Gunpoint

Gael Stuart

I drove down the street of old fashioned council houses, some well kept, with neat gardens showing a sense of pride ,others wastelands of compacted mud with a few sparse tufts of grass where the kids played 'footie.' Cracked paving stones and bare , rusty lengths of metal designating one garden from the other.

I worked as a District Sister and was on my way to meet with a family who were one of the many socially deprived families living in this area of Glasgow. Neither parent worked, the elder of the sons had learning difficulties and more often than not dad resorted to 'drippin' the leckie' when there wasn't enough money to pay the bill. Ian, the younger son, sixteen years of age, had suffered severe brain damage having fallen thirty feet through an old roof while 'nicking lead'.

Two weeks in a coma, neurosurgery and intensive rehabilitation therapy resulted in him being discharged six weeks after his accident to be cared for by his family and community services. Any hoped for long term improvement was uncertain, but his family were extremely positive and protective of their son who was now unable to walk, talk or care for himself in any way.

Ian had now been home for four months and in that time the family, mainly Glenda, had fought tooth and nail to be re-housed to more suitable accommodation. They moved from an upstairs maisonette to the flat downstairs, which had already been adapted for the previous disabled tenant who had recently died. Glenda phoned, 'ranted' and refused to leave the council offices until she got her way!

Other agencies such as occupational therapy and community physic were also made available.

Glenda's adult life had been challenging to say the least and she had become addicted to Askit powders, unable to get out of bed until she had at least a 'few'. Askit powders were a very common and cheap form of drug, which were legal, easily obtainable and provided a relieving 'high' Glenda had to feel before she could face the day.

Glenda had been warned about the damage the powders would do to her kidneys, but as in the case of any addiction the effect of the drug was more important than any ultimate deterioration in her health.

The family had attended an out-patient clinic that morning where they met with the consultant who had operated and overseen the recovery of Ian. Sadly, he felt that Ian would not recover any more function and would remain confined to a wheelchair and be totally dependent on others for the remainder of his life. Following an outburst of epic proportions the family had returned home.

Knocking on the door I entered as normal, calling ahead to let them know it was me. Opening the sitting room door I immediately knew something was very wrong. Glenda was swaying back and fore emitting a loud wailing noise, then she pulled herself together and turned to face me.

I had been puzzled by the behaviour of her husband and son as they stood stock still and didn't moved.

I swiftly realised why.

In her hand Glenda held a gun!

Glenda stood before us continuing to sway from side to side shouting and swearing about how those Effing Drs knew nothing and how dare they give up on her son! They didn't deserve to be able to walk about if Ian couldn't so she was going to back to the hospital and shoot them all!!

The area we were in was well known as one where there were strong IRA ties and caches of weapons finds were not unheard of. It was said you could get anything you wanted here.

So, I had no doubt that it was a real gun and Glenda looked high - on anger and emotion or something else?

The main question was whether the gun was loaded or not? What went through my mind? To be honest I can't remember much. I didn't work out a plan of action such as lunging in front of her and trying to disarm her while telling the others to make their getaway. I had no thoughts whatsoever of being a hero!

Over the months I had come to know the family really well. Glenda was always grateful for information and guidance in caring for her son. If there was a problem we would talk it through. I needed her to focus so I began talking.

I don't know how long it took, not longer than a few minutes I imagine, before Glenda gave me the gun and subsided, sobbing, onto the couch. It all came pouring out, her frustration, her anger, her feelings of uselessness. Here was a woman who needed drugs to get her up in the morning, but it was she who dealt with everything, not her husband. The physical caring of Ian and her family, the making every penny count. Constantly worrying and worn down by that worry. Regretful about everything, the knowledge that her son would only ever maintain what he had but not improve, fear for the future, hers, the families but most of all Ian's. Her fervent wish was to make things better and she couldn't. Isn't that what a mother is supposed to do, make things better?

What did the future hold now?

I had no real answers for her, but I knew that she was a proud, strong, mother, fiercely looking out for her own. Health services and social services would all play a hand in supporting this family, but I was under no illusion that Glenda was the one who would be called upon to give everything she had, every day for the rest of her life.

I later checked the gun, it wasn't loaded.

Often I used to feel physically and emotionally drained after a hard day at work, but unlike Glenda could leave it all behind when I returned home.