A Graduation

May was the month of graduations in our house. There were two reasonably traditional ones; the ‘high school musical-themed’ transition year one and then the very sombre and emotional sixth year one. In June, we had another one. It’s not a graduation that most families ever have to experience. For us, it had been on the horizon for many years, anticipated anxiously. After 17 years, my youngest son was transitioning to adult health services.

From two weeks old until this year, we had walked in those doors of Crumlin hospital in every season.  He’d been carried in by the army during a snowstorm. Once, pushed in a wheelchair. Many times, in our arms when he couldn’t walk himself. We’d been there on Easter Sunday, at Christmas time, throughout COVID and once right up to the day his state exams started, and we thought he’d be sitting them in the hospital school. He’s slept on nearly every ward in Crumlin, played in every playroom, seen most specialties at one time or another. He’s had hundreds of tests; blood tests, CTs, MRIs. He’s attended the Hospital School, practiced his flute, studied and done his homework on wards. He’s had friends visit and play table tennis with him while he was attached to an IV. He could find the fish tank blindfolded.

Once, when he was a toddler, he shared a room with another little boy with the same name and the same birthday. Both boys had been born in the Coombe within hours of each other, given the same name and ended up as roommates a few years later in Crumlin.

Sometimes his visits were planned and on many other occasions, he ended up in Crumlin unexpectedly. Sometimes in the middle of a dark winter night with desperate and terrified parents bracing themselves for what the long hours ahead would bring.

He took some of his first steps on that long corridor which has changed very little in 17 years. He knows every shortcut in the hospital, where to get the best hot chocolate, what time the shop closes at and the best takeaways to order from if you’re on an extended stay.

When he attended outpatient clinics, he’d always bump into someone he’d know. A consultant, a registrar, a nurse, a porter, a play specialist, an anaesthetist. He overcame his initial fear of needles, he had no choice in the matter, and could name his preferred phlebotomist if asked.

When he got older, he countered the anxiety of the surgical theatre with challenges – he would tell the theatre staff that he was going to fight the anaesthetic and they would humour him and help him count the seconds until he drifted off.  ‘How long did I make it?’ he’d ask on the trolley out of recovery. ‘Longer than anyone else buddy’ the Porter would tell him.

His Dad and I have watched many times from the sidelines, knowing our usefulness was limited in this space. Encouraging words, patience, distraction; the only tools we had to help him. We’ve white knuckled it in ED rooms, squeezing the metal side rails of the beds while we watched on, helpless and hopeless.

But oh, the kindness! The small, terrific gestures of porters and nurses. A blanket gently placed over your knees as you drifted off in a chair beside a bed. A cup of tea, some toast. ‘You ok love?’ – the cleaner who’d seen it all before but still asked you, not for an answer, just so that you’d know she could see you too.

Suddenly he’s thirteen or fourteen and you notice that the Doctors ask him how’s he’s been, how are his symptoms, anything to report? Your input is for discrepancies only. They are preparing him because in Ireland once you turn 16, you’re medically independent. You can refuse to let your parents into the meetings or the ward or the consultation room. So, they schooled him on being his own advocate.

Transition day arrived. I walked behind him in his 6ft 3 shadow. He no longer fits the beds, the nurses can’t reach the height adjuster to measure him. He’s physically outgrown the hospital and this helps us. His need to move on, to graduate to adult services is evident. He no longer belongs here.

He’s carrying a bag – flowers and cards for the women (they were all women that day) who’ve been his carers, his healers for the past 17 years. We promise to send Christmas cards with updates and we both hug them. We will never be able to convey our gratitude to them, to this place that brought us to our lowest lows but became a place of comfort and healing.

I walk back down the long corridor behind him. He is oblivious but I am reliving every walk I have taken with him down that corridor. Pushing him in a pram, holding his hand, carrying him, pushing him in a wheelchair, helping with his IV. A baby, a toddler, a boy, a big boy, a teenager, a young adult.

Out the doors into the sunshine, down the ramp and onward.