Eighteen years later, I found myself pacing a hospital hallway in disbelief as staff tried to resuscitate my father. A simple medical test had gone horribly wrong and he had suffered a cardiac arrest in his hospital bed. His death came suddenly and unexpectedly amidst the flurry of a full resuscitation.

It's a bitterly ironic St. Patrick's Day. Reading the news on the Internet this morning, I learned more of the head of the Catholic Church in Ireland, Cardinal Sean Brady's scandalous cover-up of paedophile priest, Father Brendan Smyth.

Why, I wonder, did Brady ask two young boys at a meeting in 1975 to sign vows of silence regarding the abuse wrought on them at the vile hands of the paedophile priest, and never report the sordid affair to police? Why, 35 years later, is this just coming to light?

I arrived back here in my motherland last week, just beating the first snow of winter. This past weekend saw a blanket of snow draping itself lazily over the countryside, causing chaos to the unprepared traveller. But venturing out on a frigid day yesterday and plodding my way through frozen snow, I soaked in the beauty of my home country. The hills still bore their wintry coats, shimmering and sparkling in the weak afternoon sunshine. Children pelted everything that moved with snowballs. Cars picked their way through frozen, slushy streets. My breath hung in the air as I negotiated the best route through piles of snow and ice. It was freezing, but I loved it. This is where I lived most of my life. This is where I have my biography. And part of me still lives here. Part of me comes alive here, a deep part that cannot be wakened in America. Home is still home.

I was just perusing the BBC news website and found an interesting editorial pertinent to my previous blog. Here's the link if you're interested.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/technology/8405108.stm