Heart Beat: This time of year the working world seems far away. It somehow does not appear to be the time for engaging with serious matters, political or medical.
My initial purpose in recounting the story of a surgical life seems to me to be more pertinent at a time when the evenings are drawing in and I can let memory range freely by the fireside.
In other words, I am still rusticating and unable to work up a head of steam about waiting lists, hospital beds, children's hospitals, medical budgets or any of the myriad other items that shall surely assume increasing significance with the shortening days.
Here in Kerry we are in what may be described as the prodromal period before Puck. The festival was even opened officially by the Minister last week. It doesn't matter what Minister, they'll all be opening anything countrywide over the next year. If you have a new dog kennel, somebody will do the job for you. Aren't they all very decent folk?
Puck Fair is an integral part of life in this area. It is a reference point of existence. An inquiry about a seriously ill friend is answered by: "he'll be lucky to see Puck"; a sporting event is dated the week after Puck.
I have written of this before but always after the event. This time I am mentioning it before to give notice to those who would like to experience it. Come and see for yourselves. Enter into the spirit of the event and if you are human, you will not be disappointed.
"And the night shall be filled with music
And the cares that infest the day
Shall fold their tents like the Arabs
And silently fade away." - (Longfellow)
Well, maybe it's not exactly like that, but it's near enough.
This train of thought was prompted by an instruction from the Highest Source that I should visit the local bottle bank before Puck. Said bottle bank is located at the Fair Field in Killorglin and will be entirely unapproachable when the mayhem commences.
Accordingly, since I am held to be the expert at this particular task, I am about to undertake this recycling expedition. I must express my gratitude to the Highest Source for acknowledging my pre-eminence in this field and its related discipline of rubbish disposal. I get negative marks in just about everything else.
A colleague, who works in an STD (sexually transmitted diseases) unit, told me that there was a certain etiquette among the patients. They tended to give each other plenty of space and it was not the done thing to make eye contact or express interest in another's doings.
It is a bit like that on visits to the bottle bank which, for the sake of clarity, also accepts aluminium cans. I would point out lest you think we are all raving alcoholics, that there are also lots of non-alcoholic bottles and jars to be disposed of.
A lengthy and leisurely visit is out of the question. Such is contemplated by passers-by with the same kind of tolerant indulgence once reserved for those who spent an inordinate time in the confessional. What was he/she up to?
Was he/she really drinking that much? No, this visit has to be planned like a military exercise, and resolution and speed are essential components. Having loaded all your ammunition into a black plastic bag, you make your initial reconnaissance. If the facility is busy you await your opportunity and then spring into action. Without appearing too furtive you head straight for your objective. Meet nobody's eye and work with speed and deliberation. Green glass, clear glass, brown glass and cans are dealt with methodically.
Finally you turn away, mission accomplished, and dispose of the final evidence - the black plastic bag. You head for the safety of the car, and just then a voice speaks: "Ye must have had a great party altogether". Looking up, you see two lady pillars of the golf club smiling at you. Repercussions from the Highest Source: "Can you do anything properly?" This is delivered in a tone that answers its own question.
It's not all bad, however, and I seem to be developing a talent with the vacuum cleaner, or so I am told. After a lifetime of surgery it is nice to think you are capable of something else. Actually I am unnecessarily self-deprecating because apparently I also have a talent for emptying the dishwasher and I am close to being trusted to hang things on the clothes line.
On the other hand, certain matters are beyond my limited scope. I am never allowed to carve. I must apologise to my many patients over the years for entertaining the notion that I was good at it. The Highest Source states categorically that I am useless at carving. Sorry about that.
I must add at this point that wrenching my back on the Skelligs trip was regarded with grave suspicion and simply as an excuse to avoid gardening. Such suspicion was heightened by my ability to be able to play golf; my explanation that different muscle groups were involved was treated with derision.
Gardening itself would be way beyond me, but I might have some limited ability as an agricultural labourer.
There it is, I have been complaining again. I haven't even wondered if the tent in Galway where all the happy campers have been disporting themselves possesses its own bottle bank (a better class of bottle of course). Does the Chief Elf get to fill it? Or is it the other way round?
Maurice Neligan is a cardiac surgeon.