I’m writing to you from Malta this week, where there are over 300 churches on this little sun-kissed island. It certainly gives Ireland a run for its money. The bells are tolling clearly every hour, and as I sit in this shaded garden at dusk, the crickets are also serenading me with their song. There’s something so intimate about the sound of the church bells. In a way, it’s comforting and nostalgic. So, I thought I’d stick with the Virgin Mary theme and share with you a little condensed story from my memoir.

If you’ve read some of my previous blogs you are acutely aware of my love and adoration of the Blessed Virgin Mary. It began at an early age. I was 4 or 5 when I was ushered into the kitchen for the first time to listen to the familiar yet frightening Gong at 6 o’clock when the Angelus came on the ‘wireless’ (as Nana Byrne used to call it). That Gong, even today, is enough to make the hair stand up on my neck. Just last week, I was visiting my mam, and sure enough as soon as that bloody GONG came on, she stood up straight away, and began mumbling the Hail Mary. I was sitting beside my partner, who had a justified confused look on her face, and she quietly asked if my mother was okay.

“Oh she’s grand”, I joked. “It’s just the Angelus”. My partner remained confused.

HOW does one explain the Angelus to a new-comer?  Without sounding like a complete lunatic that is.  Granted, I have autonomy on that subject as we all know, (https://orladoherty.com/a-pint-of-heineken-and-a-shot-of-lithium-please-part-one/), but how does an average, apparently sound-minded person explain it?  

If I’m honest, I’m glad my mother still has her faith. It brings her comfort and peace, particularly at times when nothing else can help her. My approach to her religion is similar to my dad’s approach to my gayness. About 5 years after I came out, he told me that he compared my homosexuality to the 55 mile per hour speed limit. 

“I don’t like it Orla,” he announced over dinner, “but I deal with it”. I wasn’t quite sure how to react, but do remember thinking: if he doesn’t break the speed limit, then he won’t allow our relationship to be broken either. It’s the same for me with my mam and her dedication to the Catholic Church. I don’t like it, but I accept it. 

Now, on with the condensed story! Let me take you back to the Summer of 1978. I was 7 years old and I had just made my Holy Communion. My Nana used to go to Lourdes every year with the local community of St. Annes in Portmarnock. (https://orladoherty.com/ille-gay-ly-homosexual-part-two/)  In honour of my First Communion, she brought me back a most special present. One that I would cherish for a very long time.

It was an illuminous statue of the Virgin Mary.

But wait. It was no ordinary illuminous statue of the Virgin Mary. She stood at least 2 inches tall, which, to this seven-year-old was VERY big, longer than my very small hand. Her features could be felt by carefully running my little fingers across the hard surface. There were creases on her long gown that gathered at the bottom around her perfectly formed shoes. Soft lines were etched in tiny patterns to illustrate her delicate face. Her hands were joined in prayer neatly on her chest. This particular Holy Mary was hollow. Holding her upside down, I unscrewed the black plastic base, to discover a handsome amount of holy water inside her actual body. This is amazing I thought to myself. I had to be very careful never to spill a drop of her precious miracle-performing liquid. It also meant that whenever Nana Byrne came to my room muttering prayers late at night, to douse me with HER supply of ammunition, not only did I take cover, but I was armed and ready for the counter-attack. Poor Holy Mary. She must have had whiplash by the time I was finished with her.

I grew to love this little statue and slept with her every night.  She wasn’t the cosiest of things to snuggle with. Most kids had a cuddly toy. Not me. I had a ceramic, illuminous, Holy Mary.  Little Ted was pushed aside for several months when she came along. Waiting until all the lights were off, I used to duck my head under the blankets just to watch her illuminate.  Naturally, I’d have the banter with her. 

Me: Hiya Holy Mary

HM:  Hello Orla.  You look well child. (I assumed all Holy People used the term ‘child’)

Me:  Can you see me though?  Because it’s dark under here.

HM:  I can see everything.  Day or Night.  I am the Virgin Mary, Mother of God.

Me:  Oh, right yeah. Well, you look beautiful. You’re all lit up. 

HM:  Thank you Orla.  You are such a pure soul.

Me: Ah thanks. I’ll fill you up tomorrow. After mass, I’ll get some holy water from my Nana.  She’s got loads of it.

HM:  Good, because you’ll need that going in to get your tonsils out.

Me: Oh right.  Do you think they’ll let me bring you with me into the operation?

HM:  Of course they will.  I’m the Virgin Mary, Mother of God.

In many ways, this little piece of ceramic saved me. We all joke about having imaginary friends, and this was the one I turned to most.  She knew all my secrets, and in a way, answered all my questions.

I had been complaining of a sore throat for several weeks after my Holy Communion.  Our local doctor, Dr. May confirmed that I did indeed have tonsilitis and needed to have my tonsils removed. I would relish in the attention I received for those few days. 

Arriving at Temple Street Hospital in Dublin, the nurses took me to my ward straight away. I was mesmerized by how loving they were. Drawn to every one of them, I gave them full permission to bath me with their personalities. My body would melt in their presence when they tucked me in on the first night.  I just seemed to have a thing about nuns and nurses, didn’t I?  Remember Sister Margaret?  (https://orladoherty.com/coming-out-ille-gay-ly-1992/).

There I was, in a tiny metal framed bed that had an uncomfortable plastic sheet on it (in case I wet the bed – I still do occasionally, bloody peri-menopause). Clinging onto my Holy Mary statue, one of the nurses gently caressed my forehead, and smiled at the object in my hand. She had an odd smell (I now know this to be cottonwool and antiseptic). As a child, I continued to associate this delightful aroma with kind and gentle nurses. 

“You’ll be safe with her Orla, won’t you?”  She had a soft, reassuring voice. “I’ve one myself, at home”.

“Can I bring her into the operation with me?” I asked nervously, inhaling her sterile scent.

“Of course you can”. Her eyes were a dazzling blue. What is it about nurses and nuns that drove me to insanity in my first ten years on earth? You must wonder if I have a fetish for women in uniform 40 years later!  (I’ll never tell)

You were right, I assured Holy Mary that she could come in with me for the surgery.

I know. In my imagination, she winked and nodded.

After my parents comforted me with the assurance that I would be fine for the night and they’d be back first thing in the morning, I said my prayers with HM.  Before I drifted off to sleep, I became aware of a soft night light in the corner of the room, and I could hear the nurses’ pitter patter quietly around the ward. I listened intently to hear their voices, as they softly whispered to other patients. How I longed to sit with them, and witness their tenderness. 

Early the following morning, my movie-star nurses showed up again with a doctor to do the pre-operation exam. I’m not writing from memory at this point, but just assuming that’s what happened. My main memory is feeling so loved and cared for by these nurses, and I can remember craving the attention.* 

I’ll never forget waking up, clutching my darling HM statue, and a delightful nurse brought me some jelly and ice-cream. My tongue glided easily against my soft gums at the front of my mouth. It was a strange sensation as the ice-cream tickled the space between my upper lip and what I thought to be my teeth. I was under the impression that this was the result of getting my tonsils removed, and had no idea I had lost two of my pearly whites in the process.  

My mam arrived and sat on my tiny bed, holding my hand in hers as she nudged my little legs over to give her some space. Imagine her shock when I beamed a big toothless smile, thrilled to see her.

“Jesus Christ!”, she exclaimed jumping up from the bed, the plastic sheet rustling beneath me. “Where are your teeth?!”

Clueless as to what she was talking about, my smile grew bigger with sheer delight to see she had brought in a plastic bag full of sweets.

“What Mam?” I was eyeing up the bottle of Lucozade in the bag.

“What happened your front teeth?” she moved in closer to me, determined to find them. They had to be in there somewhere. She pulled apart my cheeks and peered into my mouth. I could smell her breath. Tea and Jaffa-cakes.

“Oh, good morning, you must be Orla’s mam”. Ah, my lovely nurse to the rescue.

“Where are my daughter’s teeth?” my mother always got straight to the point.

The nurse motioned to my mam to step outside where she explained what had happened during the operation. Unbeknownst to me, while I was asleep, the doctor became concerned that one of my two front teeth was loose, so in order to avoid a potential baby tooth slipping down my throat during the procedure causing me to choke, he took it upon himself to remove BOTH my front teeth. My mother was equally surprised and relieved as the nurse handed her a tiny plastic case containing the evidence. 

That night, as I huddled under my blankets in the hospital bed, I had another chat with HM.

Me:  Hiya Holy Mary.  I got my tonsils out alright, but did you know they took my two front teeth as well?

HM: I do know that Orla.  Don’t worry my child.  You’ll have a nice surprise under your pillow tomorrow morning.

Ah, the tooth fairy. Another fantasy for me to latch onto. It was perfect. It would be the first of many fairies in my life!

The first night I got home after getting my tonsils and teeth removed, we gathered in the kitchen after tea awaiting the Angelus. As the first Gong sounded over the airwaves, my nana dedicated the first decade of the rosary to the safe arrival of my new two front teeth. It would be almost 18 months before they poked through. I remember clearly that Christmas of 1979 when all I wanted was ‘nuttin’ but my two front teeth!‘

Thank you for reading once again, and have a wonderful week!

*I expect I am not alone, when I say there wasn’t a lot of physical or verbal love in our home during the 70’s and 80’s.  It was an unspoken assumption that my mam and dad loved me, but it was never said aloud.  I’m quite certain this was typical of Irish families.  If memory serves me correctly, you’d be told you’d gone a bit soft if you said ‘I love you’ to anyone. Still, I yearned to hear it.  I know my parents were doing their best, but they never said they loved me until much later in life.