Heart BeatIt seems appropriate given the time of year to describe the mysterious, indeed other worldly, happenings in our phantom health service. No fireworks or sparkling illuminations, no rockets striving for the heights, rather a dismal series of damp squibs and failed spells.
Fireworks, of course, and bonfires are banned in the Republic. We're great for looking after everybody's welfare (except of course the poor folk on trolleys and waiting lists). I wonder how the young folk in the North can manage the odd firework, and yet ours can't.
I always liked Halloween. As a youngster levying tribute from the neighbours was an integral part of the festivities. I suppose it was an early form of protection money for them, of the "mind your car mister" variety. Skeletons, ghosts, headless horsemen were all part of the action. God help my innocence, I even thought witches and broomsticks were of the same genre until I grew up and found they were for real.
I looked forward especially to the contraband fireworks bought in Moore St and Mary St and which, in the absence of the Health and Safety Authority, we managed to ignite successfully and without spreading desolation all around us. Now the fireworks are smuggled in from the North along with cigarettes and whatever coloured diesel we're not allowed to have.
You have to hand it to us. Along with such antisocial drugs as heroin, cocaine and marijuana, we've actually constructed a criminal black market in fags. What about alcohol next, folks? Let's be a world leader again and ban its sale. We could call it prohibition!
I am getting carried away again. I was just about to propose a stealth tax on breathing. Just a token you understand, say a cent a breath. Think of the money that would raise. We could double the numbers of Ministers, TDs and senators and double their pay as well. There might even be a few shillings left over to do something useful.
The other day I was turning into that bastion of iniquity, the Blackrock Clinic, when the Devil issued from the front door. He was the real thing, horns, cloven hooves, tail and clutching some sort of trident. He might have been a trifle overweight. I wondered if this might be a version of the Samara story and immediately averted my eyes and hurriedly crossed the road. Maybe He wasn't looking for me at all. I felt like I was in Coleridge's Ancient Mariner;
"Like one that on a lonesome road
Did walk in fear and dread
And having once turned round walks on
And turns no more his head
Because he knows a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread."
No such luck; "Maurice" the apparition called. I desperately wondered which of my late friends, in receipt of their just deserts, this could be. "Do you not recognise me?" asked the apparition.
I ventured a covert glance. "Jesus, Willie, what are you doing dressed up like that? You frightened the wits out of me." Doubt returned. "You're still alive, are you? "(I haven't been reading the back pages of The Irish Times).
"Of course I'm still alive," he responded testily. "I'm attending the HSE's Halloween fancy dress party and I'm going as a consultant. The Minister is to be the guest of honour and the theme is 'trick or treat'. I suppose it's trick really as there are no signs of any treating.What do you think of my outfit," he asked. "It looks pretty authentic," I replied. He continued: "It sounds like a lot of fun. The Minister is going to come in on a comfortable hospital trolley surrounded by the PD parliamentary party." He paused: "Do you think I should bring a microscope?
"The bonus warriors of the HSE are going to come dressed as a series of dead white elephants, led by that Prof Gong or whatever his name is. Do you remember something called the Department of Health?" he asked
"Vaguely," I replied. "In old God's time; don't tell me they still exist?" "Apparently they do," he said; "casting spells and planning; but there's a major problem in the Department."
"What's that?" I asked. He looked very uncomfortable. "If I tell you, won't you keep my name out of it? I don't want to wind up breaking rocks with your editor up in that Thornton Hall place," he says. "They need a Bull's Notion for the spell to fix the health service and they haven't got one; mind you they're very rare. There's even a rumour that Bertie hasn't got one either.
"It looks like a great party. There's going to be a marvellous game of ghosties and ghoulies. The GPs are going to be chased by the ghosties and the consultants are going to be grabbed by the ghoulies. There's also going to be a game of ducking the doctor and there are going to be nuts of every variety and as much Galway water as you can drink. Then each doctor is to be given a bag of Mickey Mouse money and a shiny new contract. I can hardly wait," he said.
"I'll be sorry to miss that," I said. "I wonder why they didn't ask me. You needn't worry about your name being disclosed; isn't there a whistleblower's charter?"
"I think that only applies to people complaining about doctors," he said. "You're not supposed to notice anything odd about the dealings of the High Elves. I'm surprised your editor didn't know that Kipling bit about, 'watch the wall my darling while the gentlemen go by'."
When I woke, it was raining, and having heard the news I wondered about a lay majority for the legal profession. I suppose a lay group to oversee the Dáil is out of the question?
Maurice Neligan is a cardiac surgeon.