Pancake Tuesday: Part Dos

Now, where was I? Oh yeah, all the dread and fear and stuff. Again, for the purpose of full disclosure, it may help to know that, while all of this was going down, I looked like this:

Except ditch the Clash t-shirt. And the apron. Replace them with a gold shirt. Better? Lighter thoughts? Well hold onto them....

By the time we reached the hospital, and they'd wheeled her away into the shadows, I was left alone with my thoughts for the first time in an age, an epoch, an era, or any suitably lengthy duration you care to call to mind. It was then that I, in all my long haired, disco shirted "glory", began to hear sounds outside of my own head for the first time in a similar duration. And there they were, those unmistakeable notes drifting through the crisp spring air in that hospital waiting room....

Tragedy, by The fucking Bee fucking Gees.

And I smirked at the aptness of the moment. Had it been Staying Alive, I might not have been able to hold it together.

I went outside to call her mother. Much as with her dad, I was met with casual comfort at the turn of this day's events. They had nothing to fear, after all. I was just overly alarmed because of the alien nature of the environment into which I'd been thrust that afternoon. I stole myself to prepare for the wait before I could see her, sure to be shaken at the spoiling of her pancake. As I allowed myself to unclench my teeth, one of the paramedics wandered back in to find me. A few simple questions for me.

Oh and a blanket of tin foil, usually reserved for marathon runners whose race is run. Can't forget the tin foil blanket.

"Listen, you're in shock. It's OK."
"I'm not. I'm fine really."
"You're shaking, and you're very pale."
"I'm wearing a very gold, very thin shirt. And I'm always this pale!"

Cut to some while later (I had no track of time by this point), and a doctor asking my relationship to her patient. Next of kin? I wasn't, but seeing as her parents weren't going to be around for a couple of hours yet, I wondered if there were any way I could get an update of when I could be let in to see her.

It was a weird feeling, for however long I was alone in that hospital after that point, being somewhere in my own world, but not really present even there. The next thing I remember is hugging her mum. I think I hugged her mum. She knew by that point, so I guess she must have been there for at least a while before I saw her. I'd been absent mindedly scratching my arm for a while. Quite a long while I suppose. Must have been- it was raw, bleeding ever so slightly. I hadn't noticed before. I kept scratching, wondering when the day's anaesthetic would cease to numb it.

I tried, for as long as I could sustain, to keep up the spirits of her mum and her mum's friend, herself more or less a member of the family. Then I just kind of drifted off again. Her parents offered to give me a lift into town. I accepted, probably by monosyllabic means. Can't remember much of the journey, save for having my head bowed the whole time. I didn't look up from my feet at any point of that car journey into town, nor while standing in the darkness of the evening as I waited for my bus to arrive. I'm amazed I made it upstairs on that bus, because my gaze never shifted then either, but I vaguely recall sitting up top. I remember calling a mate, just needing to talk to someone on the half hour final leg of my journey home. Still, to this day, I've never noticed such a paradigm shift in a conversation as then. Next thing I knew I was turning the key in my front door.

That's when it hit me all at once. My lip quivered, my knees buckled and my hand ceased to function. I couldn't get in the door, but I was frantic. I had to. I couldn't lose it til I crossed that threshold. The key turned, and I slumped in and to the floor. I bawled.

She was on a life support machine. Chances were she wasn't going to wake up.
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Seriously, I warned you. I did. Go back to that first picture of me looking a little bit feminine in monochrome. Right there, I fucking warned you.

Honestly, stay with me on this one. I'll break the soul-crushing horror with another picture to show you how ridiculous I looked while all of this was going down. That has to ease it, right? Here:

And that shirt isn't even gold! I still have that shirt. I still wear that shirt. I can't say the same about the hat....or the hair.
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My mum, being a nurse, showed that typical mix of caring bedside manner and maternal instinct to soothe her broken son. I'm sure she knew how hopeless it was. Didn't stop her trying though:

"She'll be OK. She's young, and she's a tough girl. She's a fighter."

My dad, on the other hand, is less skilled in the subtle nuances of dealing with such circumstances. He tried for optimistic reassurance, but let's see if we can spot where he went wrong here. His youngest child has just come through the door, uncharacteristically sobbing, as his beloved girlfriend is likely to die soon, if she hasn't died already as this son was in transit. This happened:

"Well....er....you passed your exams though. That's good news."

Honest to fuck, in hindsight, that is the single most incredible moment of my life, for all the best reasons. I can only hope to do it justice by saying that it is the second most treasured moment of my life to this point. At that time, I was not as enamoured.

"Would you have a little pray, maybe?"
"No, mum. I haven't believed in God since I was 6 years old or something."
"Oh....maybe say a prayer anyway. It can't hurt."

Never could I imagine Irish parenting being summed up more succinctly than by those two instances from my parents. And I love them for each.

Regardless, all sundry possessions were hurled about my room in fits of unbridled fury at the universe that night. No sleep was had. More importantly, no updates were forthcoming. I was to wait for word, and I knew that with every passing minute the likelihood of a positive outcome diminished. Eventually, I was persuaded to make a call of my own in the early morning, to her mum.

"Oh, I thought I'd let you sleep. She woke up a while ago. She's fine."

So, see that bit above where I cited my dad's exam related comment as the second most treasured moment of my life? Well, the top is easily walking into the hospital that morning and seeing that girl looking back at me. I couldn't speak. I had to remind myself just to draw breath- which, let's face it, is in pretty poor taste on such an occasion as that. She was alive, and nothing else mattered worth a damn.

Now, here's the thing: Right from the outset, I didn't sit down here and say "you're going to now read a blog about that one time my ex-girlfriend kinda died (twice)". No, I told you that I was going to give you one serious insight into why some things is as some things is. So, here we fucking go.

1) The Curse of the Gold Shirt: One of the first things that girl said to me from her hospital bed on the morning of February 22nd was that I was forbidden from wearing that monstrosity of a shirt, whether in her presence or not, from that moment on. That shirt was to be held accountable and sentenced appropriately for having, in essence, killed her. And, while I did break it out a couple of times more in the next few months, just to get under her skin, I eventually did do as promised and binned the fucker. It wasn't worth the risk. Or the nickname "Disco", which it spawned. In fact, below sits a picture taken right after it was binned:

Now, you may notice a few things about that image, and may have questions as such. So allow me to clarify them straight away:
i) Thankfully, I did eventually see reason and get the haircut I so richly needed.
ii) The handsome man shaking my hand in celebration at the death of the shirt is my now not so handsome friend, Paudie.
iii) Absent in previous pictures within this post, you may notice the leather wrist strap I now wear on my right, more or less every minute of every day.

2) The ongoing presence of my wrist accoutrements: A brief time after all the death and madness had died down, I happened across a stall on Wicklow Street, and noticed a leather strap that took my fancy. I, being the sentimental fool that I am, felt it important to buy something to commemorate and memorialise the event in my life. So there's that. I've bought many such gauntlet type things since for special occasions and the like, but that's the one I am always seen to sport, and that is why I have so often done so.

My relationship with the girl went on for years after that point, through highs and ultimately lows. Sure, eventually things went south on that, but you live, you love, you learn, and you live some more. Speaking of learning, those builders were apparently so shaken by everything that they went out and did first aid courses afterwards. But ours was not the only relationship that came to hold her death as a milestone.

3) JDIFF: After spending a few hours in the hospital on the 22nd (as many as I was permitted to spend), the 23rd, the 24th and the 25th, I eventually worked my way back into town to meet a friend on that latter evening, in the midst of Dublin's infamous Charlie Bird abusing riots. And it was then, in Cassidy's/The Westmoreland (I think) that I first heard of JDIFF, having met my mate, Action Man, and his new, film festival acquired compadre, the above immortalised Paudie. And so began my relationship with JDIFF, festivals and event related work as a whole. Were it not for that fateful meeting, I may never have become involved in JDIFF, and instead stuck it out as a bank employee. Chances are I wouldn't be living in Edinburgh now, working in box offices wherever people see fit to pay me, and sharing this with the vast majority I met through this line of work.

Thanks Paudie, and Action Man, you fucks.

4) Pancakes: Alright, so here's where things end, amigos and amigas. Things end with pancakes. Fucking pancakes. The silent killers. Killer crepes. You see, just as it was beauty rather than the planes that killed Kong. It was not asthma that killed the girl. It was the pancake. Still, seven years on, the exact cocktail of ingredients that induced such calamity through anaphylaxis remains a mystery. All that is known for sure is that the pancake was the cause.

Death by fucking flapjack. The indignity of it all.

And for that reason, to this day, I have consumed no pancakes. And for that same reason, Pancake Tuesday can go fuck February 21st.

February 22nd, you're welcome in my calendar anytime.