An Old Man's Pain.

As a young mother of very young children, at the time, I was chatting with a now departed elderly relative of mine, who was left with a minor malformation to his index finger-as a result of a whitlow infection from years ago. I expressed my fascination with the perfect formation of the finger tip for tapping his pipe tobacco; it was almost as if it was tailor made for the job.

He duly launched into a ‘no details spared ‘ walk down memory lane about his whitlow, from beginning to end, every few words interrupted by his efforts to puff, light, tap, pack, and light again his infernal pipe.

I felt I was making all the appropriate sympathetic sounds, as he talked and puffed, and I’m sure I did suck in the requisite amount of air, through clenched teeth, at the particularly gory bits.

However, I must admit, some of my sympathy dissipated, when he turned, looked me straight in the eye and said-

‘’I believe......puff ...and- I’ve heard it said........puff puff..........that.........puff........the pain of a whitlow...........puff, puff.........is worse..........puff.......than the pain............puff,puff,.......... of a natural childbirth....puff.’’

Well!

I silently disagreed-of course, but I was not prepared to enter into debate, on this specific subject, with a man who was fifty years older than I was, and a bachelor-so I changed the direction of the conversation, in a way that we Irish are very good at doing, by asking him, would he like a nice cup of tea.

In fairness to him, he was always most complimentary about my tea making skills...

‘’Oi’ll say one thing about ya..Puff... your tay is very consistent...puff puff....now I know some women and they couldn’t make a cup of tay to save your loife, it’s either tar....puff...or good water scalded to death...puff’’.

High praise indeed.

Our conversations were varied; anything and everything was discussed (with one exception!)-from God, to the lost art of hinging a door, or thatching a roof: you name it he could talk about it-at length.

On one particular occasion, I went to visit him wearing a rather flamboyant skirt-well it was fashionable; he took one glance and said...

‘’Ya know, ya have a very noice frock on ya, there’s only one thing Oi think would improve it, a good dose of weed killer’’

He was very amused at that one.

At night, on his way to bed, and before he shut his front door- which would have been open all day-he was in the habit of standing in the doorway, and studying the sky-,with the seasoned eye of an old farmer. It was his space –his time –and his thoughts, an old man alone with the night sky.

My daughter ,now about six, and feeling quite proud of her writing skills, decided one day she wanted to write a letter to him. The letter was fairly typical of any six year olds efforts, with large wobbly letters, and the nice happy colourful crayoned picture. She was so happy –and he was so happy to receive it.

Over the next three years, I saw less of him; it just became more difficult, with an expanding family, to make the trip as often.

The inevitable phone call came one Saturday morning-he was found lying in his doorway the previous night, having passed away –an old man alone with the night sky.

Among the few possessions found in his breast pocket was his tobacco pouch, and the fading letter from a little girl, now three years older.

Last week, I passed by his house, now virtually unrecognisable-its new owner having rebuilt and extended it: the doorway is still there though-his doorway.

I hope he wasn’t too lonely- him and his old gammy finger. I do think his pain was much worse than anything I’ve ever experienced.

Maybe - even childbirth.