My old dear’s tear duct transplant was a 100 per cent success – that’s according to Dr Karoly Estherazy, the dude who performed the actual op.
When I walk into the recovery ward, she’s sitting up in bed, with two humungous black eyes, wondering was that a vending machine she saw outside in the corridor and does it by any chance vend gin martinis?
I’m there, “Don’t excite yourself,” because her hort monitor is beeping like you wouldn’t believe. “Just try to hang on a few hours, then we’ll go back to the hotel and see have they restocked the mini bor.”
And that’s when – like I said – the doctor steps into the room? “The operation was 100 per cent a success!” he goes.
The old dear’s like, “How wonderful! Did you hear that, Ross? It worked! I have tear ducts again!”
The dude goes, “The bruising on your eyes will go down in perhaps one week to 10 days. Now, do you have any questions for me?”
I’m there, “Does that coffee machine out there do cocktails? I’m asking for a friend.”
He goes, “Cocktails, no. There is no alcohol permitted in the hospital. So now, Fionnuala, all that remains for me is to test your new tear ducts. Can you cry for me please?”
She’s like, “I beg your pardon?”
He’s, like, staring into her eyes, shining a little penlight into them. “Before I can discharge you from the hospital,” he goes, “I must be certain you can produce tears.”
She’s like, “What the hell do you think I am – a bloody hose pipe? Tell him, Ross.”
I’m there, “The woman doesn’t really have normal human emotions, Doctor. We’re from Foxrock.”
He just nods, even though I doubt if they’ve ever heard of it in Bucharest. He switches off his penlight.
He’s there, “Okay, perhaps if you can think of something in the past that made you cry – perhaps a film?”
“A film!” I go. “What about that CCTV footage of you trying to reverse into a porking space outside Donnybrook Fair? Remember, you took Miriam O’Callaghan’s wing mirror off, then drove away without even leaving a note?”
She just shakes her head and goes, “If I felt nothing when the gordaí arrived at the door, I’m unlikely to feel anything now.”
Dr Estherhazy’s there, “Perhaps, then, there is a moment of sadness or trauma in your recent past that will bring tears to your eyes?”
“I remember you getting really upset,” I go, “about a year ago, when one of the neighbours hired that bouncy castle for their kid’s birthday porty. You went to the High Court looking for an injunction to stop them inflating the thing.”
She goes, “Bouncy castles attract undesirables, Ross. They’re not for People Like Us.”
"Well, do you remember when the judge threw the case out of court and said you obviously had way too much time on your hands? You were very sad that day?"
“I wasn’t sad. I was furious and I was resolute. And now I’m suing them for deleteriously affecting the value of my property. Hennessy thinks there’s a good chance I’ll win. It’s not something that would make me cry.”
I can't stay in Bucharest forever. I've got a ticket for Twickenham. What about when my kids were born? You must have felt something then?
The doctor goes, “What about your son here? I’m sure he has brought you great pride. I’m sure he has done many, many things that brought you to tears.”
I’m there, “What about that Mother’s Day cord I gave you when I was, like, six?”
The doctor goes, “A card made her cry?”
"Yeah, no, it's actually the only reason I came to Bucharest with her. Apparently, I wrote in it, 'Roses are red, violets are blue, when I grow up, I want to marry you!' She threatened to show it to my daughter, who would have definitely put it up on Instagram. "
The doctor smiles. He goes, “What a lovely message for a little boy to write to his mother. Surely this made you cry?”
The old dear pulls a face. “I remember thinking it was a little needy,” she goes, “and probably related to me not breastfeeding him as a baby.”
The doctor just shakes his head. He’s already given up trying to make an emotional connection with her. And he’s a man of science – well, that’s if his medical qualifications are to be believed. And I have my doubts.
He’s there, “I have other patients to see. All I can say to you is that I cannot let you leave this hospital until I see tears.”
Then off he goes.
I’m there, “I can’t stay in Bucharest forever. I’ve got a ticket for Twickenham. What about when my kids were born? You must have felt something then?”
“What,” she goes, “the twins?”
“Er, they’re actually triplets? ”
“Triplets? Are you absolutely certain?”
“Yeah, those are the kind of details a parent remembers.”
“Well, I can’t say that I felt especially emotional when they were born. What are they called again?”
“Their names are Brian, Johnny and Leo.”
"I must write them down. No, I do remember feeling old – very old – when you told me that I suddenly had all these new grandchildren. Three more, if your calculations are correct."
Something suddenly hits me out of nowhere. It’s like someone has thrown a bucket of ice water over me. “That Mother’s Day cord I supposedly wrote you,” I go, “where is it?”
She’s there, “I destroyed it. I promised you that I would if you came to Bucharest with me.”
I actually can’t believe how thick I can sometimes be.
“It’s just I couldn’t have written you that cord,” I go, “seeing as I couldn’t read and write until I was, like, 14 years old.”
She actually bursts out laughing in my face.
I’m there, “I can’t believe you lied to me. I can’t believe you dragged me – presumably – halfway around the world on the basis of a lie.”
I actually kick her bedside locker. But that makes her laugh even horder.
I’m there, “You’re an absolute disgrace. You’re a disgraceful excuse for a mother.”
And suddenly it happens. Tears stort pouring from her eyes – we’re talking great rivers of water. She stops laughing and touches her cheek, then stares at her wet fingers like she’s seeing a miracle.
She goes, “Quick, Ross! Go and get the doctor!”
