into the great wide open

A day before Christmas I woke paralysed in my bed.
Unleashed an awful tirade of curses against heaven.
The mind whirled.
Didn't know was it multiple sclerosis or what.
Wasn't taking it too well anyway.
At one stage between profanities I muttered: "I'm liable to say anything now God. So I'm just going to trust you to forgive me whatever I say."
When the pain went general down my back I let the first proper scream of my life.
I spent two hours trying to get out of bed.
After saying the rosary prayer I was able to summon the strength to get up.
Phoned Doctor Barn.
Renounced all previous criticisms of the pharmaceutical industry and begged for drugs.
It was a Kodak moment.
And here we are.
The pain is passing.
You know bold readers in recent times I'd been thinking that maybe I might suffer as some sort of saint, offering my pain for the relief of others.
This small but practical demonstration of what real pain actually is, has disabused me of all such notions.
Christmas Eve saw me in the midst of the congregation at Kilcullen church for midnight mass.
Back throbbing faintly in time with the carols, but nothing to write home about.
Midnight mass in my town takes place at 9pm by the way.
Quaint, eh?
I brought all those in my heart before the altar and thanked God for them.
The choir sang with more gusto than musicality from the loft at the rear of the church. I turned to look at them whenever the mood took me. All the old familiar faces. Maurice O'Mahoney my school teacher from fourth class, Brezhnev the soprano, a host of rosy cheeked school children tootling away infernally like Dickens characters.
Perfect.
Not perfect singing, mind.
Just perfect.
At the end of mass we lingered in the pews.
A hand touched my shoulder from behind.
Turning I beheld my old pal William the scientist.
I goggled.
"Enjoyed that poem on your blog about Christmas," he said shaking my hand.
I goggled again.
You could have knocked me over with a feather.
Paralysing pain and pharmaceutical products notwithstanding.
It was like a Christmas present from God.
Will's wife came over.
She noticed me a bit rheumy eyed.
I was in the midst of that old Christian routine: more rejoicing for one who returns than for the ten thousand who never left etc etc.
She said: "I know you're going through a difficult time..."
She gave me the softest of hugs.
I didn't try to explain that I wasn't upset about my shite encrusted former employers but that I was cracking up because I'd lived to see her husband and her lovely family in a church.
Sometimes even great Heelers knows when to keep his mouth shut.
I also know full well when I've been given a gift from beyond eternity and equally full well who sent it.
Uncle Jim approached.
"James," he said, "I heard about your back. I can make you a leather harness if you need it."
There are no secrets in the town of Kilcullen gentle friends of the internet.
Back at the Chateau de Healy the Dad served up a fry. Paddy Pup demanded and got a walkie. Showered. Emailed a few of the international brigade.
Checked the blog. Someone had logged on from Saudi Arabia, the city of Dharan way down south. First Iran. Then Pakistan. Now this. The Jihadis are obviously terrified by my life affirming comic stylings. Either that or they're big Paddy Pup fans. Tickled my vanity anyway. We artists, from the highest to the lowest, all of us, without exception, dream of being that little bit... dangerous.
Midnight passed being dangerous in front of the television. Feeling blessed. A feeling not entirely explained by the hodge podge of chemicals cancelling out my back pain.
And on New Year's day in the garden.
Lo.
A robin.
With his girlfriend.
Sitting on the lilac tree. Red breast puffed out proudly. His girlfriend hopping about below in the flower bed while he kept watch.
A new robin for new year's day.
A few months ago Aunty Mary's cat despatched my old robin.
I remember I'd considered that robin a gift from God and I'd sort of wondered at the time: "Hmmm. I know the consolations may be only for a little while. But that's strange. His gifts are never half given."
Now there's two of them.
It's going to be a great year.