Me and Michael D

There’s some nice perks to my job – but there’d need to be.  Working for a local authority is tough at times, with Joe, or Josephine Bloggs channeling their frustrations about ‘the Council’/’the system’, or indeed, the world on you, as a public face of the organisation.  An invitation arrived on my desk recently.  ‘The OPW and The Royal Parks, London invites you to the launch of ‘Parks, Our Shared Heritage’ an exhibition showcasing three centuries of history at these magnificent Parks.  Farmleigh Gallery, Phoenix Park. 

The exhibition was to be opened by President Michael D Higgins.

Sold.

I’ve always been a fab of Michael D.  I don’t remember when I became aware of his existence, but when I did, I was struck by this uber intelligent man speaking passionately and unapologetically about the arts and culture.  Music to my ears.  

Seven years ago this week, Michael D travelled to Athy to launch the Athy Film Club in Athy College. Hearing him speak with pride about his contribution to film development in Ireland was a reminder that people, politicians can, and do, make a difference.  He obliged me again, in the run up to his Presidential election, when he launched the Kildare Readers Festival in Newbridge.  There, he was presented with the ‘Dara Bronze’, a limited edition coin, designed by Mary Gregoiry and commissioned by Kildare County Council, in recognition of his contribution to the cultural life of the country.  The coin had previously been awarded to Dermot Earley.

In 2010, I was part of the organising committee of a conference in Limerick University ‘25/25 Arts and Culture in Local Development’, with the lovely Monica Corcoran and Sheila Deegan.  It was one of the most stressful projects I had been involved with, mainly because there were so many partners attached.  The day before the conference, we got word that the then Minister for Environment, John Gormley would not be joining us at the conference dinner in Thomond Park to formally open the conference.  We didn’t get an explanation, but there was Trouble in Dail Paradise at the time.  I got on the bat phone to Jack Wall, then Labour TD in South Kildare and asked (pleaded) if he could get us Michael D instead and that he did.  Bless your red socks Jack. 

I phoned Michael D who advised that he was launching a book in Kildare Street, Dublin at 6pm the following evening, but he hoped to be with us by the time dessert was being served in Limerick.  No pressure like.  I can’t say that I tasted any of the food I ate that evening, clock watching, as we looked over the rugby grounds, but true to his word, the Bat Mobile driver got Michael D to Thomond Park, just as the pavlova was being licked from the bowls.  Calm as anything.  He was on crutches, having broken his kneecap in a fall, while on a humanitarian mission in Columbia.  He later joked about his ‘famous Colombian knee’.  Some of the officials were concerned about how we would get Michael D on stage, without drawing attention to his injury.  With a link of my arm and a quick hoosh, he was good to go.  His speech was spot on.  He ‘got’ arts officers, understood the complexity of what we do within the complex local government structure and spoke with knowledge and understanding about the Arts Council and the cultural landscape in Ireland.  It was powerful, funny and emotional.  The day was saved.

Time moved on and Michael D was elected as President of Ireland.  

My then toddler son was playing with my work phone one Saturday morning.  Through my half-sleep, I heard the phone beep and I knew he had sent a text message.  It read ‘snfowqu4-dnlj1 u470r9’ and was delivered to Michael D Higgins. It was 7.34am.  I didn’t get a text back.

Notwithstanding this, My Boy has always had a curiosity with the President.  Both my children have met various elected representatives, while attending events with me and can see that they are accessible.  He knows the President is in that pool of people and doesn’t see why we can’t just knock on the door of Aras an Uachtarain and say ‘how’s it goin?’ when we are at the Zoo. 

The children didn’t have to be asked twice if they wanted to come to the exhibition launch in Farmleigh with me.  The Boy wanted to know if he needed to ‘wear a suit to meet the President’.  ‘You do’, I said, seeing this as an opportunity to upgrade his bland wardrobe.  50% off the Paul Costello communion/confirmation range at Doon-A’s Boutique, and he was suited and booted.

 

Over excitement on the day and not liking change, The Boy had a meltdown getting on the suits and boots.  Moving from beige chinos to suit trousers was a step too far and we compromised with grey chinos.  The jacket and suit were non-negotiable.  The Girl, usually glued into black leggings, thankfully didn’t resist her guna deas.  They brought pens and paper to get autographs for their friends.  I had the usual interrogation in the car journey. 

‘What does the D in Michael D stand for?’ ‘Where is his real house?’ ‘How small is he?’ 

The pair of them said that I was ‘embarrassing’ as I walked to Farmleigh, with my heels-high in my hand, ‘the guards are looking at you’.  ‘It’s my job to embarrass you, I’m your mother’, I said in defence, and ‘the Gardai are only admiring my dress’.

The exhibition was fabulous, but also jam packed.  Guest speaker was gastronome-turned-preservationist and Chairman of Hyde Park Lloyd Grossman.   The chances of meeting the Pres were looking slim, never mind the Q&A’s or the autographs.  After the speeches, I made a bee-line for the Pres, who was surrounded by people.  I patted nice-OPW-person on the shoulder and pointed to the two expectant faces.  ‘They’re only 9.  Would love to meet Michael D’.

Handing my camera to a random stranger, I introduced Michael D to the children.  He shook their hands and we got a rushed photograph, with little time for small talk – everyone in the room wanted a part of the President.

We meet Jack L and I tell him that the first event I attended at was an amazing concert with Jack and the National Concert Orchestra - It was part of the launch programme for Farmleigh, when the public were complaining that the State had bought and refurbished the facility, somehow missing that Farmleigh was for the public.

On the way home, the children agreed that Michael D wasn’t as short as they had expected. Disappointed that they didn’t get the presidential signature on paper, they discussed faking his signature,but decided against it.  

The Boy said ‘I don’t think he really remembered you Mam’, further deflating my delicate ego.  ‘Doesn’t matter son, I’ll immortalise ‘‘us’’ in a blog’

I Believe in the Easter Bunny

I was patting myself on the back for being organised for my Easter Sunday Hunt this year, while also adopting a new what-will-get-done-will-get-done attitude.  As a result, I decided against cleaning under the beds and washing the windows.  I resigned myself to the fact that my garden was overrun with dandelions, reminding myself that a ‘weed is just a flower in the wrong place’ and that there was only so much grass mowing I would get around to.

The main tasks got done though.  An almighty stash of chocolate, sweets and goodies for a clatter of children were purchased in dribs and drabs to ease the financial outlay.  My glamorous assistant, My Girl wrote out the list of invitees and counted out the number of attendees, if everyone invited came to the Hunt.  88 children, not including adults.  I only have one toilet.  And a Hobbit House.  And rain was forecast.  I breathed a sigh of relief when the ‘regrets’ came through and the expected number of guests halved. 

I brought my Mam from Co Meath so she could see what it was I was doing and to meet my ‘Athy friends’.  Easter could have been a lonely time for her.  Her sister Aine always came for dinner in my parents’ house on Easter Sunday, my Dad and herself sniping at each other over the roast, Mam keeping the peace in the middle and somehow, each of them enjoying the day.  Wherever their spirits are now, I’m sure they looked down on my Mam on the day, Queen Bee in the middle of the madness.

The night before, I was wrecked tired and knew I had to be up at the crack of dawn to do the last few bits of preparation.  Mam, as Guest of Honour, was promoted to my bed and I slept in with My Boy.  My Girl, with her friend on a sleepover, shared the bunks.   It was a proper Walton Family set up.  ‘G’night Jim Bob’.

But My Boy was having none of it.  It was Christmas Eve déjà vu, when he had a wibble over another hairy lad, Santa creeping around the house, but this time, it's the feckin’ Easter Bunny.  Thing is, I have never mentioned the Easter Bunny in the house and never ‘encouraged’ notions about him/it.  

Despite this, earlier that evening, My Girl had wondered aloud about what the Easter Bunny might bring.  I discouraged her, saying that the Easter Bunny would surely know how many sweets we had in the house and would pass us by (yes, Dear Reader, I had 100% forgotten to buy anything worthy of the EB).  She put on her strong-sense-of-injustice face and said ‘The Easter Bunny wouldn’t be THAT mean.  Most of what YOU bought is for OTHER children’.  Darn it.  Fair point, if you believe in the Bunny.  I could see by her face that she did.  I left the children in the care of their Nana and scoured the town looking for cheap, but fabulous eggs for my pair and the sleep-over-friend.  The only decent eggs left were e18.  I wasn’t feeling that generous.  I scrapped up a random selection of bits, buried them in a bag and headed for home.

Back to My Boy.  It was obvious that he too 100% believes in the rabbit.  As soon as the lights went off, the tears started, in the belief that soon after his eyelids closed, that a furry animal would be breathing over his head.  Two glasses of water, four trips to the toilet, multiple hugs, back massages and random stories later, My Boy was becoming more distraught.  The rest of the house meanwhile, was filled with peaceful sleeping sounds.  I too was getting distraught as I craved sleep.  I thought about spilling the beans on the Tooth Fairy/Santa/the Bunny there and then, but of course I didn't.  In the end, I told him that the Easter Bunny only wanted to make children happy and that the Bunny had made a deal with parents who knew their children would get upset with his visit - He had given the goodies to the parents for distribution instead.  For the first time in two hours, My Boy appeared calm.  ‘Really Mam?’ ‘Yes, really son’.  ‘Show me’.  I pulled a bag out of chocolate out of the cupboard and he helped me to display them on the table. Within minutes, we were both fast asleep.

On Easter Sunday morning, the children arose to see what treasures had been left for them.  The Boy marveled at the miniature golden eggs, wondering if they could be eaten, or if they were metal.  It was as if he was seeing them for the first time.  He told the girls that ‘The Easter Bunny is magic’. I look at him and see, that despite our discussion the night before, that he really believes too, or perhaps, has chosen to believe. 

There wasn’t much time to think about our overnight visitor after that.  By 11.00am, 40 children and their grown ups had descended on Poppy Cottage and are hard to contain.  By 11.05am, they scatter to every nook of the garden.  By 11.20am, the clothes line of popcorn packets was empty, the candy canes whipped from the fences, the marshmallow sticks, plucked from the ground.  The various tins dotted around the garden, emptied of their wares and the sherbet string jellies, no longer dangling from the trees.  Even the rain had disappeared.  The kettle was boiled and reboiled.  The smell of coffee wafted.  Cups washed and rewashed.  The trays of homemade cookies and cupcakes brought by friends wolfed down, with the croissants and pastries.  The recently scrubbed kitchen floor and bathroom floor now scattered with cut grass. No matter, clean dirt.  By 1pm, the visitors have said their goodbyes, heading off to family dinners and other celebrations; I make a Loaves and Fishes dinner for my mother, brother and family and we do a post mortem on proceedings.

My little, falling down Hobbit House is a testimony that it doesn’t matter what the bricks and mortar look like, just what you create with them.

A Game of Two Halves: The IFTA's and Croker

Mr Private has the privilege of spending Friday evening with me wrapped in a towel, smothered in fake tan and walking around like John Wayne until the lotion dried - A sight that my new squeeze could probably have done without seeing, now, or ever.  I break it to him on Thursday, that not alone am I working on Saturday morning, I will be abandoning him that evening, as I, quite frankly, got a better offer -  a much coveted, last minute, ticket for the Irish Film and Television Awards (IFTA’s).  He won’t be home alone though, as a carload of Kerry men are due to arrive, in advance of the Dublin V Kerry Football League Final the following day. 

Saturday morning, I have booked a hair and eyebrow appointment before I go to work.  I arrive at my meeting with a group of teenagers with ringlets a la Shirley Temple and eyebrows on fire.  I feel as self-conscious as the 15-year-olds look.  We discuss that we have to discuss and I vamoose, my curls starting to flop already. 

Mr Private encourages me to place a bet on the main race in The Grand National.  I go for the horse trained by Lucinda Russell, my nemesis of sorts, as my forename acquires that sneaky ‘D’ as least 3 times a week. I'm disappointed that I won't get to watch the race with Mr P, but my posh do awaits.

I get dressed for the IFTA’s in Mr Private’s house.  He’s standing at the bottom of his stairs when I saunter down in my guna nua, feeling like I’m off to my Debs, Pretty in Pink, with blushing cheeks to match as he takes my photograph and tells me that he is proud of me.  

I am accompanied to the IFTA’s by some of my best film buddies, two giants of men, in tuxedos.  They'd pass as my bodyguards, if I was a some one.  We walk up the red carpeted steps of the Mansion House in the glorious sunshine, as crowds of people and an army of photographers gather, to catch a glimpse of the Beautiful People.  The IFTA’s are MC’ed by Deirdre O’Kane and the show is super.   The Kildare interest in the IFTA’s are ‘Gridlock’, nominated for Best Short Film and Caoilfhionn Dunne, nominated for Best Actress in ‘In View’.  Neither win in their category, but the nominations are a huge boost for film promotion in the county and something that gives me great personal satisfaction.   Mr Private texts me and tells me that I have won e75 on the Grand National.  My scientific approach to gambling has paid off, go Lucinda.  Cinderella eventually leaves the ball and returns to a house full of mountain men, burning the midnight oil.

There are negotiations on the best route to Croke Park.  I direct Mr Private via my familiar haunts when I lived in Dublin.  Kilmainham, along the walls of the Phoenix Park, turning left up Infirmary Road, right onto the North Circular Road, past my old flat and O’Devaney Gardens where I worked.   No 63 NCR, my half way house for strays from Meath, en route to the airport, a concert, the Mater Hospital or looking for a flat.  The boys from O’Devaney that I tried to teach art to, but failed, mostly because their greater need was for a hot meal and a warm bed.  I think of A.C. one of my past pupils there, then a violent 16 year old.   A tall, handsome lad, who had bowel problems because no one ever bothered to toilet train him.  He couldn’t read or write either, but carved his initials everywhere.  Curious as to what had become of A.C. since those days, I Googled his name recently and found that he was doing a long stretch in Mountjoy Prison for Grievous Bodily Harm, that latent anger manifesting itself.

The Kerry men follow us up the NCR towards Phibsborough.  They phone Mr Private on the way, annoyed that there are no parking spaces available.  I regret suggesting the route and wishes that they had made their own way there.  Mr Private has lost the cool.  F’ing and blinding about Dublin and Ireland, comparing here to other European cities.  I feel like suggesting that Mr Private buys himself a one-way ticket out of ‘this shit hole’.  I retort saying, ‘The only thing wrong with the parking spaces that I suggested is that cars were already in them’.  The two-car entourage meander across the North Side and into a multi storey car park off Abbey Street.  Mr Private very nearly hits his very nice car off the very large, very yellow pillar.  He’s cursing again.  ‘It’s a pity the pillar wasn’t a bit bigger’, I quip and burst out laughing.  He's laughing now too. 

Kerry Man 1, Mr Private Junior is mumbling about a ‘better route’.  Kerry Man 2, the diplomat, says that he could see why I suggested that way.  Kerry Man 3 is smiling, keeping his head down and his hands in his pockets.   I’m relieved that we are not all sitting together in Croker.

Although we are freezing cold at the match, Mr Private has thawed out on me.  He’s tells me that he’s happy I’m there.  I’m glad that he is there too – our seats are so high in the Cusack Stand that I’m feeling dizzy and I need someone to cling onto.  Anto on my other side doesn’t look like he would take kindly to a non-Dub clutching his beefcake arm, although he is ‘bleedin’ poxy freezin’ too, wearing bleedin’ poxy shorts.  I wish he would stop roaring in my ear.  You would swear that ‘DeeeeannnnoooOOOO' was the only player on the pitch.

 

We are surrounded by a sea of uber-confident Dubs and the Kerry team needs all of the support they can muster, even from me.  The match is nail-biting til the end and Kerry get a well deserved win, by one point, 1-16 to 0-20.  I’m under pressure to get home, so we don’t get to say goodbye to the Kerry men.  Hopefully they will remember me for the Domestic Goddess breakfast I prepared for them and not our tour of Dublin City.

I text Mr Private and tell him that I am writing about cranky Kerry men and car parks.  He texts back saying ‘Will you mention how things have changed since Meath were last in a final?’  

Hit me where it hurts Mr Private, hit me where it hurts. 

Waiting

In the early days of my diagnosis with Multiple Sclerosis in 2011, everything about my neurology appointments in Beaumont Hospital caused me anxiety – from getting lost en-route and then kicking myself for driving through the city, instead of the motorway, out of fear of accidentally driving into the Dublin Port Tunnel and orientating myself within the hospital, to the cost of the car-parking.

Now, the MRI and follow up appointments are just another date in the diary.  Until the day arrives.  It’s here.  I’m early.  Without thought, I make my way to Clinic B.  Neurology and the Fracture Clinic share a registration desk.  It seems like an odd match, brains and broken bones.  Still, it’s a people-watchers dream.  The logistics of it all is like an awkward choreography, as patients hobble, or are wheeled about with various strappings and supports, making their way to somewhere else.   Despite the busyness of the place, there is a comforting sense of calm.  The linoleum on the floor is remarkably shiny and the space is bright and airy.

There is a lot to focus on, to distract myself about why I’m here.  I’m experiencing a period of really good health and the appointment almost seems unnecessary.  I don’t have time for this and I don’t have time to be sick.

I am called before my scheduled time.  I abandon the blog post that I had started to tap into my phone.  I am greeted by a neurologist whom I haven’t met previously.  No student doctors shadowing this time.  Like all of the neurology team that I have encountered to date, this woman is warm and friendly, compassionate.  She is thorough in her physical examination of me, testing my strength and reflexes.  It feels like I am as strong as I ever was.  She is concerned that I haven’t had any recent blood tests and I feel silly saying that I forgotten to organise these in advance of our meeting - it is in my best interest after all.  An award for ‘Patient Taking Charge’, I will not win.  The neurologist talks me tells through the results of my recent MRI scan.  No new significant lesions, but some minor ones.  ‘How minor is minor’?, I ask.  She excuses herself and says that she will speak with the senior neurologist.

The minutes seem long now.  My head spins.  ‘Is there something she doesn’t want to tell me? News that she would prefer her senior delivered'?  I think of My Lovely Friend who was diagnosed with breast cancer very recently.  She’s the same age as me, also with a young family and largely managing on her own.   She’s a stunner.  The type of girl who turned the heads of the handsome guys in college.  I recall our phone call when she tells me her news and the plans for the next few months.  Chemotherapy, surgery and radiation.  She tells me that she has bought a wig.  I can’t remember what I said to her, but I know that I cursed a lot.  I think about her children and I think of mine.  The uncomfortable 'what if'? questions they ask that I'd prefer not answer.  I worry about how we will cope if I could no longer work to financially support them.  I have thoughts of people I know with advanced MS and what an unforgiving disease this can be.  I wonder if I could still feel feminine if I looked, moved, or sounded differently.  I think about My Lovely Friend’s upcoming surgery and how invasive it will be on her womanliness.  A strong willed lady, she has a plan, will roll her sleeves up and get through this.  I wish I lived closer, so I could offer her more practical support.

The neurologist returns and the news is good.  Really good.  The minor lesions on my scan are old, in the sense that they were visible on last year’s scan.  There are no new lesions.  Those that are there have shrunk.  The drugs are doing what they are intended to do, although it's not the case for other people.  It's as good as it can be.   I can feel the relief in my body as she completes the paperwork and refers me to haematology for blood tests.  My needle aversion hasn’t lessened and I need to lie down.  The blood flows easily.  The sun shines.  Today is a good day.