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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      catalogue info

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.

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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

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Catalogue Information

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