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More Than Skin Deep by Pat Hallinan 206 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #03-1929; ISBN 1-4120-1552-9; US$20.00, C$23.00, EUR16.50, £11.50 This book tells the story and challenge of living with severe disability, my terrible experience living in institutions, my struggle in seeking adequate services, training and employment, but it also tells about my relationships with women, my fun and joy, and my many activities as life must go on.
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about the book
about the author
sample excerpts
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About the Book
The author's early years were steeped in farming, country
and rural life in Ireland which he loved and lived for.
Disability, and it's unbelievable effects for himself or his
family never entered his head.
But in 1985, at the age of twenty his life was drastically
changed forever following a horrific road accident as was that
of his family.
This book truthfully but painfully tells the story how the
author coped with total paralysis and dependency for almost
every need as a result. It tells about his experience of a full
years of hospitalisation. And recalls the shear struggle to
rebuilt his life and at the same time watch the devastating
effect it had on his elderly parents.
The author's appalling experience of living in institutions,
and his crusade at raising awareness of disability issues and
seeking rights for people with disabilities is truthfully written
about as well as his experience and struggle in furthering his
education, getting employment and essential adequate
services.
In spite of all the author's challenging, campaigning,
hardship and struggle for disability rights in the last twenty
years, this books also tells of the very worthwhile, full and
joyous aspects to his life which has won much achievement.
All in all, it is an amazing story which everyone must read.
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About the Author
I was born in County Mayo in the West of Ireland in 1964. I was educated at Killwalla National School and Westport Vocational School, both were near where I lived. I hated shool and loved farming and rural life. After leaving school at the age of 16, I worked on our family farm for 4 years. Then I was involved in a horrific car crash which meant I had to rebuild my life and find a new career while farming was no longer possible. This led me to study computers and freelance journalism as well as disability issues and peer counselling. I successfully obtained a City Guilds Certification in Computers and a Kilroy's College Certification in Freelance Journalism. After than I gained employment with the Mayo Centre for Independent Living who deliver services to people with disability. I have worked with them for the past nine years. I have also done journalistic work with the Irish Music Rights Organisation and the Western People newspaper. After my accident I started doing creative writing. As a result I have had short stories and poetry published. I have won the Leonard Cheshire Foundation Award twice for my writing.
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Sample Excerpts
MY ACCIDENT
Something dazzled my eyes. At first I thought I was having a dream. The
images however, weren't coming very clearly to me. Above my head I saw
something bright. It was a ceiling perhaps, I thought, but if it was that, I
certainly was seeing it in very peculiar circumstances.
As the minutes slipped by, I fell into deep confusion about what was
happening to me. I knew by now I wasn't having a dream; I knew that my dazed
vision was closer to reality. I knew I was awake. I feared I was going
insane. I seemed to be in a world of my own.
During this time only one scene was visible to me; it was that
bright area, seen through a hazy area above me. All of a sudden what
appeared like a human figure came into my vision. It was standing there very
close to me; it appeared to be in white.
Then the person said, " How are you Pat?" into my ear, and leaned right
over me. " It's Angela, your cousin," the voice said. " You had a car
accident last night. You are in hospital, but you will be all right", and
with that she disappeared from my sight.
I was stunned as the words sank in. Despite my circumstances, I
understood what had been said. It took some time before anything made sense
and although I was partly unconscious the words spoken stayed in my mind. At
least I knew now what had happened and the mystery of the hazy vision was
solved. As the minutes, which felt like hours, went by, things became
clearer to me. I had desperately needed to escape from that world of mystery
and blurred visions that had surrounded me all that morning. I was glad that
had happened at least. The surroundings of the local hospital made sense
now, and the words of Angela, who worked there as a nurse, made sense too.
That moment still stands out in my mind. It haunted me for months.
I had had a car accident, I repeated to myself. I wondered where or how. I
didn't know. What the hell difference did it make? It has happened, I
groaned. I lay stretched in that hospital bed, knowing very little although
I had regained partial consciousness. I thought about the accident. I
thought about other people who had had car accidents. I knew I was still
alive. I could remember all that I was told. It can't be that bad. Maybe it'
s not that bad having a car accident. I must have thought like that because
I didn't feel sad as I lay in that hospital bed awaiting further news.
The white surface of a ceiling looked down from above me. I could
see it now. The dazed vision wasn't there any longer. That must be progress
I thought. As no one had come to me yet, except for Angela, I knew only that
I had an accident and I was in hospital. I didn't even know the time of the
day, or the day of the week, as I waited. Much of the time I wasn't bothered
about what was around me, or who, for that matter. I wanted to lie there. My
condition and injuries didn't really concern me. Nobody had come near me to
give me information yet, and I didn't seem to care.
The hospital staff was expert, and they would give me the
information in their own time. They had spent hours of their expert time
trying to patch together my smashed-up body while I lay unconscious unaware
of a thing. As I lay there I think I fell asleep. All of a sudden, my father
was by my bedside. I just couldn't believe it. My father stood there, and we
were looking at each other face to face. What a surprise! I was just able to
recognise my father but I saw him with a drunken man's vision.
While he stood there and I was lying on that bed, the first words
that came from his mouth were, "Do you know me Packy"?
Yes, I knew him, and my father knew that too. I told him I knew him, but I
didn't know if my voice was strong enough for him to hear me. I was pretty
well satisfied from the expression on his face that my father knew that I
knew him, regardless of my voice, which was weak and well shattered. I knew
that, as he chatted for a minute. I could somehow feel the happiness and
hope taking place in him. It was difficult for him though. I know it was. I
knew what my father wanted to know. The concern was easily felt, as he kept
his feelings himself.
" Packy, do you know me?" my father's lips moved and as he spoke
these words, they were very special to me as I lay there. The name Packy
meant something special at that moment, because my parents were the only two
people to call me that. It was another name for Pat, of course, and I hated
to be called that name. But I could feel, and hear, in my father's voice,
how difficult it was for him to keep in his feelings as he asked, " Do you
know me " and called me by that name " Packy ". Perhaps we both knew, in
some way, that my injuries were indeed serious.
This is why it meant an awful lot to me when my father stood by my
bedside on that occasion. We were together, father and son. We would have
been separated forever if I had been killed. It was his second visit. I knew
he would have been in as soon as he heard the bad news and, I learned later,
that he had been. I was unconscious and I didn't remember his first visit.
What a relief it was for my father to have seen a slight improvement in my
condition on his second visit! He was allowed to stay with me for only a
few minutes. An orange garment he was wearing drew my attention. It was only
later I discovered that I was in the intensive care unit, so visiting was
restricted and the orange garment that stirred my curiosity was for keeping
off radiation from the x-rays. I didn't know that at the time. How strange I
found it, father standing there by my bedside dressed in orange! That's not
the colour of clothing my father would wear. I know that my mother wasn't
present on that visit; at least I didn't remember seeing her. She wouldn't
have been able to face up to a visit like that. I know she would have feared
the worst. Mammy would have feared the shock of being told that her only son
had passed on. In any case it would have been too difficult for my mother to
see me like that, so soon after the accident.
It must have been terrible for my mother waiting at home too, but a
good half an hour would have taken my father home, once he left my bedside.
The good news of a slight improvement was some relief for my mother. It was
some relief for both my parents. I knew how strong their love for their
family was.
There I was, all alone once more. I was living down the pleasant, but
totally unexpected, surprise of my father's visit. It was very nice, but I
found it a very sad experience when I thought of why my father had to visit.
How seriously injured am I, I wondered? I didn't know, but I didn't feel
seriously injured, as I tried to think positively, laid out on the linen
sheets of the bed. I felt as if life was returning to my shattered body as
pain began to strike. I lay waiting. I was aware of the happenings around
me, which must mean something, as I hoped the details of my circumstances
and injury would soon be made known to me, whatever they might reveal.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted staff hurrying through the
ward. Anything I spotted was between periods of dropping into sleep. I
caught a glimpse of the staff dressed in brilliant white uniforms. I wanted
them to come to my bedside; I desperately wanted information, as I listened
to the buzzing sounds of hospital equipment, and nurses and doctors tramping
through the intensive care unit.
Time was slipping along. I knew that, although my eyes tended to
feel weary with sleep. How strange, it felt, not to know the time, the day,
or the week. I didn't know these simple things as I lay there. I knew my
father visited me, although he told me nothing, or if he did, I don't
remember. In a matter of a few minutes he had disappeared again. My cousin
had told me I had had a car accident last night, then she had disappeared, I
was in hospital she had told me, but she didn't tell me the day, the time or
the week and it was still a mystery to me. I knew I was in the intensive
care unit of the local hospital. My limited amount of intelligence
indicated that to me, although I hadn't been told otherwise.
Now, was the time for questions as a nurse approached my bedside.
" How are you?" she asked. I didn't know how to answer that. I didn't know
how I was, but I said, " I'm all right I suppose". I wasn't near to being
all right, of course. How could I be? My answer was just an answer, given
automatically.
" You had a car accident, you know Pat", the nurse said." "Yes", I
replied slowly. But I want more details, I thought in my own mind, although
I said nothing. "You haven't regained consciousness long Pat", the nurse
continued.
I didn't reply although I indicated that I agreed with her. It seemed like
hours to me. I didn't cross the nurse by telling her that. I said nothing.
The nurse dressed in her white uniform with a cap on her head
continued to ask some more questions. They all related to what I remembered,
but I didn't remember a damn thing. My mind was totally blank, except for
what I had been told, and that was very little. This friendly nurse very
quickly realised that I remembered nothing and she didn't torture me any
longer by asking questions she knew I couldn't answer. Instead she began to
tell me what I wanted to hear.
"Last night you were involved in a car accident. That was Thursday night",
she told me. "This is Friday and you are here at the local hospital."
There was more to come. The nurse stood there, partly leaning over
my bed, as she carefully watched my reaction. " You will be going to a
Dublin hospital later today," she said.
I mumbled " Why", but I couldn't ask anything else. My tongue seemed to
have seized up. "It's better for you", the nurse continued to explain, "The
treatment is better in that hospital and they have more expertise with your
condition".
Her attempt to explain didn't register at that time. I didn't put
up any protest, although leaving the local hospital wasn't my choice. I wasn
't alarmed by it, I think; I thought it would be interesting. I don't think
I was thinking straight. Going to a Dublin hospital was the last thing I had
expected. I knew there was no point in objecting to the experts' decision,
even if I wanted to.
" You will be going by helicopter", she told me, "but not for a few hours
yet. It's just before midday now."
The nurse was trying, I think, to brighten up the whole process of breaking
the news to me. She left my bedside. She didn't seem to have any more to
tell me. Maybe I have heard enough, I thought. I needed time to allow it to
sink in.
Although I had made progress in various areas like sitting up, feeding
myself, shaving, and I was doing okay at physio and occupational therapy,
being unable to wheel my wheelchair by myself was still a big problem. I had
to ask every time I wanted to move. This annoyed me very much as I sat
there, wanting to move and not being able to do so, but I didn't have any
choice in those early months after my accident. Then one evening the ward
sister came along through the ward and stopped at my bed. "I was just
thinking about you, Pat," she said. "You will need a wheelchair that you can
drive yourself. We will get you into it tomorrow and give you a trial
because your mobility is important and it will take time to get used to the
wheelchair before you get one of your own." I remained silent while the ward
sister gave me this information but I was absolutely delighted at the news.
One thing hurt me very deeply though, and that was the fact that I would
always need a wheelchair. I said, "Will I always need a wheelchair and is
there not a chance I might walk again?" The ward sister looked at me, and
said, "It's very unlikely that you will walk again. It's nearly four months
since the accident, and your injury is serious." Now I knew where I stood
and I knew that I would probably remain paralysed. At least I had been told
that by somebody who had good reason to know from her experience of working
with patients like me. I was glad the ward sister told me what she honestly
believed, although it hurt deeply at first. In fact it hurt so much as that
I cried my eyes out.
My new wheelchair was battery operated and had a hand control to drive it.
There were switches and cables everywhere. The switches were right beside my
hand on the control box and the cables were spread all over the wheelchair
frame. I didn't know what the switches were for, but soon the attendants
explained to me that they were just different speeds, and one was for
knocking the power off. As I listened the question of speeds didn't worry
me. If I could use the wheelchair at any speed I would be very satisfied, I
thought, and I was very soon to know that, as I put my hand to the control
handle. The wheelchair made a jump and scared the wits out of me. Then I
steadied myself and looked carefully at what I was doing wrong. "The control
operates like this," the attendant said. He watched me struggle and watched
the wheelchair go jump, jump, and zigzag uncontrolled across the floor of
the ward. "It goes forward to drive forward, backward to drive backward and
so on. It will take time to get the hang of it." I grew more confident in
controlling the wheelchair with practice. I was aware of the very sensitive
and temperamental touch of the control handle that caused the wheelchair to
jump and go in a zigzag manner. It had been designed like this for easy use
by somebody like myself with little power in their hand, and that proved to
be very necessary for me as time went on.
I had many mishaps during the days and weeks while I practised using the
wheelchair. I had a very poor grip on the control handle. I ran into
walls, beds and doors in the wards at first. The spasm in my hand also put
the wheelchair out of control at times. Although this happened, nobody ever
got injured while I struggled to master the wheelchair, and I knew I must
keep trying because that wheelchair, or one similar, was the only means of
independent mobility I would ever have.
After many weeks I managed to use the wheelchair very well, and I was able
to drive through any doorway, corner or space the width of the wheelchair.
But that achievement took determination and practice, and I was on the brink
of giving up several times as I got stuck in doorways and corridors. I
dreaded going into the lift where space was tight. At first there was
usually a staff member with me, and staff everywhere were very helpful. I
was often referred to as the danger boy, running into everything. Most
patients using power wheelchairs had similar problems at first. Perhaps
having so little power in my hand left me more subject to such incidents.
Even the control handle was too small for me to catch with the very delicate
grip in my hand, and my Occupational Therapist tried various ways of making
the handle bigger. One such way was cutting a hole in a sponge ball and
pushing it down on the little handle, but that attempt proved a waste of
time. A more successful idea was a specially made extension to the existing
handle, with pieces of wooden board that were securely held in place with
tape. This extension to the control handle lasted for months, and made the
controlling of my wheelchair much easier although I eventually managed
without it. I was mobile at last, free to go where I wished and when I
wished, and it was great. I no longer depended on people to push me like a
baby in a pram. That definitely was progress.
REVIEWS
Able-bodied and disabled alike will learn from and be inspired by this memoir. Despite severe disability, the author has campaigned tirelessly for the rights of people with disabilities. This book should certainly provide his best platform yet. He highlights the ways in which people with disabilities are disadvantaged in so many aspects of life. In his introduction, he urges his readers not to be distressed on his behalf but to learn from his experiences and act on the insights he has to offer. More Than Skin Deep should be read by employers, business-people, all who work with the public and most especially politicians. Also, it will make a worthwhile gift for young people in particular.
Writer - Francis Cashman of Insight Magazine
More than Skin Deep is a very thought provoking book. It is a lesson for all able-bodied people. Since that life changing car crash, Pat takes us through the challenges, struggles and triumphs over the following years. Pat gives us a very descriptive account, and does so throughout the book, of his time in the Intensive care unit and in Dun Laoire. The torture of the rotating bed and the skull traction and the fear of not knowing or believing that he could get better. It evokes a mixture of feelings pity, sympathy and delight especially when Pat starts to feed himself and when he started using the computer. That must have given him a buzz - Yes I can do it!! More than Skin deep could teach us all a lesson or too about life and survival.
Therese Carrick - Editor & Publisher
The style of writing is not that of James Joyce or Bill Clinton but Pat Hallinan did not set out to give the world a literary masterpiece. He simply sought to tell his story in his own way, which he has done successfully. The biography is not light reading. Pat Hallinan has been at the forefront of seeking to change an embedded, static paternalistic welfare view in Irish Society for people with disabilities. He has challenged, ruffled feathers, campaigned and struggled to improve the rights and entitlements of persons suffering from disabilities, whether physical or otherwise. His graphic account of his challenge with Government Departments, Health Boards and the medical profession are admirably told in the book. It also tells of his challenge to "unacceptable behaviour", and the reactions to his various campaigns. The book should be read by anyone who has an interest in change and development in Irish Society The reader will learn and be educated through the eyes of a true campaigner the challenge that there is in seeking to change society for the better. Read the book and decide for yourself. You will not be disappointed.
Patrick O'Connor Solicitor / Coroner / Notary Public/
Former President - Law Society Of Ireland
The book More Than Skin Deep was a real eye opener for me.
Deirdre Fahey - Chairperson of Mayo Centre for Independent Living,
An Organisation Run By and For People with Disabilities
More Than Skin Deep is a remarkable honest book written by a remarkable man and has much to teach its readers both able-bodied and disabled. The book is both heartbreaking and joyous, but is an amazing read
Angela Burt, Author of Several Books
More That Skin Deep is an education for anyone to read. I believe and have said that Pat experiences as described so graphically in his book have a strong message for young people both in terms of influencing their attitudes to persons with disabilities and to the possible consequences of a road accident, particularly in the context of so many of them having motor cycles and cars at younger and younger ages ".
Pat Higgins, Adult Education Officer for Mayo
Your book is a remarkable story, remarkably told. The disaster that befell you might have befallen anyone, and that is the first strength of the book - we read it as if it might be our own stories but for fate or fortune. It is told with breath-taking candour and honesty. Episode after episode unfolds with remarkable clarity and with a fine sense of narrative. Above all there is no wallowing in self-pity - the thrust of the book is the sense of someone tackling misfortune with raw courage, salvaging worth and purpose from the debris of his life, and proceeding to harness that sense of worth and purpose towards exceptionally valuable ends.
Jack Harte - Writer & Author
Catalogue Information
