'Tis the season when the memory sprouts

Christmases past spent operating on overfull intestines have stuck in the mind

Christmases past spent operating on overfull intestines have stuck in the mind

I SUSPECT that this particular Christmas will be remembered as the one when a lot of supposed Irish adults awoke to find that Santa Claus didn't exist. Two days before the feast is not the time to dwell upon this gloomy fact, so let us compose ourselves and be determinedly cheerful.

Heap on more wood!

The wind is chill;

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But let it whistle as it will,

We'll keep our Christmas

merry still

- (Sir Walter Scott; Marmion)

Easy on the Yule logs Sir Walter, in this year of grace such behaviour would bring some jihadist out of the woodwork screaming about global warming. I recently read about some serious proponent of doomsday who objected to Sir David Bellamy's involvement with the Burren on the grounds that he was unsound about global warming! Mother Ireland is rearing them yet.

Christmas is coming,

The geese are getting fat,

Please put a penny

In the old man's hat

If you haven't got a penny,

A ha'penny will do,

If you haven't got a ha'penny,

Then God bless you.

It strikes me, sadly, that God may be needed for a lot of blessings this Christmas. The geese may well be thinner, the hams may be non-existent, but at least the turkeys abound for those who can afford them.

Before I move on to the turkeys a word of warning about the above nursery rhyme; if the old man with the hat even waves it at you it might be construed as begging with menaces and he would be liable to a fine of €700, or a month in jail. He might, in fact, prefer this to sleeping on the streets, as increasing numbers of our people are doing in these increasingly difficult times.

Ah well, we must be magnanimous in this time and wish him the compliments of the season, understanding, of course, that he and his mates should push off and not be bothering the rest of us. We don't want the likes of him testing our principles, or pricking our blunt collective conscience.

With some medical friends recently I remembered Christmases past. In the Mater there was always a big crib in the front hall and everybody did their best to make those marooned in hospital feel part of the festivities.

Those able and willing and with somewhere to go were discharged to homes and families and the good Sisters and nurses and resident doctors looked after the rest. The medical and nursing staffs were drawn from the area immediately around Dublin; those from further afield were released to spend Christmas at home, at new year this was reversed.

As a Dubliner I felt we got the better of the bargain as Christmas was usually quieter. On Christmas Day we endeavoured to cover for one another to allow everybody to get home for a few hours with their families and often we brought those with no Irish home and indeed from traditions and religions that did not celebrate the feast, home with us. Far from their own families, they became honorary members of ours. It was the unwritten rule that we all returned to the residence to dine and celebrate together.

Climbing the ladder through the grades of non-consultant doctor brought changes in Christmas duties. The more senior you became the more likely you were to be on call and the more likely it was that you would actually have to operate on Christmas Day.

The fruits of overindulgence usually provided the patients and perforated duodenal ulcers left you with the task of removing sprouts and pieces of turkey from the abdominal cavity and sewing over the perforation and restoring a sorrier patient to bed. One memorable year I had four of these in succession from 6pm to 2am on St Stephen's day.

The next Christmas for me came after marriage and exile to the NHS. There was a very well-established Residents' Mess in the Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Birmingham where I had arrived to train further in cardiac surgery.

I had found what I felt to be a fine apartment relatively close to the hospital. The Highest Authority thought otherwise and ever since has regaled friends with chilling descriptions of hovel living across the Irish Sea. That being said, these were happy and fulfilling years and we made many friends who are with us to this day.

Happy Christmas to you all.

• Maurice Neligan is a cardiac surgeon