I still remember my first day on Ward 4—back then called a psycho-geriatric ward, a term that sounds harsh today. The ward cared for elderly patients experiencing both physical and mental health challenges, many of whom had been there for years.
That’s where I met Paddy. A storyteller with a sharp wit, he had a habit of blurring the lines between fact and fiction. Years of grueling work in the coal pits, paired with decades of heavy drinking, had left him with Korsakoff’s syndrome—a form of dementia caused by alcohol-related brain damage.
Paddy’s world was one of old memories and misplaced time. He often believed he was in a bar and would try to order a pint and a whiskey chaser, promising me a song if I paid for them. Every morning, he would resist getting out of bed, muttering, “I’ve pissed the bed again—it’s the drink! I need a drink. I’m on a lieu day, so leave me alone!” Despite his occasional frustration and aggression, Paddy was mostly good-humored, making the staff and other patients laugh.
For weeks, he called me “Pats boy.”
“Get me a pint, young Pats boy, and a whiskey with it!”
Everyone found it funny, and I followed the textbook response:
“Paddy, I understand you think I’m Pats boy, but I’m not—I’m Michael.”
He would laugh and insist, “You’re Pats boy!”
Then, one day, everything changed.
I attended a distant cousin’s funeral, where the usual reminiscing, singing, and drinking took place. As I caught up with family, my dad’s cousin, Patrick, was eager to hear about my new role as a student psychiatric nurse.
Then he said something that nearly knocked me off my feet.
“I heard poor old Paddy went into the asylum years ago because of his fierce drinking. You might remember Paddy from when you were small—me and your dad would take you to the Odd Fellows Arms, and Paddy would always buy you a lemonade and a bag of crisps!”
In that moment, I realized Paddy had been remembering some of the truth all along. In his mind, I was Pats boy because he had known my uncle Pat longer than my father—and because, years ago, he really had bought me lemonade and crisps.
This experience shaped me as a nurse and as a person. It honed my listening skills and, more importantly, taught me never to dismiss what someone tells me—no matter how confused or fragmented it may seem. Behind every memory, even the distorted ones, there is often a thread of truth waiting to be uncovered.