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| Sean lived life with originality and flair |
The morning I went to fetch my husband home after his four-week hospital ordeal was a festive one.
Earlier on I had brought his clothes and he had been dressed since 7 o'clock, waiting for the heart specialist to discharge him. We were off by 10 o'clock.
The nurses wanted to take him down in a wheelchair, but he wasn't having any and walked down the stairs with me.
My sister-in-law had brought him a pot of rooted yellow asters, and on the way down my husband said in a voice that brooked no argument: "You can hold the flowers while I drive the car."
The Florence Nightingales
As we drove off, a wolf whistle caused us to look up at the window of the surgical ward. The entire nursing staff stood there, laughing and waving at my husband.
"It's high time you were coming home", I said severely.
Chief keeper of the purse
Town had never looked so good to us. We stopped at the bank to cash a loan levy cheque the taxman had sent us. That cheque saved me from having to do a lot of explaining. Having been appointed chief keeper of the purse during my husband's illness, I had taken my duties somewhat too seriously and spent rather freely. The cheque restored our financial equilibrium.
Driving slowly to the suburb where we lived, we passed some parks. Whence this glorious Technicolour, I asked myself. I had forgotten grass was so green and that flowers could be so vibrantly colourful.
"Everything looks so big", my husband kept repeating, "And so lovely."
The children's garden
Even the garden did not look bad - the children had spent two days preparing it for their father's return.
"How pretty the house looks", he said, "I'd forgotten how much I love our furniture."
Our youngest daughter walked quietly behind her father wherever he went. She had been stammering terribly since he'd gone to hospital. No doubt Freud could have made a lot out of that. I got the impression that she was making very sure he couldn't escape again in a hurry.
The dogs ran around for joy. Even the cat, sitting on the garden wall, looked as if she was thinking;
"Thank goodness the old fellow is back. Now we'll have some organisation around the place again."
All in all, it was a joyous occasion. Things were so peaceful once again on the homefront that, like Rose Franken's Claudia, I thought I would be able to start having that nervous breakdown I had promised myself.
Catherine Nicolette;
We very nearly lost Dad on that occasion. The joy to have him back home was immense - we had so nearly become a one parent family. Dad was a firm favourite at the local hospital, and a legend in his time there.
His incorrigible Irish charm, twinkling brown eyes, Tramore accent and deep respect for women earned him the title of 'that lovely Irish gentleman - little Whittle's father'. I was forgiven many an accidentally broken thermometer on account of the deep affection the Matrons and Nursing Sisters had for my dad.
However, there was another side to it all. Dad enjoyed his little bit of Irish Holy Water as he called a wee drop of whisky.
He did not fancy going into the unknown of the hospital wards without a little refreshment to strengthen him and his mining colleagues who were also recuperating there.
So Dad emptied out five or six Colgate shampoo bottles and rinsed them out thoroughly.
He then decanted emergency rations; the blue Colgate bottle held the whisky. The yellow lemon shampoo bottle held gin, the green apple shampoo container held rum. I can't remember which colour of the rainbow shampoo bottle held the soda, or what was in the others.
Family legend has it that when Dad was admitted to the ward, the Ward Sister exclaimed,
"My, Mr Whittle. You are so clean. So many bottles of shampoo!"
Dad, virtuously replied something to the effect of, "We do our best, Sister, we do our best", with his charming Irish smile.
The Sister hastened to personally pack his shampoo bottles in his bedside locker, not trusting the probationer nurses with this task.
And so Dad settled comfortably in, king of his domain in the hospital bed.
Things went a little pear-shaped however, when Dad and his colleagues were found, slightly cheerful and happy one hospital Saturday night, imbibing sundowners from the tooth glasses each had thoughtfully brought in with them.
Dad was dispensing the whisky and soda with great cheer when the illicit potcheen bar was discovered by the Night Sister.
The shampoo bottles were confiscated with great dignity by the Night Matron.
I believe from the stories that circled the hospital for years afterwards and which were retailed to me from time to time with gales of laughter, that Dad hung his head in shame as the Matron lectured him, her lace frill on the starched caps we used to wear nodding on her cap;
"Now, Mr. Whittle, I am most surprised at you. "
"I'm sorry, Matron, I must apologise, " Dad replied.
"And now, Mr. Whittle, I must remove these bottles, and lock them up in the safe."
"Oh, must you, Matron? Could we not keep at least one?" Dad plaintively requested.
"Certainly not, Mr Whittle. However, they will be returned to you upon your discharge from the Hospital."
"Thank you, Matron. Thank you. And once again, my humble apologies."
Upon Dad's discharge, the bottles were delivered into Mom's custody by the Matron, whose keys jangled officially from her starched apron bib as she courteously signed them over.
We did not envy Dad. Mom ran a tight ship.
And the Night Matron?
She absolutely adored Dad.
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