I first noticed it on a wet Tuesday evening in Smithfield, when the windows of our small GP clinic had gone black and the buses hissed past like tired animals. I was twenty-six then, newly working reception, full of systems and appointment slots and the kind of efficiency that makes you feel useful. Dr. Eamon Kavanagh was near retirement, with silver hair that never obeyed him and a cardigan he wore under his white coat even in June. His last patient that evening was Mrs. Nuala Keogh, who came in every fortnight with a different pain. Her knee, her chest, her sleep, her hands. That day it was a ringing in her left ear.
I had already put on my coat. The computer was shutting down. I heard Dr. Kavanagh say, “I’ll walk you as far as the door, Nuala.” Then he stayed with her in the waiting room, not speaking about medicine at all. He asked about her late husband’s rose bushes, about whether the sparrows had come back to her windowsill, about a grandniece in Galway whose name he remembered. Five minutes became eight. I stood there, annoyed, because the Luas would be packed and I had promised my sister I’d meet her near O’Connell Street.
When Mrs. Keogh finally left, she turned back at the door and said, “You’re the only person who asks me something I don’t have to survive answering.” I did not understand it fully then. I only knew the room felt different after she was gone, as if she had left a small lamp burning behind her.
Over the next few months, I saw his habit again and again. He was never late in a careless way. He moved quickly when there was danger, sharply when there was pain, but when loneliness sat in the chair across from him, he slowed down. He gave it five minutes. Sometimes he asked about a dog. Sometimes he remembered a dead wife’s birthday. Sometimes he let a man cry while pretending to search for a leaflet. In a city as busy as Dublin, where everyone seemed to be crossing bridges, catching buses, tapping cards, and apologising for being in the way, he made a small country of attention around each person.
One winter afternoon, the incident that changed me happened. It was the week before Christmas, the kind of cold that makes the stone buildings look sterner. A man named Seán Doyle arrived without an appointment. He lived alone off Dorset Street, not far from the Mater Hospital, and he had the formal manners of someone raised never to be a burden. He wore a brown overcoat polished thin at the elbows and held his cap with both hands. He said he had a pain in his chest, but he said it so calmly I almost asked him to come back the next morning.
Dr. Kavanagh saw him immediately. I remember that because the waiting room was full, and one woman sighed loudly enough for us all to hear. The consultation took longer than usual. When Seán came out, his face looked pale but relieved. Dr. Kavanagh handed me a note for an ECG and bloods, then quietly asked if I could ring a taxi. “Not an ambulance?” I whispered. He shook his head. “Not yet. But he shouldn’t walk.”
While we waited, Seán sat by the radiator and stared at the little Christmas tree I had placed beside the magazines. It was cheap and lopsided, with red baubles from a discount shop on Henry Street. Dr. Kavanagh should have gone back to the other patients, but he sat beside Seán instead. Five minutes, I thought. There it is again.
He asked Seán if he had plans for Christmas. Seán smiled, a polite little movement. “Ah, I’ll have the dinner anyway. Dunnes do a grand small turkey.” Dr. Kavanagh nodded. “And who’ll you be giving out to over it?” Seán looked at him then, really looked.
Note: Please be aware that these are written in confidentiality and there is not reference or mention of any real people and their sentiments here. Every incident and Story tends to be emotional so please read at your own emotional risk. Website is not responsible for anything related. HumansofDublin.io is not related to the photography project HumansofDublin by Peter Varga
