Volume 1 (1999/2000)
Issue 1 (March 1999)
Issue 2 (Nov. 1999)
Issue 3 (Dec. 1999)
Issue 4 (Feb. 2000)
Issue 5 (March 2000)
Issue 6 (April 2000)
Issue 7 (May 2000)

Volume 2 (2000/2001)
Issue 1 (Sept. 2000)
Issue 2 (Oct. 2000)
Issue 3 (Jan. 2001)
Issue 4 (March 2001)
Issue 5 (April 2001)
Issue 6 (May 2001)

Volume 3 (2001)
Issue 1 (Sept. 2001)
Issue 2 (Nov. 2001)

Categories
Sport: 1 2 3
Lifestyles: 1 2 3
Commentary: 1 2 3
Review: 1 2 3
Writing: 1 2 3
Event: 1 2 3

Gang

Gavin Lawler
Scoil Eoin, Rathstewart, Athy

Gavin Lawler watched his grandfather die as a result of receiving infected blood. He recounts the painful reality suffered by his family.

Sitting in the car, staring silently out the window, not a word to be spoken among the occupants, only the monotonous humming of the car's wheels. They turned on the road beneath propelling us along, a scene that is a far cry from the once bustling happy faces, that chit-chatted away, laughing together, not so long ago, but such a distant memory that it feels like an eternity.

It has been seven months now since my grandfather painfully passed away, lying on his bed, seven months, since darkness has enclosed our family as the light of his soul slowly, but in reflection, quickly was extinguished.

John Berry "Gang" pictured in 1988 with his
grandchildren, Linda, Gavin and Philip Lawler.

He was a simple, ordinary man, a funny, humorous and jolly character and you were always sure of laughter once you entered his company. He was not tall, in fact he was quiet short and plump with pink cheeks and a deep, deep, laugh, that one heard, would cause you to sucumb to his infectiousness. A lorry driver, that loved the sight of raw wood, a keen carpenter, with a wide collection of tools at his disposal, the talent of taking a piece of wood and changing it into a masterpiece in his possession, all his simple joys, soon, by no fault of his own to be stripped from him due to a scandal, a murder.

Twenty years ago, he entered a hospital with a nosebleed and it was there, tragedy struck our family, camouflaged for fifteen years. He was given a blood transfusion unscreened blood, infected with Hepatitis C was put into his body infecting him, unknown to him or us.
So long ago, so many mistakes, each day I question how people could ever have been so careless with another's life.

He continued on living as he had, unaware that his life was in danger. One day, during a check-up at St. James' Hospital he was asked how was his Hepatitis. What a shock to him and his family, to be told so coldly, to be mad aware with a casual question, that he would die.

I always remember hushed talks between my parents and often seeing my mother, her eyes full of sorrow and tears and I too became aware something was wrong, but I did not know exactly. I was aware my grandfather was sick, but no more, the image of her face still etched in my mind and its cause now, so clear. He was given six months to live as the disease took over his body in 1999 and from then on, his condition deteriorated.

As I started my new school, I often remember him, not being present at family gatherings and reasons, silly now, were issued to cover up the truth, each day being a struggle for him, up a day, down a day, and each day my mother and grandmother, became more heartbroken.
A month before he died, he was admitted to hospital and by now I was aware of his condition, almost two years after he was given six months to live.

It was August and I remember it so well, the routine. My mother minded children and I would each day do my best to look after them for her, so she could go to visit my grandfather, driving to Dublin each day, sometimes twice a day. Often, if the children went early, I accompanied her, a journey of sorrow, harder to complete each time.

I remember the smell of the hospital and walking down the corridors to his little room, where he lay, sometimes unable to get out of bed or talk and my mother telling him stories, saying he was looking better, even though he was getting worse. His skin colour was turning the most revolting and horrifying colour of an off-yellow I have ever seen. He always worried it it was noticeable, of course we lied and said no.

An experience I will never forget is the day I walked out of the room, giving him and my mother a chance to talk in private and witnessing human emotions at their most exposed and raw moment. I stood outside his room when I heard shouting and crying from the room next door and a boy, older than me ran out into the corridor and fell down on his knees crying, followed by his uncle, who embraced him.

The boy's father had died and the boy was in despair, tears rolling down his eyes, as his uncle told him to be strong, that he now had to look after the family as the boy protested, stating that he was not ready, he wanted his father, as they rocked back and forth, pain surrounding them and tears flowing. As tears started to creep down my cheeks at this sorrowful event my mother came out of the room. I wiped the tears away and left, not talking all the way home.

Events soon came to a climax. My grandfather was dying and things were falling apart. My mother gave up her job to care for him in his home. My father went with her to collect him from the hospital. Once home he wanted to be brought around the entire house, from top to bottom, his kitchen, his living room, his back garden that he spent his summers working on and, finally, his beloved shed. Inside were all his tools - so clean and still. He said his final goodbyes as he was brought up to his bedroom, got into bed and never got out again.

Events soon came to a climax. My grandfather was dying and things were falling apart. My mother gave up her job to care for him in his home. My father went with her to collect him from the hospital. Once home he wanted to be brought around the entire house from top to bottom to see his kitchen, his living room, his back garden that he spent his summers working on and, finally, his beloved shed. Inside were all his tools - so clean and still. He said his final goodbyes as he was brought up to his bedroom, got into bed and never got out again.

My mother dressed him, fed him what he could eat and drink, carried him across her back to the toilet and stayed by his side each and every minute of his final week on earth. I did not see my grandfather that week. I was unable to climb the stairs to his room and see a shell of the man he once was. On Sunday, coming out of church car park with my sister, her mobile phone rang. Tears began to stream down her face and she dropped the phone. As I sat in the backseat, I knew what had happened. As we entered the house our grandmother grabbed us and held us together and we cried.

We were asked to go upstairs to see him - I felt so sick, I didn't want to go, didn't want to accept that he was gone. I waited until after my sister had gone and then followed her. The stairs seemed to have more steps than before. I climbed, feeling numb. I entered the bedroom and saw a scene that still haunts me. His hands were enclosed by my mother's, his eyes had sunk deep into his head and his skin was so yellow. My mother talked to him as though he was alive, informing him that I was there. The obvious sorrow and pain was too much and I raced down the stairs and out into the open, gasping for air.

The next week was heart-breaking as we saw him alive again on the News and then the wreath with the name 'Gang'. This was the name we gave him having adopted it from my mother. At two, unable to pronounce his name, she called him 'gang' - the mispronunciation survived over forty years. Without him, our world is a darker place.

Back to the top