‘I didn’t think I could write a book…I was undisciplined and lazy...it still amazes me to this day that I am a novelist! Poetry had been my first love. I had many poems and short stories published before I even considered trying to write a book. Poetry is and always will be a great love of mine, it was my way of expressing myself, my way of finding my own voice, something I felt I hadn't had,'

It was only when her two children were a little older and she was raising them as a single parent, that she decided to start writing novels.
‘I had two kids under 6 and was working as an administrative assistant and never had a moment to myself but…I started to write at the kitchen table. I found that I loved it. I’d always been involved in writer’s groups, and had kept a diary since I was seven,’

That book was 'The House That Jack Built', a searing tale of one woman’s battle with alcoholism that The Irish Times called ‘a gutsy, raw debut from a very promising new author,'

‘I couldn’t believe it,’ says Catherine. ‘One moment I was dreaming of being published, the next, I had a publishing deal. It all happened very quickly,'

She followed that first book with 'Null and Void', a novel detailing the pain that’s left when a marriage breaks down, yet in typical fashion, Catherine decided to focus on the unexplored, the 'spiritual' angle and effects of marriage breakdown. The novel takes us on a journey through the often bizarre and much misunderstood process of the 'Catholic Annulment'

'I was sick and tired of reading about divorce/separation. The courts, the solicitors, the financial angle. I had already been through the Catholic Annulment process and just HAD to write about it, there's so much more to marriage breakdown than the legal aspect,' says Barry.

Catherine also writes short stories, notably, the widely acclaimed 'The 28th Day', (Irish Girls About Town)

Catherine also writes periodically for newspapers & magazines and is an established and published poet.

While Skin Deep examines the current trends in obsession with outer image, Catherine is currently working on a novel that looks at the increasingly dysfunctional world we live in today. 'Madly in Love’ blends Catherine's wit and acute observance of flawed people, as she examines one woman's journey through a stay in one of Ireland’s modern psychiatric hospitals.

'I suppose the core theme of 'Madly in love' is about loneliness, it seems to me, that more and more people are booking themselves in to these 'luxury hotel type' retreats. They call them convalescing homes I think...I call them what they are, psychiatric hospitals,' she says bluntly 'I mean you have to ask, why is this happening? I can't help feeling that the greatest need in this world at the moment is for one human being to truly LISTEN to another, sadly this seems to be lacking in modern day living, hence our hospital beds are full.

People are sick with depression and eating disorders and addiction and so on. Deep down, every human being needs to be loved and nurtured. Isn't it a sign of the times when we have everything we could possibly want and need, yet more and more people are turning to these kind of facilities to get some nurturing? I feel that's terribly sad,' she says thoughtfully. 'But as with all my novels, I add a huge amount of light and laughter to what are difficult and thorny subjects, the way I see it, tragedy is funny in a bizarre kind of way, isn't it?' she asks with a hint of a smile.

Catherine Barry is as passionate about community issues as she is about her writing 'We can't keep taking from this planet, we have to give something back to our society, if everybody did a little bit, what a nicer place this world would be!' she says. She currently works for an organisation that assists lone parent families. She has worked previously with long term unemployed people and has a great interest in modern day current affairs and politics.

Catherine lives on the Northside of Dublin with her two children, Davitt and Caitriona, and her two cats, Billy and Jacque.

Catherine is available for interviews.

Posted by damien at 01:17 PM | Comments (0)

Skin Deep - Chapter One

From a very early age I refused to use my Christian name. My mother had seen it only right and fitting to christen me with a name that was truly cruel. I dealt with it as best I could. I simply insisted my name was Finn. Everybody called me Finn, and if they didn’t, they soon learned to.

Chapter One

I chose the name Finn, because some of the kids had nick named me that. It sounded cool and I didn’t know of any other Finns and that was the final deciding factor. It was different, and I wanted to be different. I was Finn O’ Farrell as far as everybody was concerned. I had kept my secret well hidden. In fact, I had almost forgotten my real name, until the day I did the interview for the Credit Union and my cover was blown for good. I had really wanted this permanent position. I wanted it real bad.

The last job interview I had done was a complete waste of time. It was for a sales position in the basement of a second-hand bookstore in a tenement building on Marlboro Street. The pay was pathetic and the place smelled of mouse droppings and mouldy sawdust. The Manager had chirpily tried to rope me in with the amazing perk of having 33% off all books. Great, I had thought to myself, now let me get this straight. You pay me £100 a week and I buy all your crappy books with 33% off which will probably leave me with about £30 after tax? Yes, he had nodded excitedly. No extra points for figuring out what I told him to do with his ‘amazing perks’.

I didn’t hold out much hope for the Credit Union job either. For one, I gave a really poor performance from the minute I parked my butt in the seat opposite my future Manager, Mark Adams.
‘So. You live locally I see?’ he raised an eyebrow at me as he perused my two-page curriculum vitae.

Actually it was really only one page. I had double-spaced everything to make it look more impressive. No matter how hard I tried I just couldn’t disguise the employment history section, which boasted a solitary three-week period of employment at McDonald’s in Grafton Street. I had been fired rather abruptly when a customer complained they had choked on some foreign object discreetly embedded in their Big Mac.

It turned out to be a false nail, which I had been trying to glue on my forefinger, in between flipping 100% pure Irish Beef burgers and wrenching the lever of the milkshake machine clean off its writhing and shuddering metal body. There was more writhing and shuddering as I refused to leave. I gave in resentfully when a security guard who looked distinctly like the guy out of the movie “The green Mile” offered to escort me out of the premises.

‘Yes. Actually your Credit Union is only about a fifteen-minute walk from my flat,’ I beamed.
‘Well, that certainly helps. We like to employ local people, if at all possible,’ Mark Adams smiled.
I smiled back, hoping he wouldn’t notice I wasn’t a local.
So far so good.
He peered again at the c.v. and took in a deep breath.
‘So, Finn?’ he looked at me.
‘Yes. That’s my name,’ I replied.
‘Yes. That’s what it says here,’ he confirmed, looking from me to the c.v.

‘Well, actually Finn isn’t my real name,’ I blurted suddenly. What if he asked for my birth cert and found out I was lying?
‘Oh?’ he asked looking puzzled.
‘It’s a little difficult to explain…’ I started ‘you see my real name is Fainche,’ I cringed. (Fawncha)
‘Oh?’ he nodded nonchalantly.
‘Yes, it’s a bit of a mouthful, that’s why my friends call me Finn. Have done ever since I was little’ I tried to wriggle out of the inevitable.
‘Fainche eh? A most unusual name,’ he commented.
A fucking infliction, I thought.
‘Is it Irish?’ he enquired.
‘Yes, it is,’ I squirmed.
‘Mmm’ He rubbed his chin. ‘What does it mean? I mean does it have an English translation?’
‘Yes, it does,’ now I wished that I had never mentioned the damn thing.
‘And what is it?’ He waited.
Long pause.
‘Fanny,’ I cringed.
I mean there’s just no way of saying it nice. It’s like other curse words. They sound so aggressive and loud. Mark Adams recoiled slightly, I could see the struggle between his mouth and his brain to try and remain serious and dignified.
‘Excuse me?’ he coughed.
‘It means Fanny!’ It came out crass and uncouth again.
I couldn’t help it. I felt certain the job opportunity was ruined anyway so it didn’t really matter what I said now. I blathered on trying to explain why my mother had lost her marbles and called me a name that pertained to a vagina.

‘You see it originated from the name of two saintly Irish virgins, one the sister of St. Enda of Aran, and patroness of Rossory, on Lough Erne, whose feast was kept on the 1st January. I’ve no idea why my mother chose it because I wasn’t born on the 1st of January or anything; in fact I was born in April. But my brothers, I have two brothers by the way, two of them were born in January so I suppose she might have had them in mind when she did it. Anyway, the other patroness of Cluain-caoi, in the neighbourhood of Cashel, was venerated on the 21st of the same month. What that has to do with anything is about as obvious to me as the visions of our lady crying blood in Mount Mellary. That’s the gist of it anyway,’ I finished.
Then without warning, I let out a robust and definitely unplanned burp. The kind that has a little one tapering off at the end of it, like the little spaceship following the Mammy and Daddy spaceship around the bend in the film “Close encounters of the third kind”
For fuck sake Finn…

‘Excuse me. I’m very sorry’ I drew my hand to my mouth in horror. It always happened to me when I was nervous. Why did it have to happen now in the middle of a very important interview? I was so embarrassed and annoyed at my own body. Mark Adams stared at me, a kind of bewildered glaze settling over his eyes. I was certain he was reaching under the table for the panic button when he stunned me into silence with his next question.
‘Can you do that at will?’ He leaned over the desk earnestly.
‘I beg your pardon?’ I asked.
‘Can you do that, you know when you want to, or does it happen by accident?’
‘Which? The burping or the inability to stop talking?’
‘The…’ he gestured to his throat.
‘Oh that. Yes, I can do it at will actually, but I don’t usually. That one for instance was completely involuntary. My brothers taught me how to do it properly, you know like from deep down inside.’
I heard my own voice begin to quiver. I was making a complete fool of myself. ‘God, I’m sorry, going on like that look, thank you for your time, I’m sure you’ve better things to be doing’ I felt the blood rush to my face. I had ruined it. I couldn’t possibly do anything else wrong. I was ready to leave and quietly crawl into some corner and die with the humiliation.
‘It’s no problem. Wait till you hear the others. Dessie holds the record at the moment,’ he smiled. Then he pressed a buzzer and I heard him call in someone. I assumed I was being accompanied to the door again. There was no need. I would make my own way out this time.
A small blond guy stepped into the room. I could tell he wasn’t blond at all because he sprouted very dark roots. He looked like a cross between a bale of hay and a Tesco’s multi purpose Vileda mop. He smiled, exposing the clearly marked absence of one front tooth. If it hadn’t been for the missing tooth, he might have done well as an extra in “Rosie and Jim”.
‘Dessie,’ Mark Adams smiled ‘This is Fainch…’ He paused ‘Miss Finn O’ Farrell,’ he corrected himself politely.
‘Yo,’ Dessie nodded, chewing methodically on something. He had a glazed expression, like the lights were on but there was no one at home.
‘I think you two will find you have a lot in common,’ Mark Adams smirked.
Dessie looked me up and down. I wasn’t sure where all this was going but I knew where I was going the minute it was over. I was going straight to the pub.
‘Finn, can you type?’ Mark Adams winked at me. He was smiling now.

I wondered was this all part of the interview process. Were they pulling a fast one on me to see was I game for a laugh. Perhaps I was on Candid Camera? I peered around the office looking for the hidden lens and gave one of my best smiles just in case.
‘Yes, I…’
‘Can you file?’ Dessie butted in.
‘Yes, of course I can,’ I confirmed.
‘Have you handled cash before?’ Mark Adams wanted to know.
‘Yes,’ I nodded.
‘Marvellous, bloody marvellous,’ Mark Adams said wearily.
‘What’s marvellous?’ Dessie asked. Then he stared at me with that dumb hair and vacant eyes. I decided he was a true fart of an individual.
‘Dessie, I want you to train in Finn, like yesterday. Can you put in some extra hours?’ Mark Adams asked, exhaling urgently.
‘Sure’ Dessie smiled at me.
I smiled back.
Dessie stood there chewing away.
‘That’s all, Dessie. You’re excused,’ Mark Adams said, slightly irritated now.
‘Yo,’ Dessie said exiting.
‘Finn, you’re in,’ Mark Adams said, standing up and extending a hand.
‘You’re having me on,’ I choked.
‘Well, I’ve looked over your c.v. You can type, you can talk, and if you don’t mind the odd burp from your fellow workers then you’re the one for the job,’ he finished.
‘Right,’ I smiled, stupefied.
‘Welcome to the Credit Union’ He shook my hand vigorously, and that was how it began.

That was how I landed in Dublin, wide-eyed and destitute, bar a packed lunch. I had come ‘up from the country’ as they say, from a small rural suburb. I was used to small town rules and small town ambitions. I ached to be free of it, to taste the wildness and freedom of a big city. My life had taken a turn for the best. Things were looking up. I was so happy in the job. So delighted to have some new friends. I had parties to go to, shopping sprees to indulge in. I had choices. It was such a relief to be away from the stunted narrow-minded views of my family and neighbours back home.
I had money in my pocket. I had a bank account. I had museums and cinemas and theatres to visit. But, most of all, I had freedom, an abundance of freedom. I hardly knew what to do with it.

I had managed to get a small flat on the North Circular Road. The move had acutely clipped my spatial square footage, as I was used to lots of room back home. The flat was cramped and pokey but it was a small price to pay in comparison to the explosion of my inner world. At last, I was able to expedite without limit or constraint. As far as I was concerned, Finn O Farrell had arrived and she was never going back home, not ever.

Oh. It was all so perfect! Life was exciting and new and fresh as a daisy. It was just dandy! I was in seventh heaven! I never entertained the thought that some day it might change. No. Life was peachy. Life was a breeze. That is, until the day a young lady by the name of burst on to our television screens, and fucked it all up.

Click on the picture to buy the book!

Posted by damien at 08:39 AM | Comments (0)