Visions & Revisions: An anthology of new writing by Junior Cycle Teachers [selected extracts]

Mary-Elaine Tynan
me. That may be a stretch for you since women like me aren’t
trusted by society. But I am nothing if not honest. Which is what
led me to where I ended up. Believe me.
1949
I will never forget. Years later I would be transported back here
with little more than the hint of antiseptic, there it is … the smell
of burning, searing pain…
I am looking at the man who has just torn my pelvis asunder
with the precision of one who has done this procedure many
times before. And he is taking time out from his labour to wonder
aloud – with a shake of his sweaty brow – why such a small
girl would have married such a large man. He’ll be sending me
home in just days, cradling a red-faced nine pound baby, without
as much as an ounce of compassion, never mind a painkiller.
Telling me I’ll be grand. That I should be thanking him. Because
if he’d given me the caesarean I’d begged for, I’d only be able
to have three children at most. This way, after sawing my
pelvis open – after splitting me in two – I can go on to have ten
of them.
Ten? What woman wants ten children, I wonder as the salty,
silent tears sidle down my cheeks to meet my parted lips, before
dropping – plopping – into the dry, fleshy hollow of my mouth.
Mammy, are you there? Can you see me? Oh, Sacred Heart
of Jesus…
And when I think he’s finished, he leans in – his middle-aged
paunch jiggling against the hospital bed – and stares at me for
a moment. After glancing over his shoulder, he lifts his surgical
mask up. Just a little. High enough for me to see him lick his
thick, wet lips. With his mouth still closed, he exhales heavily
through his nose. Like a sick horse. And his breath, as it wades
through his dense nostril hair and mingles with my own, is warm
and stale.
‘Stop that crying child, for the love of God! What do you
have to upset about? Haven’t you a fine healthy child?’
I’m gasping now. The pain … Oh Jesus, the pain in my hips.
UNDONE
‘Please Doctor … It’s awful. I can’t bear it…’
And he’s sighing heavily, his eyes cold and unblinking.
Having to even respond to my pithy complaint is a waste of his
precious time.
‘Stop those dramatics, child. It’s just a few stitches. You’ll
be right as rain soon enough and back in the saddle before you
know it.’
He’s turning away now. Hold it, Kitty, hold it. Just ‘til he’s
gone. You can fall apart when he leaves. Don’t let him see you
weep anymore. But now he’s glancing back again, as if he has
some final piece of wisdom to impart. And I’m actually thinking
it might be an apology or word of consolation on fat, wet lips
when he returns to me, humbled by my pain.
He’s closer this time, so close I can clearly see his damp,
clogged pores. And I’m thinking, in my delirium, that he would
benefit from a hot, steamy bowl of water and a towel over his
head. As I contemplate the foulness of his blackheads and his
nicotine-stained teeth mingling with the disinfectant, he stops for
a moment – appraising me – and then smirks. He bends down
and proffers his parting words in a low voice. As if we’re in
cahoots. A shared secret.
‘I’d give you a couple of weeks – maybe a month – and
you’ll be pawing at him in the bed. You’ll be back into me within
the year – pushing another one out into the world. I’d put money
on it.’
His voice is barely above a whisper and I’m so delirious
with pain that I’ll later wonder if I imagined it.
My eyes are unblinking now as I stare into his cool
unblinking eyes. They’re actually quite nice eyes, I note. Bovinelike.
It’s funny the things you think about, even in moments
of shock and trauma. Even the tears have stopped and frozen
on my wan cheeks, my head lolling back in exhaustion. And I
want to stop him. I watch one of his incongruently tiny hands
float toward me, arriving finally on my tear-stained face, but I’m
frozen. All I can do is witness his index finger as it takes flight,
powered by his thumb before flicking my cheek. As I register the
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