In 1976, my brother and I went from Anchorage, Alaska, to an Irish boarding school. We’d been to Ireland before, got on well with the local kids, and even went to school there. Coming back to Ireland didn’t seem that big a deal, especially since I’d have my big brother to protect me. Mom came over too to get us sorted and settled, and before she left that first night, she took us into town for dinner and a movie. Ironically, we saw “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.” Never could any of us imagine Roger ending up in The Cuckoo’s Nest a few years later.
The first time I visited him at Holywell Hospital was during a half-term break in early 1980. Mom took us up by taxi. I had no idea what to expect. After we arrived and checked in, we followed a staff member up some stairs to another level. We passed a fellow masturbating in the hallway. The orderly led us to a waiting room, left, and a short while later, returned with Roger. He looked pale, but that might have been the contrast with the dark blue down jacket he was wearing. We talked some. He didn’t know why he was there. Mom explained it was for his own good. He’d threatened to open the airplane door halfway across the Atlantic.
When the visit was over, an orderly came for Roger, but said we were welcome to see where he was sleeping. I didn’t want to, but Mom urged me to follow. We came to a locked door with security glass. Ward 10A. There might have been a second similar door we had to pass through, too. It opened onto a sort of hallway surround, with security glass on the right, beyond which were the beds and men. Offices, I presumed, lined the other side. I felt no life. Mom asked Roger if he was okay. “Do you need anything?”
Roger burst into tears. “Get me out of here. Please!”
I wanted to cry, but I put on a brave face like I was supposed to.
In the taxi, I said to Mom, “You’ve got to get him out.”
“Oh, dear son,” she said. “In time.”
I think that’s when I realized my troubles were nothing compared with what my brother was having to endure.