Mornings at Mount Prospect NS in Clontarf were a noisy affair as mothers and minders engaged in chatter and natter, and kids ran amok. Such was the din, even the nearby starlings were drowned out, which was some feat.

Vinny Fitzpatrick tended to keep clear of any yackety-yak gatherings when he was on drop-off duty, like he was this windswept Tuesday.

Had the mams stopped gabbing, they might have noticed the burly bus driver seemed a little distant, as he stood to one side, schoolbags hanging from shovel-like hands while the twins, Aoife and Oisín, dashed around.

A week shy of their sixth birthday, the nippers were like chalk and cheese. Aoife was leggy and lively, a bright kid with an infectious smile and a willingness to please.

Oisín was stumpy and stout, like his Pop, and not particularly bright in school either, but he was a good-natured lad and always in the thick of things in the yard.

As Vinny observed the kids splish-splosh about in the puddles, he felt a lump in his throat. He knew they had no grasp of recent events which had thrown the household into disarray, unlike their Da, who couldn’t stop thinking about it all.

In a couple of hours his wife, Angie, would go under the surgeon's knife at Beaumont Hospital as the opening salvo was launched in her fight against breast cancer. The invasive illness had struck silently and quickly, to the extent that the kindly professor, Danny Rooney, had suggested "we repel all boarders as soon as possible".

Vinny knew Prof Rooney, long and lean, as a leading light in the yacht club who had a habit of talking in nautical nuances.

“Let’s blow this breeze out before she builds into a storm,” he said cheerfully when Angie’s mammogram result confirmed the worst news imaginable: a mastectomy was unavoidable.

So too were six blasts of chemotherapy, as well as a follow-up course of radiotherapy. “We must be-calm the blighter for good,” said the Prof.

Against the odds, Angie had borne the grim tidings with greater stoicism than her husband, who had begun to snivel in Prof Rooney’s rooms until Angie shot him a stern glance. The Prof felt Angie had a lot of positives on her side, emphasising her strong physical condition and early diagnosis.

Pesky squalls

“We also know a lot more about these pesky squalls than we did 20 years ago. Don’t you worry, Angie, we’ll steer you into tranquil waters,” he said.

In the days counting down to the operation, Angie had gone about her business in a cool, detached way that had half-frightened Vinny. She had checked that her health assurance policy covered life-threatening illnesses, which it did; she’d also gone through the provisions of her will. “Just in case things come unstuck,” she said.

Angie had also arranged her cover at Boru Betting and was told by her bosses, Winstons, she would be paid in full until she was ready to return to work. “I’d have given long odds against that,” she quipped.

Help was on hand in the shape of Angie’s sister, Debs, who was on call for school drops and pick-ups, and would also prepare three proper dinners a week for Vinny and the twins.

“That’s to stop you from tucking into Capri suppers and a Chinese every other night,” said Angie tenderly.

For Vinny, his wife’s unyielding resolve as D-Day loomed was an eye-opener.

He knew if he was the one going under the knife for anything, especially the C word, he’d be bricking it.

Even though he had his own health scares since turning 50, they were the sort which hadn’t crept up on him.

The heart attack hit him out of the blue, as did the car which vaulted the pavement that night a few years back.

Each time, he couldn’t get out of the way, and was unable to process what had happened until flat on his bum, gasping in pain. This was different. This was a situation he knew was coming, with all its hurtling darkness. And it all seemed so surreal.

Beloved wife

His beloved wife was ill, dangerously so, and yet she looked a million dollars. She didn’t have a cough, hadn’t lost any weight, and was in complete control of her faculties. Yet, below the surface, a silent, stealthy, poison was doing its damnedest to prevent her hitting the half-century.

Not only that, but Vinny was unable to prevent its sinewy slithering as it sought out healthy cells and infected them with its toxic flow.

He was his wife’s great protector, her champion, whose role in life was to provide shelter and tender care. And what could he do to help her now, in her greatest hour of peril? Not a sausage. He felt as useless as a tail on a dog. As Vinny stood staring into nothingness, he was vaguely aware of a bell ringing, cars pulling away, children disappearing, doors closing. And then, after a bit, all went quiet. Except for the raucous starlings, and the sobbing of the middle-aged man in the schoolyard.