Dear Granny B,

I

IDON’T know if you realise this, but you saved my life not once but twice when I was growing up, and I never got to thank you. So I am writing to you now to finally acknowledge what you did, albeit 40 years later.

My mum was your baby daughter, the youngest of seven. You were 46 when she was born and were unwell for a time afterwards. However, despite her older sisters more or less becoming her mother during your period of recuperation, you had an incredible bond and she loved you dearly.

I was born very healthy and thrived for the first few months but my health started to deteriorate from then on. My mum was young but very maternal, and if love could make you fat I would have been obese, she showered so much on me — but the opposite was happening. She was concerned that, despite all her best efforts, I wasn’t thriving — but our GP at the time was quite dismissive and reassured her she was doing everything right.

On one of your visits you were very concerned at how emaciated I had become since you had last seen me and very gently suggested to my mum that perhaps there was something very serious going on. She trusted your instincts and I ended up being admitted to Temple Street Children’s Hospital on my first birthday, where they discovered the food I was eating was, in fact, killing me. I’d developed rickets and was in danger of dying from malnourishment. Coeliac disease was finally diagnosed, and two months later I was well enough to go home. My parents were eternally grateful to you for your gentle input and concern at a time when my health, and my life, were potentially in danger.

I found National School very difficult and emotional. I was bullied, not by my peers but by my teacher. In hindsight, my schoolfriend Irene probably saved my life too, as she took on the role of my protector. However, she couldn’t protect me from the mental anguish and fear which languished when school was over for the day and I was left with my own thoughts.

I can’t remember the exact moment it started. I think it probably happened when there was a rumour the lovely teacher I was due to join that September was thinking of retiring, which would mean that the bully teacher would be taking over her classes — there was just no escape for me.

With these worrying thoughts causing me no end of anxiety, I somehow got hooked on the smell of petrol. It’s the most vile, evil-smelling stuff, but I found that a few sniffs of it transported me to a safe place where nothing mattered and I was floating on air. It helped me forget that I’d soon be back in the classroom again, being subjected to possibly more physical and verbal abuse by my teacher.

I found a can of petrol dad used for the lawnmower and I used to inhale the fumes from it. I also used to stick my nose into the hole where petrol was poured into the lawnmower. I’d arrive home from school, sneak out to the garage and be transported away from all my cares and worries. An hour or so later I’d stop and feel violently ill, struggle into the house and start my homework.

This went on for a few days before my parents became concerned that there was something amiss when I’d disappear into the garage and reappear looking the worse for wear. Eventually they discovered what was happening, and hid everything petrol-related. But I found them a couple of days later after frantic searching and it all started again. On one of your visits, my mum, who was at her wits’ end with worry, had obviously mentioned something to you about my plight. you called me aside and had a very gentle, non-judgmental talk with me to try to find out what was causing me to do such a dangerous and harmful thing.

My 10-year-old self could not fully comprehend why I was actually doing it, but I still knew it was dangerous and had very harmful consequences.

You handed me a bottle of your 4711 eau de cologne and told me it was a much nicer smell than petrol, and that you’d give me the bottle if I gave up sniffing the petrol. Guilt crept in and I promised you I would, and I kept my promise. I was so glad I did, as the lovely teacher decided not to retire, so I headed into fifth class safe in the knowledge that the bully teacher who had made my life hell since Junior Infants wouldn’t be teaching me.

Had I continued smelling the petrol, who knows, I could have ended up dead, as the chemicals are so toxic my system would not have been able to handle them on a longterm basis. I may have even progressed to stronger drugs or alcohol to get the same hit. So once again you saved my life.

You passed away when I was 14. To this day, I regret not going to your funeral. It was the same day as sports day in school; I was the final leg of a relay team and felt I couldn’t let the team down. I only appreciate now how devastated mum was when you died. I should have been there supporting her, but I wasn’t. Like you, she never judged or forced me to do anything and accepted my decision.

She joined you 12 years ago, aged only 64, and left us all far too soon but I know the two of you are reunited again. I sometimes get the whiff of petrol when I’m filling up my car and it triggers huge memories and emotions for me — but I remember your kindness and am never tempted to smell it.

I recently found a film reel of my parents’ wedding. You feature on it quite a bit and it brings you back to life again — this lovely, kind, gentle woman who saved my life not once, but twice.

Thank you, Granny B. Your loving grand-daughter. Name and address with the Editor