Chapter 31
31
It was a long day. We walked the entire site with Tipper, visiting every cottage, assessing what still needed to be done. Now that the work was about to recommence, Tipper was a changed man, garrulous and full of “hilarious” anecdotes. I’d never realized that pretending to be entertained could be such hard work.
The only time the joviality paused was at the mention of his digger. “Poor oul’ Betsey is still in the hospital. She’ll be laid up for a while. We’ll hire a replacement. Funds will be needed.”
“Send me the invoice,” Joey said.
Afterwards, Joey and I dropped in on Lenehan. Just a short chat, I’d thought, to break the “good” news about the threat to the farm having gone away. (I still wasn’t convinced.) But when we found him in the kitchen, Colm was also there. Without a word, he threw his arms around Joey. They stood for a long time, in a tight hug, Joey circling his palm on Colm’s back.
Colm eventually pulled away and we all sat.
“Tea?” Lenehan offered. “Coffee?”
“Whatever’s easiest. What’s the news?” Joey’s elbows were on his knees as he stretched close to Colm.
“She’s having every scan known to modern medicine,” Colm managed. “They’re still deciding if they’ll try to remove the tumor or go the chemo route.”
“Surgery is risky?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe. Everyone has an opinion but no one really knows. Our little girl will be slightly paralyzed or a lot paralyzed or not paralyzed at all, depending on who you ask.”
I felt faint.
“What about chemo?” Joey asked.
“It’d be very hard on the little chicken. Make her very sick in the short term. Putting her through that…”
This was awful .
“There’d be long-term issues, like infertility. And after all that, it might not work.”
“Man.” Joey grasped Colm’s hand. “That’s the worst.”
“I should trust the medics to decide on the right approach. But what if they disagree? Which one do you go for? What if you don’t trust any of them?”
This poor man, the entire family, what a horrible set of choices they were facing.
On the drive back to town, I felt very low but Joey looked actually ill.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Queenie’s a great kid. The thought that she might be paralyzed. Or worse. I mean, God .” A pause followed, while his gaze remained fixed on the road. “And I know this sounds selfish but—”
“—you’re thinking about your own kids. That’s natural, Joey.”
He sighed. “Soon as you’re a parent, the world is altered forever.” Briefly, his focus was off the road and on me, offering warm complicity. In a millionth of a second, I watched realization dawn, followed by alarm, then he was back to staring hard at the road.
Silently I watched the landscape flash by, the sea to my left, stony fields to my right and beyond the furthest edge of town, the steep climb of the cliffs, leading up to Sky Head. What had Ike wanted to show me up there? As soon as I had that thought, a building appeared: a flat-roofed structure, set close to the cliff edge. The views from it must be amazing, especially at sunset. But from down here it was a wound on the landscape.
I hadn’t noticed it when I’d first arrived. “That must be the Big Blue.”
Joey took a glance. “Yeah. It’s…Wow, what an eyesore. How’d Kilcroney get planning permission? This country. The hoops we had to jump through to get the permit to build. ‘Protecting the view’ so it’s only when you’re right on the actual land you can see the cottages. And if you’re out on a boat you can’t see them at all.”
“But that’s good. I think they’ve got better at preserving nature in the last few years.” I noticed something. “Further up the cliff, there’s…a wood?” I trained my eyes on a large cluster of tall evergreens, erupting with outlandish unlikeliness from the wind-scoured plain of the cliff top.
As we got nearer, the tips of three, no four , gray-stoned turrets appeared above the highest trees. “It’s a house! Hey, that must be her ladyship’s freezing old mansion!”
Joey chanced a glance. “Rose’s? Yeah, guess it is.”
“ Rose? ”
“…Isn’t that her name?”
Yes, but…I’d thought “her ladyship” was her name. “Joey! Eyes on the road, please!”
“Sorry. It’s more beautiful here than I’d realized,” he confessed. “Luke and Rachel brought me along to Brigit’s and Colm’s one weekend. I was blown away by the potential in Kearney’s Farm, their own cove, the mountains to the south. Then I was looking at infrastructure, bylaws, staffing…and somehow I never focused on the cliffs to the north. They’re spectacular.”
“There you go. Another selling point.”
It was almost six thirty by the time we reached the hotel. Joey asked, “You want to get dinner before Vivian’s thing?”
“I’ve a doctor’s appointment now.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m on the hunt for HRT.”
“In that case…” He raised his eyebrows. “Good luck? We’ll have toasted sandwiches when you’re back?”
—
Dr Olive was as young as Courtney had warned but she was friendly. “Come in. Sit down. How can I help?”
I outlined my circumstances. “Can you prescribe me HRT? Please.”
“One moment now. What are your symptoms?”
Oh, come on! Insomnia, amnesia, bleak thoughts, weight gain, a needy bladder… “Rage.”
Suddenly energized, Olive said, “Anger issues? Because anger has many caus—”
“Anxiety,” I rattled off at speed, because I sensed a recommendation for therapy was imminent. “Night sweats, fuzzy thinking, cravings for carbs, hairy arms.” I paused for breath. “But the hair on my head is thinner. How unfair is that?”
“Hair-thinning can be a sign of long Covid. Have you had your—”
“—bloods done? Yes. Flying colors, thank you.”
“How recently?”
“Last week.” This was a lie but I could not afford to get side-tracked. “I’m definitely perimenopausal. I’ve had almost no HRT for the past few weeks and the symptoms are back.” Particularly the rage.
“Menopause is not an illness. HRT is not a medicine.”
“So why do I have to see a doctor to get it?” Then, “Please.” I was almost begging. “When I began it about twenty months ago, it transformed me.”
Marveling, she asked, “You really think it makes that much of a difference?”
One random afternoon, young woman, with no warning whatsoever, you’ll feel as if you’ve just been set on fire. Yes, on literal fire. For seven hours on a Tuesday in April, even under threat of torture, you’ll be unable to remember Florence Pugh’s name. You will awaken, some night, in the early hours, to the horrible sensation that you’ve wet the bed. And when you realize that the drenched sheets are courtesy of sweat, not urine, you won’t feel any less upset.
I could have said all of that and so much more but I went for, “It made my life worth living again.”
Shaking her head with performative disbelief, Dr Olive began clattering at her keyboard. “I’ve sent a script to Gannon’s, the chemist by the monument. One month’s supply.”
I thanked her graciously and almost danced my way to Gannon’s. Where they had no testosterone—it would have to be ordered from Limerick. Neither had they any progesterone tablets, although they’d be in the day after tomorrow. However, they furnished me with estrogen patches. Back in my room, I slapped one on. Immediately—psychosomatic? Perhaps not?—I began to feel less anxious, less irritable, less exhausted. Then I skipped down the stairs to meet Joey for our toasted-sandwich stomach-liner.
But was this what my life would be from now on? Moving from town to town around Ireland, trying to get an emergency appointment in a local surgery, where I’d throw myself on the mercy of a doctor in the hope of getting a handful of HRT here and there? It was no way to live.