This is the story of Kathleen Kilbane and the true facts concerning the last few months of her life, before she died at the early age of thirteen. It is a sad story, but the sad stories of this world are very often the best,

STRANGE as it may seem, she loved the sanatorium from the start. She had more freedom there than she had in the orphanage, and she had other girls and women and men who chatted with her.

THE games, story books, and bricks to build houses, which she had got as presents, helped to pass the long weary winter nights. She also tried to pass the time by writing letters to companions who were with her in the orphanage, and to relatives whom she had never met.

THE cold bleak winds of March affected her, and she got paler and thinner, and her cough became more persistent. She began to lose her energy and spent most of her time in bed except for a short time on Saturday evenings when she would get up in order to sit on my knees in the common day-room.

THE month of March 1947 was on the whole warm and dry, and one Saturday afternoon it was so warm that it resembled summer weather. Just before leaving the sanatorium, I was speaking to three women patients when Kathleen joined us, and one of them remarked that if Kathleen got on her outdoor clothes she could walk part of the way home with me.

ALL the other patients had a common bond in the fact that they all came from the same country. Kathleen was a stranger amongst them. She had not much in common with them, as they were older than she was, and they found it difficult at times to understand her Scotch accent.

DURING the month of July and for a part of August I was to be away in Cork, and I did not tell Kathleen so until I was about to say goodbye to her. A look of dismay came into her eyes when she realised it would be a long time until she would see me again.

AT times Kathleen's vocal chords became infected and talking became too painful to her, and she was quite satisfied if a visitor sat by her bedside and held her hand. On those occasions she would say to me, "You talk, I cannot talk much,” and she would occasionally squeeze my hand with her fingers to show that she was listening.

IT may come as a surprise to learn that on one occasion Kathleen became a little jealous. A patient had been re-admitted to the sanatorium, from which she had been discharged some time previously because she had a relapse.

WHEN Kathleen got seriously ill she often enquired about her father and if his whereabouts could be discovered. "My daddy never cared about me,” she said, “but if he hears I'm sick he might come and see me now."

DURING these three weeks she spoke on one occasion of death because she seemed to be afraid of it. She had seen three patients die in her ward, and although they were screened off during their last moments the screen did not fully go round the bed, and above all, it did not cut out the rasping sound of the death rattle which went on for hours.

WHEN I went out to the sanatorium on October 6th a nurse who was attending to the patients on the veranda came towards me with a thermometer in her hand. ”lt’s well that you came out this evening," she said. “Kathleen is dying.”

I SAT on a chair and took hold of one of the frail hands. There was nothing else I could do. A year ago I could tell her stories, and her merry laugh could be heard all over the wards if the story was a funny one, but stories would be out of place at this solemn time.

WORD was sent to me on the following morning and I went out as soon as I could. An air of desolation hung over the place because the death of the child affected them more than the many other deaths they had witnessed. The patients who could get up were busy picking flowers and making wreaths to place on her coffin.

I WAS in difficulty with regard to her burial, as I wasn't sure how to get a plot in the local cemetery, and I mentioned the matter to the Matron. She told me the matter was already arranged, that a phone message had arrived saying that the coffin would be sent from Achill Sound and that they were taking her to the family burial ground.

My dearest Brother, I got your very nice letter today. I was delighted to hear from you and I keep reading it over and over again. I have just finished reading your book. I loved it. I think it was the nicest book I have ever read. I like “Pat” (the little black pig) the best of all.

Kathleen Kilbane died on 7th October 1947. Some time afterwards Bro. Conway wrote the present account of her life. He made at least six copies of it in his own handwriting. No two of these copies are identical.

(1) Variation: ”I understood what had happened. The relatives had nothing in common that they could discuss with Kathleen, they found it hard at times to understand her broad Scotch accent, and they were not at ease with TB patients near them.

Martin Kilbane (a postman, died 6 April 1924, aged 63) had five children by his first wife. They were Mary, Brigid, Kathy, Anne and Julia. By his second wife, Brigid, generally known as Biddy (née Boyle, died 10 October 1948, aged 77), he had seven children: Patrick, Johnnie, Nellie, Margaret (who died young), Rosie, James and a second Margaret.

Maurice Conway was born 27 March 1901 and grew up, the eldest of three children, on a small farm near the village of Grange in west Co. Waterford. Irish was the language spoken in his home.