HEART BEAT: I have, appropriately enough for the time of year, re-read Oliver St John Gogarty's book I follow St Patrick. Interestingly enough, it makes no reference to shamrock, writes Maurice Neligan
Some of my earliest recollections of the day involved the collection of large clumps of the trefoil, which were then pinned to our coats. There were invariably arguments about the authenticity of the botanical collections - "that's not shamrock, that's clover".
The ultimate cop-out however, quite beyond the pale of civilised behaviour, was the purchase of a St Patrick's Day badge. This drew opprobrium and derision from all contemporaries.
I also remember that it was always freezing cold and that the day itself was no big deal in Dublin. This latter fact amazed the visitors who had travelled here for the occasion. I wonder if any of them ever paid a return visit.
Like many of us I have since spent the day in foreign parts, where paradoxically the sense of occasion is far greater, and were it not for the story of the Pascal fire, which I suppose had to be included, I feel that St Patrick should have had the foresight to come in late May, thereby extending the tourist season.
This year I was in London and the freezing bit held true alright, but a heart-warming bonus was provided at Twickenham, where the low swinging chariot crash landed on the Fields of Athenry. It was some day to be Irish.
I had described briefly my intern year in the Mater and how, after its completion, I had moved to the Bon Secours hospital in Glasnevin as the resident medical officer.
This was a major change. The frenetic bustle of the big busy hospital with its "alarums and excursions" was noticeably absent. Things were slower and more measured and there was relatively little emergency work.
Nearly all admissions, medical or surgical, were elective, and consultants from most of the main Dublin hospitals used the facility. In theory I was to be available for emergencies only; in practice I spent as much time as possible with the different surgeons in the operating theatres.
Some I knew already from the Mater, others I had never met before. Somewhat to my surprise I discovered that these were competent surgeons and that, moreover, they did not have two heads.
It was a friendly hospital and the sisters were kindness itself. In the beginning, however, there was a certain loneliness and I missed the camaraderie of the previous group. However, the two doctors with whom I had studied for years before our finals had also chosen a surgical career and we resolved to join forces once more to face the latest exam hurdle. This was a great comfort and gave a semblance of life as before.
Raymond Carroll became a consultant urologist in Manchester, was my best man when I married and has remained a lifelong friend. I sat with him in Twickenham last week.
Tom Brennan from Dundalk became a very distinguished surgeon in Leeds and trained many Irish surgeons over the years. Both were examiners to the Royal College of Surgeons. Sadly Tom died last year and surgery lost a truly noble soul. Apart from the studies of course, we had to work.
I remember looking after an elderly American gentleman, who constantly told me that his insurance per day was more than he was being charged by the week. I was assured of great reward on discharge. The day finally came and as I helped load him into the ambulance, he gave me an envelope. "I didn't know what would be appropriate," he said, "so I asked Sister Brimstone and she told me you would really appreciate this."
Opening the envelope in my room, I discovered that I had been given a mass for every day of the year. I immediately felt better.
The same Sister came to my aid on Halloween night. I had been called to a surgical patient who was bleeding after a gastrectomy earlier that day. I tracked the surgeon down to a Dublin restaurant and passed on this clearly unwelcome news. There was a short silence, then he said, "my gastrectomies never bleed", and he put down the phone. "What did he say?" asked the good Sister. I told her. "Give me the phone," she said and she redialled.
"Mr Bloggs, this is Sister Brimstone from the Bons. You have just been rude to our doctor and your patient is bleeding. If you are not here in 30 minutes we will get another surgeon to deal with the emergency. Needless to say, your privileges will be revoked."
"Wow!" I thought, that's power. He arrived all right, but it was like operating at the North Pole while watching a silent movie.
On rounds with Dublin's best known ob/gynae consultant, he said: "Sister I don't know what to do with you," to the elderly nun in the bed. "I don't know if you should have a hysterectomy or I could try a repair. I think we should seek guidance." He knelt down on one side of the bed; she scrambled out and knelt on the other. I semi crouch in the doorway thinking this really can't be happening. He rose and said: "The hysterectomy would be best."
"Did you get guidance, professor?" she asked.
"Say no more Sister," he replied.
At the end of the round he presented me with a typewritten list of the operations for the morrow. Heading it was: Sister Conniption- hysterectomy. It was more than just the books I was learning.
Maurice Neligan is a cardiac surgeon.