What Dreams are Made of

By Edna McCabe

Part 16 - Martin’s Health Deteriorates

The next two years saw both of us getting older, but we never felt old; apart for the fact that we were both on medication for our ailments. We used to laugh about our aches and pains. Martin's eyes gave him a lot of trouble and we regularly went to see a specialist Galway. The best the specialist could do for Martin was to prescribe eye drops, which he had to use every day.

One day Karen noticed that Martin's ankle was swollen; that was the beginning of regular trips to Portiuncula Hospital in Ballinasloe. Martin was now on seven tablets a day. He wasn't worried as he used to say, They'll keep me going."

He used to joke with his GP when he visited his surgery. However, he got a land one day when Doctor Rice wouldn't let him renew his car insurance. He just loved that old banger and being without it deprived him of his independence. I wasn't a bit sorry; although I didn't tell Martin that, as I could never hurt his feelings. For some years before, whenever I got into the car, I felt we'd surely crash.

Doctor Rice told Martin it wasn't safe to drive anymore was because of his age. But in retrospect I knew Martin's health was failing. The next land we got was when we had planned a trip to America. We had paid for our tickets and had renewed our passports when Doctor Rice again diplomatically told Martin he wouldn't be able to get travel insurance. Martin, though disappointed made light of the matter and said with a smile, "Sure we'd have to stop our travels sometime."

We continued on from day to day and Martin never once complained about his health, and he always assuring me that everything was under control. Even when that last year he had prostate trouble he continued to tell me it was nothing. I went on all the trips to Portiuncula Hospital with him and it was there that I discovered that his hearing was deteriorating rapidly. He couldn't hear what the doctors were saying to him. Because of this I accompanied him right into the surgery and that's when I discovered he had a tumour.

He said the doctors would operate on him and that he'd be all right again. But I was there when the doctor told him the tumour was cancerous. Martin didn't want to know. He was sure he'd be all right. As he had done throughout his life, he was still protecting me. So we played this game with each other. I was there when he was brought to the theatre for his operation and when he was back in the bed he said, "I told you I'd be all right." Actually, they didn't even open him. The doctor said they had managed to scrape the tumour by going in from the outside and that, with a course of injections every six months; this would stop the cancer for possibly five years.

Shortly after this Martin got his first injection and then everything went wrong. He had a stroke called a TIA, transient ischaemic attack, which one can get after an operation or even at normal times. It's an interruption in the brain. Well, he recovered from that only to develop pneumonia. Poor Martin. I lived through all his sickness and thought, "He doesn't deserve this." Still he fought back and we were all happy when he came home again. He was so happy; and I was so happy to see him sitting in his armchair and to know that the two of us were together again.

Sadly our reunion was to be short lived. No one had ever told me that it was possible he'd get another stroke or that he could die. I remember Teresa and Martin and the children coming to see him. Teresa went off to town and bought him an electric pad for his back and a V-shaped pillow for the bed. We took photos of him with the children. All his friends came to see him, not to mention his beloved family. Later when we looked at the photos I wondered why I didn't know things were deteriorating rapidly; but how could I have know when in my heart Martin was the young boy I had loved all my life.

On Saturday, one week later, I was talking to Martin when he simply said: "Edna" and held my hand so tight. I didn't stop to think; I phoned for the doctor and an ambulance, and then I phoned Tina. I told her to follow the ambulance and to phone all the family. The rest everyone knows. Martin had another stroke; still I didn't think for one moment he would die.

Mary and Frank followed after Mass. Frank found Valerie. Grace came from Glasson. Martin Junior was on his way. And so we stayed, wishing him to recover. He slowly came round, talked to us all, and even told us to go home. The family brought me to the hospital twice a day where Martin held my hand and told me he was all right. He used to tell me to go home and that he loved me. I hoped and hoped he would come home again.

The family then sent for Declan in America and when he arrived in Ireland he went straight to the hospital. He stayed until 12 pm, even though he was suffering from jet lag. Sometime later Declan told me he had a great chat with his Dad about the pond they used to have at the bottom of the garden and about Martin Junior's aviary.

The two boys and Martin had such happy times in that garden with their pets and animals. Martin once said he wished he were 20 years younger when we had the boys. But as far as I could see both Martin and Declan had a great childhood and they missed out on nothing.

One week later, on a Sunday morning, I rang the hospital at 8 am. They said Martin had a peaceful night and that he was sleeping at the moment. They told me not to come in until 10 am. Mary and Tina had also been told the same thing. But at 9 am Mary and Frank arrived and knocked me up to tell me Martin had passed on in his sleep and that he had quietly slipped away. That was a dreadful morning for us all. Bits come back to me. I just sat there in my nightdress in complete shock. Tina arrived at the back door and wondered why it was locked. No one had opened it.

I'll always remember Tina's reaction, and Mary's grief at having to break the bad news. Very soon we all knew. I went straight to the hospital with Mary, Frank and Tina; and there was Martin so peaceful. All his suffering was now over. My heart was broken. Everything that happened after that was just like a bad dream.

Thinking back, we all remembered how Martin had told us all to go home, the evening before. He had even told me he didn't want his eye drops. I know now he was happy to go.

Quietly and quickly everything was taken care of. Martin was right when he said we had a family to be proud of. When Martin Junior arrived from Sligo, he and the girls looked beautiful. I later heard that Martin's friend, Noel Brett, gathered the men, who had been Martin's very first scouts, together in Brendan Greham's house the night before the funeral. There, with the help of Marie Lawlor, of St Mary's choir, they decided which hymns and which scout songs should be sung during the funeral Mass. Among those present were Tommie O'Neill, his brother Terry, Jack Keanehan, Padraig Shine, and Brendan.

One couldn't be sad at this Mass. They even included Martin's song at the campfire, "There's a long, long trail a winding to the land of our dreams." The scouts came from everywhere, all parts of the country. They formed a guard of honour at the church, as did the O N E, of which Martin was Chairman. The scout flag and the army flag were side by side on the coffin. The O N E also had a Guard of Honour, a fitting tribute to a good man. After Mass people lined the streets. A friend, Brendan Smith, was thoughtful enough to take photos; so I have a treasured record of everything.

I remember the priest's homily at the Mass. He had only recently come to the parish but he said he had heard so many good things about Martin that he could have continued talking for much longer. Apart from the priest, Noel Brett also came to the pulpit and gave a beautiful tribute to Martin. Then there was the Scout Prayer and, among others the beautiful hymns was The Servant's Song, which reflects Martin's journey through life. If the ceremony hadn't been so well thought out, we would all have been very sad. When I heard the words of the hymn, "How Great Thou Art", I felt the second verse in particular had been written for Martin:

"When through the woods and forest glades I wander,
And hear the birds sing sweetly in the trees.
When I look down from lofty Mountain grandeur
And hear the brook, and feel the gentle breeze..."

That was indeed for Martin. He was on his way. Still whenever I hear the hymn I remember when as a child I walked, holding hands with this young man through fields and woods and by the lake in Mullingar. We retraced our steps when we were older and walked arm in arm while Martin talked about the wondrous world of nature. On such occasions I use to think God is indeed in his heaven and all is right with the world.

We have to have something to hold on to. The scene at the graveside was so moving that I couldn't call it sad. They put the coffin to rest with the boy scouts and the O N E all lined up. When the priest said the prayers, each of the boys placed a stone in a circle on the grave to make one of the tracking signs used by the scouts. This particular sign means "Gone Home", which signifies to scouts that the have reached the end of a trail.

Then the Scout Commissioner and the other leaders folded the flag and handed it to me. After that two young buglers from the Army Band sounded The Last Post. These were the two traditions that Martin loved. Martin's sister remarked that she had never before seen tears in so many men's eyes. I remember Dominic's tears, as he helped to carry the coffin from the church. It hurt him to know his dad had passed on; and now his beloved grandfather, always known as Dad, had also gone to his reward.

I remember too Patricia Keane, a scout leader, and one of Martin's great friends. She used to visit him regularly to discuss the scouts; and she was his "partner in crime", as they both enjoyed a good smoke. Holding her cigarette in the air she used to say, "I'm going to beat this, Martin."

When she was part of the Guard of Honour her shoe fell off; as she picked it up she had touched the coffin for support and she was heard to say, "Martin, I'm still leaning on you."

At the time of the funeral she herself hadn't been well for months and sadly we were to attend her funeral some weeks later. She too had cancer. Her funeral was another big scout funeral and, like Martin, Patricia was buried in her scout uniform, and with full scouting honours.

I must mention Vincent Gallagher, another good friend who was a regular visitor to Martin and indeed to me. He had a great hand in the scout arrangements for Martin's funeral and of course the campsite. Many a Saturday would see them making their way to Portlick to do a spot of work and managing to get volunteers to go too. Martin told me they were giving him the "light jobs". It was a joke at the time but perhaps Vincent saw the writing on the wall and that Martin was failing. I don't know. I do know they discussed the campsite daily, comparing notes and drawings determined to see it finished. And I know Vincent is continuing the good work.