LITMIR.BIZ

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that it says in the Bible that all situations can work together for good.’ She helps me find relevant and uplifting passages of scripture and they emphasize to me why I need to have a close and personal relationship with God.

      The focus of my prayer is on healing. Mr Peach explains the bone tumour has been sent off for further tests. I know there is a chance that the results could show cancer but I am determined to prove the Lord in all this and I believe God can transform the Limpet into a benign and harmless lump.

      So I ask for healing and I spend more and more time praying for it. I read the gospels through, concentrating on the miracles to see how they are done. I realize that having faith is an important factor. A priest visits me and prays over my leg, placing his hands where I had the operation, now a mound of thick crepe bandages.

      ‘Lord, we believe You can heal Mary,’ he prays in a quiet intense voice. ‘We ask You to glorify Yourself and make Mary well.’ Then he prays in the words of the Spirit – the language of tongues. I am fascinated to hear the soft, unintelligible noises and they soothe my troubled mind. I am convinced that because the Spirit of God is present our prayers will be answered.

      I have made friends with the young house officer on our ward. He breezes in, always cheerful and considerate.

      ‘How are you, Trouble?’ he says in his soft Irish voice.

      ‘Fine, Dr Murphy, fine.’

      ‘Call me Jimmy, as you’re going to be a med student.’

      ‘Did you know God’s going to heal me, Jimmy?’

      ‘To be sure He will, but maybe it will be through modern medicine.’

      ‘Nope!’ I exclaim. ‘You see, I love the Lord and He won’t let me suffer! I’ll walk out of this hospital on two strong legs!’

      He is the first of many visitors and nurses to whom I witness in this way.

      A few days after my operation, several nurses on the ward realize I am feeling lonely and isolated in my side room. Ward Eight is a female orthopaedic ward and all the patients are immobile and elderly. Although I get plenty of visitors during the evenings, my days are long and tedious. Fixed in one position in my bed, I can’t go anywhere. I find it difficult to concentrate on books and I have listened and re-listened to my music tapes. Early one morning the door bursts open.

      ‘Surprise!’ shout three voices in unison and three young lads file into my room in wheelchairs.

      ‘I’m Steve.’

      ‘I’m Pete.’

      ‘And I’m Barry.’

      ‘Well, I’m Mary!’ I reply, eagerly. ‘But what are you all doing here?’

      ‘We’ve come to sympathize,’ says Steve. ‘We all had Thomas Splints for weeks so we know how awful it can be.’

      ‘So what did you all do to your legs, then?’ I ask.

      They tell their stories which are basically the same: motorbike accidents. ‘Barry’s was the worst,’ says Steve. ‘He almost lost his leg but Mr Peach saved it.’ Barry smiles shyly at me. He seems the quietest of the three.

      ‘I had my splint for twelve weeks,’ he says, ‘and my leg’s still in a brace.’ I look at his leg extended in front of him, two large pins through his bones fixed to a metal contraption. ‘At least I have my leg, though.’ He smiles again at me.

      We swop stories and they give me hints on how to cope with my splint. The room seems very quiet and empty when they have left. I am in a great deal of pain from the hip graft and the splint becomes more and more uncomfortable. It seems that, no matter which way I move, the leather of the ring bites into my soft flesh. I ache to be outside in the bright fresh air of crisp winter days. There is a tiny window in my room, but behind me; it feels as if light and colour have disappeared from my life. However, as the days progress and friends and neighbours hear of my predicament my room begins to fill with cards and flowers.

      ‘Just a few days more,’ I think to myself, ‘and my prayers will see an answer.’ The biopsy results are due and I am sure that God has healed me.

      The Ward Six boys visit me often now. I begin to witness to them, explaining God can change them and heal them.

      ‘Why did God allow my bike to crash, then?’ asks Peter. ‘He certainly wasn’t looking out for me that day.’

      ‘And what about my short leg?’ asks Barry in his soft cheerful voice. ‘I will always have to wear a boot, which will make me look awful.’

      It troubles me that I feel so much doubt when I look at the problems in life which really hurt. How could God allow these young boys’ lives to be damaged for ever? I am told I must not doubt God and my faith will heal me. And yet peace eludes me. I feel worried and anxious, ill and tired.

      January 6 is a special day in the Catholic calendar. The twelfth day of Christmas coincides with the feast of the Epiphany. Nobody visits me. The hours pass and no-one appears. I feel even lonelier when I think about everyone being busy taking down Christmas trees and packing away decorations for next year. The crib figures will be carefully placed in their straw beds and stowed away.

      In the evening, Dr Jimmy comes into my room.

      ‘Jimmy,’ I ask him, ‘do you think God wants to heal me?’ He looks at me and I am stunned to see tears in his eyes.

      ‘Oh, Mary,’ he sighs, ‘I don’t know the answer to that. I wish I did.’ He seems troubled, but then I know from our conversations that life as a house officer is not easy.

      ‘So why are you here so late, Jimmy?’ I continue, trying to sound cheerful.

      ‘Well, I’m a vampire tonight,’ he laughs, seeming to have recovered his usual good mood. ‘I need to take your blood, Little Lady.’

      ‘Why do you need to do that?’ I know this is out of the usual routine.

      ‘Well, tomorrow we have to take you to the operating theatre.’ He pauses for a few seconds. ‘To … check your dressings.’

      ‘Do I need to go to sleep for that, then?’ I ask, surprised, as the nurses have checked my dressings several times already in previous days.

      ‘Yes, you do – it could be painful,’ he replies slowly, concentrating on his task.

      ‘So what’s the transfusion for?’ I ask curiously, noticing a form requesting a blood cross-match. After a moment’s silence, Jimmy looks up from my arm.

      ‘You ask too many questions for a patient. You might bleed when we take off the dressings.’

      I meet him directly in the eyes and he looks away. I know he is not telling the truth but inside me a voice urges silence ‘It’s not the appointed time’ – the words flood into my mind from nowhere. The question forming on my lips dies and I look at the young doctor again. He smiles awkwardly.

      ‘Okay, Jimmy,’ I reply instead. He relaxes visibly – and I feel a wave of fear flood over me.

      ‘Get a good night’s sleep now, won’t you,’ he advises, leaving my room.

      When he has gone the silence is heavy and oppressive. I know something is going on and I feel bewildered and lonely. Closing my eyes I try to pray, but the words will not form. ‘Jesus,’ I whisper. ‘I am scared, so scared. Please help me.’ I lie back against the pillow and close my eyes against the troubling world. The nurses bring me my tablets and I gulp them down eagerly. I want to be asleep and away from my anxiety. I pray quietly to myself and repeat over and over again the words that I have read in the Bible: ‘Be not afraid, be not afraid.’ Soon the fear is swallowed up in sleep.

      I awake suddenly and, despite the heavy dose of sleeping tablets and painkillers, I am immediately alert. I am filled with a sense of expectancy. The room is becoming light and soon I am bathed in the brightest, purest light I have ever known. I know there is a physical

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