Post 19. The Ones Who Saved Me (and Let Me Kick Them in the Head)

The Care, Compassion, and Strength of Those Who Carried Me Through the Darkest Days

I started this project to put the words of my story down on “paper,” to explore what was hidden within and to share the stories of those who are also part of mine. My goals were to build a small community, inspire others to see their own stories differently, and maybe figure out if there’s a book in all this. A few months in, I’ve found that the goals and outcomes don’t matter as much as what I’m getting from it right now.

I can only describe it as a form of modern, online, indirect group therapy. While I know I’ve processed my experiences well, sharing them this way is helping me grow further and, importantly, reflect some of the spotlight that has been on me for over 30 years onto others. Trauma rarely happens in isolation. I want to help others heal, understand their growth, see their own lives more clearly, and be recognised for a bloody good job well done.

This post is about a bloody good job well done by three people—and some closure for one of them.

I’ve written about heroes before, and many more will appear as I continue, but before my story leaves Ireland for the UK, we need to talk about three key figures: Eddie, Michelle, and Suzanne.

Recognising Their Care

Before diving in, it’s important to acknowledge the process of telling this story. I aim to do so with respect and, whenever possible, reach out to the people I’m writing about to personally express my gratitude. Family and friends are easier to contact, but what about the medical professionals who played crucial roles in my life? These were the people who kept me alive, cared for me like family, carried me when I couldn’t walk, helped me become a new version of myself, stopped me from going insane, and made me laugh when I needed it most. They may no longer be in my life, but they will always have a piece of my heart.

Amidst the challenges and stress of Dublin were three shining lights: Eddie, my care assistant, and nurses Michelle and Suzanne.

Michelle and Suzanne: Warmth Amidst Strain

I spent much of last year trying to track these three down but had no luck with Michelle and Susanne. These two staff nurses (from the US and UK respectively) were on duty when I arrived at St James Hospital, Dublin, in the early hours of August 1st, 1992. While doctors worked to save my life, Michelle and Suzanne performed a massive dressing change, witnessing both my fighting spirit and my cheeky character once I was able to communicate later on. My family adored them. I even remember Michelle bringing her two children to visit me one day, gifting me Nirvana’s Nevermind album—a welcome distraction and a taste of the exotic with their American accents.

I could loose myself in music when I needed a break from reality

Their warmth and kindness stood in contrast to the regimented style of the ward’s Sister, who was on annual leave during my first two weeks. During that brief period, they had the freedom to care for me in their own way. I hope, someday, I can meet them again, as I did with Eddie, and express my gratitude in person. They set the benchmark for the type of care I knew was possible, was best for me, and everyone that followed had to live up to them in my mind.

Eddie: A Caregiver Beyond Measure

Tracking down Eddie was more successful. I found him on Facebook, and we met up in a Dublin bar. I recorded some of our conversation, capturing memories that brought us right back to that time. Eddie went above and beyond to give a 14-year-old boy a fighting chance at life from a very precarious position. Here are some of the words he shared, which reflect the depth of care, compassion, and strength that carried me through:

“Very early on, you had a very bad night, and it was touch and go whether you’d last the day. A few times, I’d see the red light flashing and you’d be drifting from us. There were a couple of times—do you remember Sister Christine?—she would call me over and say, ‘Go home.’ But I couldn’t. I’d finished my shift an hour before, but I’d tell her I was fine, and she’d insist: ‘No, you need to go.’

Then I’d come in the next morning, and if I heard you—not screaming, but giving out or complaining about something—I’d think, ‘He’s still here and he’s got fight in him.’

There were moments you didn’t like me much. We butted heads during dressings and saline baths, which were painful but necessary. You were bed-bound for a long while, and changing your sheets was a distressing ordeal. We had to rock you from one side to the other, and I know it was hard. But over time, you adapted and got into the swing of it.

I also did physio with you—do you remember the lollipop sticks? We’d add an extra one each time to help you open your mouth more. For a young lad, you had tremendous fight. Sometimes you’d try to hit me, and you wouldn’t have been the first!

The minute you contacted me again, it all came flooding back. I remember coming in that first morning, being told, ‘We have this young lad, Marc.’ At that stage, you were on a ventilator and asleep for a few days. At first, it was good, because we could change your bandages without causing pain. But once you were weaned off the ventilator, we faced new challenges.

Eddie’s eyes were often the first thing I’d see in the mornings, so I knew immediately it was him when I found him.

Your health was up and down. There were days when I’d finish my shift, go home, and call at 11 o’clock to check on you. The nurse on the phone would tell me, ‘Go to sleep!’ Then I’d come in early just to see if you were still with us before putting on my scrubs. You were one of three I looked after closely.

It was a great day when we knew you were heading back to England. They arranged the transport, the plane—everything. It was a fantastic day but also sad, because you had done so well, and the fact that you were so young made it even more impactful.

I’ve pointed out that there were some really sad moments with you, like when (early on) I wasn’t sure you’d still be with us when I came in but there were also many happy moments that brought tears to my eyes. When we knew you could see, the first time I saw you out of bed, the first time standing - all these steps are really treasured moments for me. And I had so many of these moments with patients but it was always the moments with younger patients that meant the most to me.

The type of injuries you suffered shouldn't happen to anybody but for me it affects a younger person more. An older person can adapt very quickly but a lot younger people tend to think that they have their whole life to live like this and they get very down. So I felt I needed to put more effort into the younger ones to encourage them. Life is different alright but it’s not the end. And in your case it was the start of your world, your new world and you’ve obviously made a very good success of it, which is tremendous for me to see and must be tremendous for your family. 

So many patients didn’t make it. To see you here, alive and thriving, makes it all worthwhile. Every time I bump into an old patient in Dublin and see them doing well, it’s a gift.

Your family was incredible. There were times they were deeply down, but they never let you see it. I spent hours talking to them while you slept, helping them adjust to a new reality. It’s a moment of reckoning—life has changed, and there’s no going back. But your parents faced it, and together we helped you move forward. I’ll never forget the time I brought your family into your room after a long talk, and you cracked a joke. Humour was everything.

Many people believe life ends after something like this. I believe it can be a new beginning. Yes, trauma changes you, but it can also push you to new heights. You’re proof of that, Marc—you’ve travelled, learned, and grown in ways most people never will.

When you left for England, there was a void. Clearing your room felt like a death. Sister Christine asked me to clear it, and I couldn’t. Not right away. I needed time. Your sheets, your things—they were all reminders of you. Eventually, I did it. Then it was on to the next patient, but we never forgot you. We talked about you often.”

You are most welcome for the support I gave you, it was my pleasure. Even when you use some choice words for me, when I was dropping the salt in the bath or changing your dressings in the mornings. Some abuse but we had to do it, it was our job. They say people could switch off from the job but I couldn’t; for every scream that you did, I was screaming twice as loud inside. 

One time I went to lift your left leg to undo a dressing and you winced in pain, kicked me in the head and the tears came. I gently put the leg down and looked you in the eyes and said to you we have to do this. You replied, “I know Eddie, go ahead, I can take it.” And you closed your eyes, gritted your teeth and off we went.  I learned everything I needed to know about you in that moment, we got through it and here we are over 30 years later! Just make sure I can get an apology when you write that book ok!               

No book yet, but I’m sorry, Eddie, you legend. I’m doing this for you and all my heroes.

Archives and Learn More

How did I get myself into this predicament? Check out the story so far, here.

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