Authors’ Sala, Oct 6, 2006
Hold My Hand

Readings by Dr. Agnes Glenn and Glenys Carl Friday, October 6, 5–7pm, Posada San Francisco,  Plaza Principal 2, 50 pesos

Glenys Carl will be reading a passage from her book Hold My Hand, published by Macmillan, then talking about finding one’s inner strength in times of adversity. 

Carl was born and brought up in Wales. Her grandmother taught her weaving and herbology and was an incredible influence in her life. At the age of 25, Carl came as an immigrant to the United States with her three little boys. Her first job was in Detroit, during the riots of 1968, setting up one of the first Headstart programs. Later, she moved to the Santa Cruz mountains in California and raised her boys. She taught and also returned to her art, music and weaving. “It was an idyllic life,” she says.

Her youngest son, Scott, was hurt after being in Australia as a student for only five weeks. Thus began her journey for the next four years finding her inner strength, nursing Scott in a strange country where over 100 people came to help because he did not qualify for state-assisted rehabilitation. She wrote her book, without bitterness, about Scott’s courage and determination to get better.

Currently, Carl resides in Santa Fe, New Mexico, where she a hospice nurse.

Following is an excerpt from Hold My Hand:


I’ve had only three hours’ sleep in the last thirty-six, but still I cannot sleep on the London-bound plane. My body is a raging battleground between the forces of adrenaline and exhaustion. At least I’m moving forward, one step closer to Scott. After a few hours stopover I’ll catch a British Airways night flight to Sydney, via Dubai and Singapore. I pray to God that Scott will survive, that I will reach him in time and my love will piece him back together. Deep in my soul I know he’s waiting for me. My guardian angels have never let me down. As long as the airline received the consul’s fax, as long as I maintain momentum, who needs sleep?

But the stone faces of the agents at the British Airways counter at Heathrow tell me a different story. They have no idea what I’m talking about. “Passports need to be stamped before you can fly,” states a round man with a balding head and thick sideburns. “Those are the rules.”

“But the Australian Consul made special arrangements. Didn’t you get the fax?”

“Oh that,” the round man says. “Yes, we received that fax. But we don’t accept faxed waivers. How do we know it’s real? Maybe your Australian lover faxed you a visa waiver to spare you the trouble.”

My knees tremble in anger. I’m utterly exhausted, but furious at his insinuation. This time my rat-nest hair and blackened eye become assets. Looking a little crazy can’t hurt. I lean into the counter and glower.

“It takes fifteen minutes to get a visa when the consulate is open,” I say icily. “Do I look like the kind of person who would go to all this trouble to hunt down the consul on a Sunday morning just to save fifteen minutes? Look in my passport. Go ahead. I’ve never been to Australia before. How could I possibly have a boyfriend there? And even if I did, why would he break the law to spend a few days with me? I lower my voice and say adamantly, “My son is dying. Don’t you understand?”

The agent is unmoved. “Then you’ll need to get your passport stamped at the consulate in London tomorrow morning. That’s how the system works.”

“My passport will be stamped in Australia,” I fairly shout, my face flushing red. “The consul told you that.”

I try to calm myself. Pleading worked with the consul, and maybe that’s the key here. But these stone faces have heard it all. Every bloody story mankind has invented has been tried on these people. I am in tears by now, and if this doesn’t work the wrath of a pious Welsh mother who has been praying to God since early this morning will descend upon their heads. Reason abandons me and I persevere on willpower alone.

“You can call St. Vincent’s Hospital yourself,” I tell him coldly. “If that doesn’t work, call the Sydney police.” I tear a corner off a piece of official-looking paper and scribble. “Here are their numbers. I will wait right here.”

The agent is taken aback. “Most irregular,” he mumbles, reluctantly accepting the scrap of paper. “Please, go and sit down. We will try to sort this out.” Turning his attention to the queue, he motions with a hand: “Next in line, please!”

The 747 is loading while I sit in desperation on the concrete floor, my knees drawn tight to my chest, gently rocking. My yellow silk blouse is pasted to the perspiration on my back. My heart begins to race; my breathing builds fuller, louder. I must get on this plane. What’s the key? What haven’t I thought of yet?

Bolting to the counter, I demand, “You must let me on the plane. Or else.”

Or else what? What could I do? What would make them feel threatened by me? But the breaking voice of this wild-haired woman teetering on the edge of destruction certainly has his attention. I look the little balding man directly in the eye, trying to connect with his soul. Surely he has a family. Surely there is someone he loves. “What have you found out?” I demand. “Did you speak to the hospital? Did you call the police?”

“We did.” The agent exhales exasperation and throws up his hands. “Look, I don’t doubt your story but that still doesn’t solve our problem of no visa.”

The final call for the flight is announced. I have to act now. Taking a deep breath, I launch my assault. “How would you like it if I climbed up on this ticket counter and shouted to the entire airport what you are doing to me?”

His eyes widen. “Most irregular,” he mutters. This is not proper British behavior, his nervous hands tell me.

A few people have stopped to listen. I raise my voice. “I’ll call the newspapers. I’ll call the television stations. I’ll scream on the steps of Parliament; I’ll tell the whole bloody world that my son is dying and your stone-faced airline cares more about their stupid rules and stamped bits of paper than it does a mother who is trying to reach her dying son!”

The agent swallows and silently surveys my determined stare. Sizing up my menacing five-foot-two Welsh frame and my seven stone of quaking fury, he wisely slips me a boarding pass across the counter.

. . .

Dr. Croches comes to my side and tells me Scott’s vital signs are fading. The end is here. Dr. Croches hands me the papers granting permission to donate Scott’s organs, and I sign. Then I hug my son a last time. I tell him how proud I am to be his mother. I tell him what a wonderful son he has been to me. My tears fall across his face. Doctors and nurses have quietly slipped into the room to gather around his bed. Many are openly weeping. I hear myself saying over and over, “No, no, no, no…”

“Mom?”

I swing around. Jonathan is standing in the doorway. Blurry-eyed and disheveled, he throws his arms around me in a tight hug. “I came as fast as I could, Mom. I hope I’m not too late.”

I frame his face in my hands. “Oh, Jonathan, Jonathan. Scott is dying, honey,” I tell him between sobs. “Go tell him your goodbyes. Tell him that you love him.”

Jonathan approaches the bed with a quiet reverence. The tubes have been removed and Scott lies under the white sheet, angelic, in a deep slumber. Jonathan leans over and whispers in his brother’s ear. I can’t hear what is said and I won’t ever ask him to tell me. It is his private moment. He continues to whisper, then gives a long, low whistle, the same whistle he and Scott had shared as children, the whistle that meant, “It’s okay to come out now. The coast is clear.”

Inexplicably, within minutes, Scott’s vital signs begin to improve. His blood pressure strengthens, his pulse quickens and slowly colour returns to his face. The doctors who have gathered round are dumb with wonder. How could this be? their expressions ask. The word “miracle” is whispered. As his condition improves, the tubes that have been removed from his body are reattached. His tracheotomy tube is changed, his IV line and feeding tube are reinserted. The respirator is not needed, as he is able to breathe on his own. 

The Authors’ Sala readings series presents short works by local authors. The San Miguel Authors’ Sala presents author readings and workshops for writers and aspiring writers. For up-to-date information on upcoming events, visit www.sanmiguelauthors.com