Ice

John Crealey: The Early Years
“Holy Jesus! Mother of Christ! Colleen, Colleen, get down here quick. Bring a sharp knife. Hurry, woman!”
The sight of his young son’s limp body suspended from the basement girders, tears running down his pale cheeks, his toes barely touching the overturned wooden crate, would break even a stranger’s heart. With tears in his own eyes, Bruce hugged the dangling legs of his 14-year-old son, pushing him gently upward to relieve the pressure of the rope around his neck.
“Oh, my beautiful child, what have you done? Oh, merciful God, please hear my prayer. Let my son live.”
“What’s the matter, Bruce? Why are you yelling?” Colleen asked as she hurried down the stairs with the knife in her hand.
“Come on, woman. Hurry up and help me in here.”
Colleen reached the door to her son’s bedroom and a wrenching pain in the lower region of her torso gripped her so hard that her body involuntarily doubled over. She dropped the knife and clutched her belly with both hands.
“Don’t you go fainting on me, woman. I need your help right now. Get over here with that knife,” Bruce shouted, and Colleen quickly recovered from the horrible feeling that threatened to render her unconscious. She knew she had to be strong to help her son.
“Pick up the knife, woman, and get over here.” She grabbed the knife and rushed toward them. “Stand on the box and cut the rope—hurry up,” Bruce instructed between clenched teeth. Colleen stepped on the box without caution or preamble and cut the rope, releasing the almost lifeless body of her son into the arms of his father.
Bruce cradled the limp body of their son and gently placed him on the bed. Colleen put her hands on his teary cheeks and kissed his face as her own tears fell in torrents, mingling with those of her son.
Bruce wiped his eyes with the back of his hand before he unceremoniously pushed his wife out of the way and started trying to revive his son. “Hurry, woman! Go call the doctor,” Bruce shouted as he positioned his hands over his son’s chest. “For God’s sake, hurry.”
“Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Pray for us….” The sound of Colleen’s voice faded away as she hurried up the stairs.
Bruce worked feverishly, trying everything he had ever learned to revive his son. He knew the boy was still alive because the body was warm and there was a very faint pulse. He worked quickly, talking to his son between long puffs of air into his lungs.
“John, don’t leave us. Don’t leave us, my son. Think about your poor mother. She wouldn’t survive if you die. Come back to us. Come back, my son.”
Bruce spoke softly to his son as he performed chest compressions. Then a few more short puffs of his breath into the young boy’s lungs and, finally, John coughed.
Bruce’s legs, which were slowly going limp as he waited for signs of life, regained strength. The cough was definitely a sign that his son was going to live. John coughed again, but it was obvious that the involuntary action caused him pain because he winced and seemed to suppress the next one.
The colour started to return to John’s cheeks but he didn’t open his eyes. His neck was bruised and red. Bruce gently raised his son from the bed and cradled the boy’s head against his chest. He felt the slow beating of his son’s heart and watched the slow motion of the rib cage with each inhalation and exhalation.
“Thank you, merciful God. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. With all that I am, I thank you, oh merciful Father.”
Colleen returned in about 20 minutes with Dr. White and Father O’Reilly. Dr. White, the middle-aged, bulbous-nose family doctor, praised Bruce for his quick thinking and action. Based on Colleen’s description of the boy’s condition, he had dreaded what he was going to face. He’d expected the worst but hoped for the best. It was much more than relief Dr. White felt knowing that John had escaped the wretched hands of death because of the extraordinary efforts of his father. He stood with his arms behind his back, as was his custom, and stretched his five-foot, five-inch rotund frame upward as if in an effort to match his height with the pride he felt at that moment.
Dr. White had brought all of the Crealey children into the world and had a deep fondness for each of them. Perhaps because he never had children of his own he thought of all the children he delivered as his. The walls in his office were covered with photographs of their births, baptisms and weddings.
Father O’Reilly stood at the foot of the bed clasping his prayer book between fat pudgy fingers. He reeked of throat lozenges, a smell John abhorred. He would often become physically sick to the stomach at just a hint of it.
Father O’Reilly was unusually quiet as he watched Dr. White carefully check the boy who was lying now on his narrow bed with his flushed pink cheeks turned to the wall. Dr. White wrote a prescription and handed it to Bruce with instructions on how to administer the medications, which consisted of a painkiller and an antibiotic ointment. Dr. White recommended complete bed rest and promised to return the following day to check on John’s condition.