September 7, 2024
Dear Smythe,
I wasn’t in a very good mood when I pulled up to the U.S. Ambassador’s house on Thursday night. How I was feeling had less to do with where I was that evening and quite a lot more to do with where I’d been that morning, although my feeling towards the latter was explained by where I’d been the Friday prior, which of course was explained itself by the nine years before.
Have I confused you yet?
Let me explain. You know, of course, of the struggles I’ve had with my health, the mysterious stomach ailments, the blood issues, the diagnosis of my incredibly rare condition, blah blah blah. I’ve been in the hospitals the last few months as things have devolved, with seemingly no explanation. I couldn’t feel more blessed to have such caring and skilled doctors and nurses looking after me. I’ve felt supported and looked after every step of the way, and though I haven’t found answers yet, I’ve been able to take steroids to offer some temporary relief. A help both for the pain and so that I can – finally – start eating again.
But despite this temporary bolster, last week I spent every night awake in agony, until I woke up in the wee hours of last Friday – the last day of August – and it began. Hours of it. I will try to spare you the gruesome details, but had Prid not shoved me into the backseat of the car, where I lay, alternating between moaning and choking green bile into a Lidl bag, and taken me to the hospital, I am not sure what would have happened to me.
As it was, I managed to stumble to my gastro’s office and beg for help. Four hours later, a blood test, and lots of medication later, I left with a plan, or at least a plaster. There are parts of that day I would like desperately to forget, like laying in the phlebotomy waiting room, vomiting up acid into a bag that was leaking all over the floor, or my inability to sit upright or walk because all the sick had made my body cramp up so much it couldn’t hold itself up. Or the receptionist at the gastro’s desk who informed me that walk-ins were not standard. If only I’d had the energy or wherewithal to tell her my sudden illness wasn’t exactly fucking standard, either.
But there are parts I will always remember. It struck me, even then, that had I walked into in an American hospital, in addition to dealing with the stress of being charged hundreds if not thousands of dollars for my treatment, I would have been treated so much more coldly. My nurse was caring and kind, and when I lay in the waiting room waiting for my test results to come through, moaning, shivering, and running to the toilet to get sick, I was not greeted with stares or aversion. Several waiting patients asked me if I was alright and offered help. I cannot remember those kindnesses without tearing up. I hope that if the roles were reversed, I would have been so thoughtful. Remembering the scene objectively, I can see that I looked in every way like a disturbed drug addict going through withdrawal, and I wonder if I would have chosen to keep my distance. A lesson learned there not to judge too quickly.
As I say, four hours later I left with a handful of prescriptions, including an anti-nausea pill given to cancer patients, and Prid, who had patiently sat with me through the day and (literally) carried me around the hospital, took me to the pharmacy, where I proceeded to humiliate myself further with another vomiting episode on Meath Street. Fortunately, the anti-nausea pill worked, I was able to take the other medications, and over the course of the next six days I slowly improved.
Slowly being a key word, because by the time I went to the hospital on Thursday for an appointment with my gastro (which through sheer luck had been scheduled already), I was still unable to eat anything more solid than mushy rice or walk more than a couple blocks. I’ll cut to the chase here, Smythe. The doctor doesn’t really know what to do and I know that because he said it to me directly.
“I wish I could give you a solution and tell you that is going to fix this,” Wolfe said. “But I can’t. What you have is very rare and we don’t really know what to do.”
Cheery news, all in all. I haven’t lost all hope, because Wolfe has sent me to a different specialist who potentially possibly maybe hopefully has one other option to help. But otherwise, it’s back to Wolfe to try a different treatment that isn’t really meant for my disease but might help anyway. He’s a smart man and I trust him to do his best. I just hope that’s good enough to fix me.
You can see how I had a lot on my mind when I pulled up to the U.S. Ambassador’s house. But I was still in awe when I pulled up to the gates, one of many cars queueing to get into the famously beautiful grounds. After my taxi pulled through, security, who never asked for my ID, searched the boot and bonnet of the car. Meanwhile, I stared. Vast, green, rolling grounds surrounded by trees; a long, winding driveway framed by American flags on either side; at the end, a stately, white colonial home. I could see what all the fuss was about. After the taxi dropped me off, I walked up to the entrance of the house. A large flag stood at the end of the driveway, in front of the house. Flower pots full of tastefully arranged red, white, and blue flowers were on either side of the door, and if this was not enough to stir my reluctantly patriotic soul, the interior did. I walked into the hallway onto a luscious red carpet on which a giant, gold eagle stared at me, asking me if I was proud to be an American. Pictures of Biden with the Ambassador rested on the table and the end of the hall, above which was a circular mirror held by another golden eagle. By the bar, where I responsibly ordered a 7-Up, hung a painting of Frederick Douglass. Something in my chest moved, and I allowed myself to embrace a feeling of pride for where I came from.
Because I am at my core a desperate people-pleaser, I was full of anxiety that because I felt so ill, I wouldn’t be “at my best.” Whatever that meant. Did I expect to singlehandedly charm the U.S. Ambassador into giving me an Irish passport?
My friend Manny, who invited me to the event, laughed at me when I told him this.
“Relax,” he said. “You’re not here to impress anyone. Just be yourself and enjoy the event.”
So I did. I walked around the house and admired the splendor. The event to which Manny had received an invitation, and then invited me to be his plus one, was for a talk with the legendary writer, John Banville. The Ambassador, Claire Cronin, introduced him, and for one hour I listened to one of the greats of modern Irish literature tell stories and make us laugh.
“You know, the Irish were colonized for, some say, eight hundred years,” Banville paused. “And look what we did with the English language as revenge.”
When the talk finished, the man sitting next to me remarked that Banville had turned the entire room into one ear. I agreed, and left to find the few people I knew at the event. I found them, socialized, and declined the seemingly hundreds of platters of hors d’oeuvres offered to me. (Alright, Smythe, I’ll admit it. I had one risotto ball. I couldn’t resist. It was worth it.)
Not long after eight o’clock, my friends had left, and I moved to leave. After using the toilet, and asking someone to take a photograph of myself (it was rubbish) in front of the mirror in the eagle’s grasp, I was ready to go. I turned to the front door.
He was standing just in front of the exit, cradled by a long brown coat, his head bowed down over his phone, feet splayed over the eagle. He looked small, frail, even, with the tall, cream walls framing him. It was a lovely picture. It was also my chance. I ran over.
He seemed even smaller, shakier in front of me.
“Mr. Banville, thank you so much for your talk this evening. It was wonderful.”
“Oh, thank you,” he raised his eyebrows.
“I really enjoyed it, it was such a pleasure.”
“What—”
I stuck a hand out, “My name is Marguerite Stevenson.”
He took it. He seemed very kind, “And where are you from?”
“I’m from Washington, DC. But I live here, I’ve been here two years.”
“Oh, I see,” he said.
The words were pouring out of me and I couldn’t find it within me to stop, and Banville’s politely interested gaze served as fuel.
“I’m a writer, at least I’m trying to be.”
Banville chuckled, “Oh, well…”
I smiled. I couldn’t stop smiling.
“Just keep writing,” he said.
“Thank you. I will.”
“It was nice to meet you.”
We nodded our goodbyes, and as he turned away, he said, “I wish you the best of luck.”
I must have run out of that house and up the driveway, trying to hold the memory of the exchange before it escaped me. I was fully aware that the conversation had meant almost nothing to him, but it didn’t matter. I had been blessed.
And when I got home, I went upstairs, opened my laptop, and started writing.
Love,
Marguerite