A symphony of pain or a discordant melody I’m not sure which is closer. As the bus bounced and jolted through the Irish countryside pain played its tune.
Bass notes were constant and would rumble and vibrate while the higher ones danced and darted here and there, my left arm was immobile. The hand trembled, and fingers moved, but the arm was surrounded by an electric field that sent shocks if I tried to move it in any direction. My right hand busily mopped the blood from my brow. The flows had stopped, but drops would build before breaking free to run down my face, only to be dabbed away by my right hand.
The ghostly reflection in the darkness of the coach window showed a red arc spread from above my left eye and across my forehead. The white of the wet wipes and tissues, kindly given to me by an asian lady at the bus stop, had disappeared, so it was hard to tell if the cuts were still bleeding or my bloodstained tissue could absorb no more.
I had set out fifty minutes earlier to walk into town for the airport bus. It was an early flight so it made sense to catch an overnight coach and get some sleep on the way. But sleep was now impossible as I willed on the digital clock above the driver. It’s not that minutes seemed like hours, just that pain has a time of its own and the journey was measured in its language, the ebb and flow of shocks and stabs.
I was just a hundred meters from the bus stop when disaster struck, light rain, an uneven surface, and darkness combined to send me arse over tit, and my forehead and shoulder connected with concrete like old friend after a long absence, whack.
Two and a half hours later I was delivered to Dublin airport, the last to get off the bus and with the help of a trolley for my bag, I was able to make it into the terminal. After the bus ride I knew I would never make it through the airport and onto my flight, so I asked the only airport employee around at that time, a cleaner, for help. An airport supervisor , a policeman, and two ambulance men later, I was unequivocally told that hospital was the only option. The copper asked where I fell. When I explained it was two and half hours and one hundred and forty kilometers away, he said I must have ‘some set of stones’- or in hindsight, an excess of stupidity.
After the fall, I was dazed and bleeding unable to get to my feet. It was 1.15 am on a quiet street, whether through pride or embarrassment I turned down the first offer of help thinking I would be ok in a minute. Five minutes later and unable to stand, a passing car stopped and this time I accepted the help to get me to my feet, but brushed aside the need for stitches saying I had a bus to catch.
It’s hard to bring the reality of the Palestinian people into the routine of our lives, in relating my pain I am conscious of those who are suffering so much more and for whom help, even when asked for is unavailable. If solidarity and humanity mean anything- it is providing that help.
I missed the Northodox launch of Samantha Leigh’s debut novel ‘Joy’ and wish her all the best with it. Battered and bruised with a fractured shoulder and full of painkillers, I eventually made it to my final destination.
It is hard to relay the intensity of pain, but can you think back to the most painful experience in your lives as you read this quote from the BBC;
Doctors across Gaza have described operating on patients without anaesthetic, turning people with chronic conditions away, and treating rotting wounds with limited medical supplies.
“Because of the shortage of painkillers we leave patients to scream for hours and hours,” one told the BBC.
Let’s make sure one day, we can silence the cries of pain and celebrate with the Palestinian people as they reach their destination.
End the occupation. Ceasefire Now
Jack Byrne 
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