Sam Knox - Issue 34

(First Time Published Slot)

Having worked in local Government in Northern Ireland for forty-three years within the Environmental Health Profession, during my last 10 years in the profession, I served Southern Group Environmental Health Committee as its Group Chief Environmental Health officer. During my career I was made a Fellow of the Chartered Institute of Environmental Health and more recently served as its President in Northern Ireland. One of the highlights of my career was the part I played in shaping the policy for a Smoke Free Northern Ireland. That policy focused on educating the general public prior to the legislation coming into effect and thereafter securing compliance with the legislation.

My love of writing began in Kilkeel High School, fuelled by the enthusiasm of some excellent English teachers. However, my career took me in a very different direction. Now in retirement, I have the time and space to return to my first love, and to explore creative writing and flash fiction. My inspiration to date has come from the tapestry of my life experiences and my family with little twists of fiction throughout. These published pieces are first steps on the road, hopefully, to achieving some modicum of success in my literary endeavours.

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For Whom The Bell Tolls

August 2023

It was a beautiful morning as we set off on the final leg of our journey. We were driving to the Cancer Centre, City Hospital, Belfast where she had already endured three weeks of radiotherapy treatment daily. Each time there, I found myself aghast at the age-range and diversity of social class of patients waiting for treatment. From children to middle aged to pensioners, some suited and booted, some scruffy. Cancer is no respecter of age or

class.

Diagnosis had been followed by surgery and then chemotherapy. The poison pumped into Olivia’s veins had led to the severest consequences. Lethargy and nausea followed by hair loss, eyebrows and eyelashes gone, broken nails. White blood cells dropping and infection risk increasing. Every third week a modicum of recovery. Such indignity for anyone to bear. I marvelled at her stoicism in the face of adversity. The inevitable wig was a further insult borne well. She hated people knowing or sympathising.

As we searched for seats in the waiting room, we were greeted by an Alderman from our local council where Olivia had worked. He looked at each of us in turn and then muttered;

“Which one of you?”

She gasped, then replied softly;

“Me … but please respect my privacy.”

James affirmed he would be very careful. I could see the shock in his eyes. After all, Olivia was eight years younger than me and always the picture of health. I knew it would be impossible for him to keep a lid on this.

We found adjoining seats and waited our turn. Not a word passed our lips. Our journey together had been smattered with silences, each in our own thoughts. Her buzzer went off and away she went, oblivious to my remark;

“Best of luck.”

Each time I marvelled at how quickly she returned. Radiographers knew time was precious with so many awaiting treatment. This time, being the last time, things were different. Her two radiographers accompanied her as she went to the bell at the far side of the room. A notice above the bell explained its meaning.

“A ringing bell means one of our patients has reached the end of their treatment. It has a powerful effect for patients, families, staff and those starting treatment …”

Olivia put her handbag on the ground, reached for the bell and, grinning from ear to ear, gave it three mighty tugs. A hush descended over the waiting room, heads turned in her direction, and then, radiographers, patients, family members and ancillaries all clapped together. Such a poignant moment. Tears came as I filmed the scene on my phone. As she came over to me, she was walking on sunbeams, dancing on rainbows. I reflected on the poem beside the bell which sang out words of hope:

Ring this bell

Three times well

Its toll to clearly say

My treatment is done

This course is run

And I am on my way.

Happiness coursed through our veins as we set off in our car to modestly celebrate the end of the journey at SD Bells coffee shop on the Newtownards Road.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

May 2024

Ten months later, Olivia passed away peacefully at home as I held her hand and whispered in her ear. Just the two of us as she had wished.

I have since discovered time is not a great healer.

The Fels

I can see it all happening so clearly. My mummy has just told me she has entered me again in the Feis at The Guildhall in Derry. I’m going to be sick!

To learn a poem and then stand up and repeat it in front of everyone! That strange feeling in my tummy when she had me singing at the Feis the last time. Like when I played the piano for my first exam. This old man sitting watching me and then writing. My hands shaking as I played, my heart thumping, my tummy hurting. When I told Mummy, she called it something I didn’t understand.

Anyway, this poem thing, it was for 8-year-olds like me and she said whoever won would get to do a poem on the wireless. Not much of a prize I thought!

Yes, the strange feelings came back as I sat waiting my turn. Every boy and girl before me was much better than me. I shook, and thought I was going to “BOKE” even before I got up. But something happened when I was on the stage in front of all those people with the strange woman with a clipboard watching me. The awful feelings left, and I could hear my voice loud and clear.

They clapped. I’d won. Big deal I thought, until I saw the look on my mummy’s face. She was smiling at me and there were tears in her eyes. Then she hugged me in front of all those people. What is wrong with her? I asked myself.

Now I have to learn another poem and go back to the Guildhall and do it all over again. Mummy said they would record me, and we would listen to me on the BBC on Children’s Hour … whatever that is.

Children of Chernobyl

He was staying at the Professor’s house in Guildford for several days. Professor Harris’s staff had been analysing fish, shellfish and dulse on his behalf, looking for evidence of Sellafield discharges into the Irish sea. On his first morning there, he went to the bathroom and froze at the sight of plastic bags of clothes lying in the bath. Shocked at alpha particles so close, he tried to calm down. The clothes belonged to students of Surrey University who had returned the previous night from Minsk and Kiev. They had been picked from the airport by the Professor and their family members.

He prayed for the students

The previous week, he had attended a short course in Leyland on radiation and radioactive waste. On the last morning, the tutor announced the lid had blown off one of Chernobyl’s reactors. It couldn’t happen; the highest safety standards; BUT IT DID! That night he watched footage of soldiers putting out fires and shovelling radioactive dust

He prayed for the soldiers

At the University that morning he saw magazines of the returned students lying around the Laboratories … with red dust from Chernobyl caught in the seams. He knew the cloud would spread across Europe, and that the dust would, in time, eventually wash away. But his thoughts were of the children caught in the catastrophe. He knew the soldiers would die; the students would be monitored for life; the children, who didn’t die, would be sick for years.

He prayed for the children