The Reluctant Immigrant

According to my school doctor’s report, I needed my tonsils out.  I was eight years old.  Because of frequent infections, I was not able to go to the hospital with the other students when they went on the one-day class trip to get their tonsils removed.   Instead, I made weekly trips to Crossmaglen to be examined by Dr. McBride, our family doctor.    He told my mother, “As soon as her tonsils are well, I’ll send her to Daisy Hill Hospital in Newry.”

One afternoon, during harvest time, I set out to walk the two and a half miles to Dr. McBride’s office.  I crossed fields of ripe oats and waved to my mother as she sat on a grassy bank dishing out afternoon tea to the workmen.  I was happy enjoying the color contrasts of the fields.  My pathway along the mossy banks held pockets of pink and yellow primroses.  Purple violets begged to be kissed and held captive.  My long flaxen hair hung loose about my shoulders caressing the white lace collar on a black silk dress, a recent hand-me-down from a relative.  I loved the feel of the soft material as it clung around my thin legs. I skipped along happily.  The stillness was broken at odd intervals by the songs of birds or a reaper mowing.

Dr. McBride said, “Your tonsils are cleared up and ready for removal.”

“I will go home and tell my mother,” I said.

“You don’t need to do that.  I’ll put you on the four o’clock bus to the hospital, and I will send a message to your mother.”

“I have only a few shillings in my purse,” I said panic-stricken.

“I’ll  pay the driver and tell him where to let you off,” he said.

At eight years old I had never been on a bus or gone away from home as far as Newry, which is where the hospital was.  It was a whole seven miles from home.  A few minutes later, and more than a little frightened, I was heading toward Newry, on the bus.   Dr. McBride assured me before boarding that I could manage.  I was not so certain as I watched the hedges flying by.  It seemed an eternity before the driver said, “Daisy Hill Hospital.” I got off the bus to see a sign which read,   Hospital 1/4 mile.  I looked up the long hill in front of me and started walking past children playing ball on the sidewalk.  A little brown dog followed in my wake.  When I turned around he stopped, looking at me with friendly eyes.  I might have picked him up had it not been for a woman watching from behind parted lace curtains.

I felt tired and very lonely.  At the end of the road, a long red brick building stood ominously guarded by ornate black iron gates.  With my heart pounding, I walked up the short driveway, and reached the double glass doors in a frightened state.  Timidly I slid through into a huge dark hall. There was no one there.  The polished flag floor echoed with my footsteps.  After what seemed an eternity, a nurse hurried down a long corridor toward me, her white starched apron rustling. Without preamble she said to me, “Are you lost?”

With a quivering voice I replied, “I’m Agnes Harvey.  Dr. McBride sent me here to have my tonsils out.” She looked at me in a pitying way and said, “We had a telephone message that you were coming.  Follow me.”  There was no kind word of greeting or any reassurance from the starched apron.  I followed her into a large room with about a dozen beds down each side.  They were occupied with grey and wizened old ladies.  I was ready to turn on my heels, when she pointed to a bed saying, “This is yours.”

So many tears ran down my face that I could taste the salt, as I sat on the edge of the bed.  Startled, I heard a voice call, “Is that you Agnes?”  I looked in the direction of the voice and saw my cousin Ronnie Quin.

Ronnie was about five years older than I.  She was tall and thin with red curling hair down to her shoulders.   Her complexion was ruddy and spotted with freckles.  Her mother was my father’s sister.   I was overjoyed to see her.  “I got my tonsils out yesterday,” she gasped,  “I will be here a few days.”

A nurse brought me a nightgown and towel and said, “You had better get to bed now.”  It was barely six o’clock and broad daylight, and I was about to protest.  “It is almost supper time,” she said, as if reading my mind.  I undressed and got into bed, and was comforted by seeing a garden through a glass door.  I could not eat the food that was brought to my bedside, for I was too distraught.

The next morning I walked with a nurse to the operating room, all the way dreading what was going to happen.

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