The Belfast trip

Matthew has improved, doesn't need to be hospitalised any more and will, from now, be an outpatient at the cardiac unit.

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Saturday 17th October.

After arriving at Belfast International Airport, I go to the Royal Belfast Hospital for Sick Children. The same hospital where my son Colm fought for his life 28 years ago.

The taxi leaves me off at the entrance to the hospital. It is at the opposite side of the building to the old entrance I had used so often while Colm was resident there. The doorway leads into a recently constructed extension to the hospital. There is long, wide lobby decorated with pictures and sculptures presumably aimed at a juvenile public. Perhaps they are meant to give the impression that this is a fun place to visit? In the centre of the floor is a large display of toy animals under thick glass, with long, curved fluorescent tubes to to make an impressive visual impression. Unfortunately the fluorescent tubes don't work...

The lobby leads into a narrower, brighter corridor with glass walls. Outside the walls I get an unobstructed view of untended patio areas and the brightness highlights the fact that the corridor needs cleaning. A wall sign at the end of the corridor indicates that the intensive care unit is up a gloomy flight of stairs. Then another dusty corridor and a couple of sets of self-opening doors lead into the much cleaner lobby of the intensive care unit and operating theatres. A relatives' room is off the lobby, and Jenna and husband Colin are waiting for me here. Matthew is in the operating theatre.

The hospital is on an elevated site and the waiting room has good views of the wide valley which encompasses Belfast. I get a good view of the twin spires of St Peter's cathedral overshadowed by the ugly, dominant tower of Belfast City Hospital and lots of grey buildings framed by a grey sky. In the foreground is one of Belfast's many gable wall tribal murals. (Click on the images if you want to see them enlarged.)
It's depressing.

Let's have a cup of tea, suggests Jenna.

We go into the old Children's Hospital building and proceed through a dirty corridor with a cracked floor and turn into a dimly-lit, filthy corridor lined with black refuse sacks. Soon the smell of burned fat offends my nostrils. Here is the café.

The café is bright and cheerful and clean, but the smell of burned fat pervades. The cooked food on offer consists of refried, pre-fried, fat-laden potato bread, sausages and some dried-up, brittle bacon. It occurs to me that there should be health warning here. The chatty staff operate at a snail's pace. Fortunately the tea is palatable.

There is no craic. Conversation is forced, leaden; everyone is worried about baby Matthew, now being carved up on the operating table.

We go back to the relatives' room. I realise that I need to go to the toilet. It turns out that the public toilets are far away, in the entrance lobby. Luckily my need is not urgent. When I get to the toilets - there are only two to service the entire children's hospital! - I discover that one of these has no light. Someone has, I'm guessing, tried to use it anyway and the nice urine puddle on the floor is testament to the fact that they had aimed badly. The other toilet is smelly, but serviceable.

On my return to the relatives' room, we receive the welcome news that Matthew is back in the intensive care unit. The operation has gone well. We can see him. Jenna and Colin are elated.

Matthew is motionless, his tiny, yellow, jaundiced body attached to several banks of electronic equipment. He cannot breathe unaided and his heart cannot function unassisted. It is simultaneously incredibly sad and happy - sad that he should should be here like this, and happy that he survived the operation.

The staff in the intensive care unit are extremely friendly, tactful, helpful and informative. The ward is spotlessly clean. It's a shame that the rest of the hospital isn't like that.

Over the next few days, travelling to and fro the hospital, I get a chance to see how Belfast has changed since I left, 15 years ago. As in many other cities, modern development has robbed entire areas of their identity. The security situation has improved, but Belfast is still a very troubled and divided city and tribal symbols (flags, graffiti and murals) are still strategically placed to indicate which tribe rules which area. Police are still equipped with flak jackets and guns. This isn't exactly conducive to anxiety free ambling in the quieter areas. The economic recession seems to be biting hard here and about 25% of the city's shops appear to be vacant or up for sale. There are a surprising number of boarded-up derelict buildings.

The hospital is situated on the west side of Belfast in what was always a “dodgy” area. It's still a dodgy area. It is Sunday morning, and the main road to the hospital is closed due to suspected terrorist activity. We have to get there by a different route.There are lots of bomb scares, the taxi driver tells me. On the way back, there is a police road block. It is still there on Monday.

The heavily fortified building is a police station.
A police road block is in progress.

Here is the road block from the opposite direction.

In case anyone is in any doubt, I really did not enjoy my time in Belfast. This gives me conflicting emotions since it is my home town and I feel that I'm being disloyal to it. The situation has improved since I left Ireland's shores 15 years ago, but I'm sad that things haven't improved more.

I'm going back to Belfast tomorrow morning. Joseph, Orla and my granddaughter Shannon are accompanying me this time. Since Matthew isn't so ill now, my visit will be much less stressful. Perhaps I'll like the city this time. Or even dislike it less. We'll see...

Agoraphobia - another slap in the face

Marie's first reaction to my decision to go and see my daughter and critically ill grandson was, ”What am I going to do?”

This is the nature of agoraphobia. Its needs must be met before anything else can be considered.

Marie has never been able to stay at home while I was outside our local area. Therefore I had to arrange for Marie to stay at her parents' house while I was in Ireland and for one of my daughters – Colleen – to look after her until she could get there. The downside of all of this was that the children would miss school during my absence.

While travelling to Ireland it suddenly occurred to me that if I was hospitalised we would have the same problems. When I was last in hospital with kidney problems, two of my adult daughters were still living at home. They were able to look after Marie and the children. They even brought Marie to see me in hospital. Now that they had moved out, it would seem that if I was to go into hospital, not only would Marie have to go to her parents', 1½ hours' drive away (thus not able to visit me often), but also the children's education would be interrupted.

Not a happy state of affairs.

I was therefore pleasantly surprised to learn, when I phoned Marie from Ireland, that she was still at home. Colleen had driven Marie to Weymouth to collect my mother-in-law. Marie's mother was now staying at our house, and would stay until I returned home from Ireland. She would be taking the children to school.

Marie now knows that she can stay at home – albeit with a “safe” person – when I am away.

This is a great relief to me and, although they don't realise it, a great benefit for the children.

Equally important, it is another slap in the face for Marie's agoraphobia/monophobia demon.

Baby is improving!

Lucky baby Matthew is winning the fight to live!

More about why he is lucky later. First, here he is, just after surviving the operation on his heart.


Matthew had recovered enough yesterday to come off life support. He opened his eyes and mum Jenna was able to hold him.


He has still got some problems, the most serious of which is a hole in his heart, but the worst is over. Today he was moved to the congenital cardiac unit where he will receive less intensive specialist care. He is expected to recover sufficiently to go home in the not-too-distant future.

The only bad news is that he is more like to suffer heart problems in the future than the average person.

Why is he lucky? Here's the story...

On Friday, Jenna's midwife called to see her. It was an unplanned visit. The wound from Jenna's c-section had become infected and she had been taking antibiotics. The midwife was in the area and thought that she would take the opportunity to see how Jenna's wound was reacting to medication.

Inspection of the wound over, Jenna and the midwife were chatting when Jenna felt the need to visit the toilet. Almost simultaneously, Matthew began to cry. Jenna went to him to see what was wrong. A rancid smell emanating from the direction of the noisy baby was a pretty good indication of his problem.

"Just when I need to go to the toilet urgently, Matthew needs to be changed," Jenna complained good-naturedly.

"Don't worry about that," replied the midwife. "You go to the toilet and I'll change the baby."

While changing and bathing Matthew, the midwife could see that all was not well with the baby.

"Jenna, I think Matthew isn't breathing properly," the midwife told her when Jenna returned.

"I know that," said Jenna. "I've taken him to the doctor twice and the hospital once, and they've told me that there's nothing to worry about. Some virus, probably."

"I think you need to take him to the hospital again," said the midwife. "I'll call them and tell them that you're on your way."

Matthew was examined almost immediately on arriving at the hospital. A few minutes later, he was in the intensive care unit, and Jenna learned that her little boy had heart defects and was critically ill.

Later Jenna learned that if she had not presented the baby at the hospital on Friday evening, he would have died during the night! Matthew's life had been saved by way of a chance visit by Jenna's midwife. Now you can see why I call him lucky!