Grief, you shall not pass.... well okay so, just for today...

It's a slow and tiring day and another one that has caught me by surprise. I regularly decide to knock grief on the head - it's been 19 months after all. Yeah, I know grief has no timeline, it's different for everyone, it can't be rushed yada yada yada......

But on a regular basis I say "I'm done. Grief, listen up, you do *not* define me, you will *not* hold me back, I am better now, I am healed, I will *not* be a martyr to you." I mean it when I say it. Who wants to be in a permanent state of sadness and bewilderment? There has to be some light after 19 months. So I shake myself and say "to hell with it". What if I just accept that I am single and this is my life? Yes it's sad that he's gone and I'll never forget him. But what if I start here? Right now. Start fresh.

So I try. I briefly get excited by the notion that I can fix my financial problems by starting my own business again, working my ass off, taking the kids on holiday. The excitement lasts a while, I feel good, I feel Diarmuid would smile his approval. And then BANG. Out of the blue, no warning, no build up, grief comes back uninvited and throws me back down again, spinning me around violently not too unlike Gandalf doing 360s in Saruman's gaff. Grief is a sneaky bastard.

I'm tired. Tired of being tired, tired of being knocked back down, tired of being positive and having it fail fast, tired of constantly trying to re-invent myself. Tired of wading through molasses. I'll just have a quick lie down in it.

Grief won't win. I know that. But for now I'm just a bit too tired to tackle that monster again. The score for this particular battle, here and now, today: Me 0, Grief 1. Grief won this battle but I intend to win the war.

Great Expectations...

I don't really understand the co-relation between grief and social problems, but it's there and it's bothering me. A lot. I'm going to write it out and figure it out if I can.

There are people who I've known for many years who now fill me with anxiety and dread. When they text or ring me my whole body goes rigid with stress and I get a knot in my stomach. Most days I don't even bother answering the phone. I just want them to go away. The anxiety has different levels - low level for some people and through the roof for others.

My discomfort with those friends doesn't feel logical. It's not something I consciously choose. In some instances it's because they simply weren't there for me when I needed them last year. So am I bitter? Angry? I don't know. I try not to be. Anyway, there's more to it than that and not all of them were distant last year.

I'm starting to think it all comes down to the fact that these people were part of my former life - the life where I was married and we were a 'complete' family of 2 adults and 3 children. Most of them were friends of Diarmuid's too. Is there room for them in this life? I don't think so. Not yet. It's too hard. Too painful. Does the friend they had back then still exist? My life was shattered into a million pieces. Those friends were there, on the parameter. They were affected too but to a limited degree. Their day to day lives remained the same. Can I bear talking to them in the same way, about the same things we always talked about before he died? That's part of it. When I try to slip back into those old ways it hurts because I've slipped back to the old me and then it's like a fresh bolt of pain because he's not there. Yet I cannot constantly say to them "stop, this hurts too much".

Part of it too is simply tiredness - long chats, extended phone calls, meeting up... it's all exhausting.

Mostly though, I *think* it's all about their expectations. They expect me to be the same person I was before... but I'm not. I can't be. Not their fault. Not mine either.

Funnily enough, there are others from my old life who I really do want to stay in contact with. I think it's because they have adjusted their expectations of me. They aren't surprised when I'm tired or struggling; when I'm confused or stressed. They might not have lost a loved one but they have enough empathy to imagine that it has changed me without asking "hey, what's wrong?". With the others, every time I see them we revert back to those old days, *they* revert back to the old jokes, the old anecdotes, the old habits, with no allowance made for how much I've been forced to change; no time given to my new feelings and my new status as a single parent. It stabs me in the heart. I simply don't have it in me to force myself to 'fit' that old structure any more.

Should they change their expectations? Should I tell them to do that? Or should I suck it up and just 'be' that person I used to be? I don't think that's possible actually.

Out of Synch

The most intense loneliness is the kind that happens when you're surrounded by joy, sunshine and positivity. Dark days, pouring rain, seriously stressed neighbours/colleagues/friends sort of give us a licence to feel lonely - we feel it already but now we have a logical excuse for feeling it. The inner despair is perfectly in synch with the outer grimness.

Throughout July we had a heatwave here - so unusual for Ireland. So for about 3 to 4 weeks there was a holiday vibe - barbeques, beach trips, ice creams, daddys and daughters, daddys and sons, husbands and wives............. and I have never ever felt such black loneliness in my entire life. My Lonely Licence expired, the rules changed, I was now supposed to join in the banter about late night barbeques, last minute hotel deals, sun lotion and how we're finally getting to use it, the "it's like being abroad" comments, the hysteria, the fun.

Surely only a surly, mad, grouchy fool would feel anything but elation when the sun shines for 16 hours and the whole country grinds to a halt to enjoy the summer we waited for for years? Well I guess that's me then - a grouchy ol' biddy, 44 but old before my time, a negative moaning Minnie. Pffft. Summer Scrooge (but without the redemption).

To be fair, for the most part, I played along - 'played' being the operative word. I kept my mask on, agreed that it was great - yes the sunshine's fabulous; yep, nothing like it; enjoying it? Of course. Happy? Jeez, why wouldn't I be? I smiled, faked it. But inside I was dying. I felt completely dissociated from society. Just as our inner despair is perfectly in synch with those lonely winter rainy days, my inner turmoil could not have been more out of synch with the 'shiny happy people' all around me throughout July.

Roll on winter time - it suits me better. Bah humbug.

The Shallows and The Deeps

The hardest part of this awful grief experience has been the broken promises, the awkwardness, the thoughtlesness, of some people. Knowing someone cares, having someone go out of their way to help, having someone who rings up out of the blue to say "I reckoned you're having a bad day, I care" because it's a birthday, anniversary etc, it's worth so so much. 

When the phone is silent, when people cross the road, or when they look at you and know by your eyes that you're hurting but instead of catching your hand they change the subject to something trivial, that cuts through our hearts.

I thought I would lose my mind last year from all the broken promises and abandonment. And the ones who came back on the scene in January, the 1st anniversary, to say 'phew it's a year at last, you can get back to normal now'. 

But, after 15 months I'm content to say I didn't lose my mind AND I've become philosophical about them and stronger for it. 

Now I look at them and know that there are two types of people: The Shallows and The Deeps. The Shallows are weak, cowardly, self-serving people who are all about the drama (hospice, ambulances, funerals) but don't care about your feelings once the 'drama' ends - as if our grief was last year's reality show and the season has ended so it's boring now. They have no integrity and no character traits of any value. Harsh but true. 

Then there are the rare gems, The Deeps, they are the caring, giving, selfless few who will drop everything to come to you, cry with you, laugh with you, let you ramble on about your love, your relationship, your grief, tell you to sit down and "have a glass of wine", won't judge you for the mounting dishes and the child's dishevelled hair. They are gold. 

And here's the thing... it's not a question of only wanting people who talk about Diarmuid. It goes deeper than that. It's knowing that we can talk about anything (perhaps not even mention him) but behind whatever conversation we're having they know, they're aware, they get it. There is pain and there is loss and it's real and they don't hide from it.


I now feel sorry for The Shallows and I'm glad I'm not one of them because I have empathy. My children have empathy - I'm raising three young people from The Deep species. To hell with The Shallows. Honestly, they're not part of my life anymore because they don't deserve to be. 

To the rare gems, the Deeps, the golden few, thank you from the bottom of my heart. 

What's the matter princess?

Diarmuid spent six nights in Marymount Hospice. We slept in the hospice with him. Just 24 hours before he was moved there from the hospital we thought he was coming home and would start chemotherapy a couple of weeks later but instead he was moved to a hospice to die.

My two boys (15 & 17) knew everything that was going on but we hadn't told our 7 year old daughter yet that her Dad had cancer because his prognosis was 18-24 months so there was no need to tell her yet. 

Now, in the hospice, one of the most pressing issues was the fact that she didn't know how ill he was. The boys and I had only found out that morning that his time left was very short.

While they would normally break the news of cancer to a young child over a period of weeks, Aisling would need to be told urgently.

A team consisting of a counsellor, two doctors, a nurse, a chaplain, myself, my sons and my brother, Chris, sat in a room with Aisling to explain to her what was happening. 

The doctor and the counsellor asked Aisling to describe what had happened to her Dad. She told them how a few weeks ago he wasn't feeling well and he had seen a doctor and was vomiting and sore. They listened and validated every word. Then they told her about cancer — how there are bad cancer cells and that even though it's often fixable, Diarmuid's particular type of cancer was very bad. They said that they had done everything they could but, at this point, all they could do was ease his pain.

Aisling stared from them to me, to her brothers, to her uncle. She was mute. I could see the realisation slowly dawn. Her little face was full of desperation — she so badly wanted someone to say, "But...", as in, “But of course he'll be okay", or, “But he'll go home soon". There was total silence in the room. Then she looked at me for an answer. I caught her hand, put my arm around her, and I said, “I think that even though the doctors have tried everything... I think Daddy is going to heaven". She turned white. Her innocent little face fell to pieces. The tears poured out of her. Everybody cried — the nurse, doctors, counsellor, me, Chris, my sons, Aisling. The tears flowed freely. Everyone hugged her in turn including her big brothers. Then she urgently wanted to leave the room. She said, "We must tell my Nanas. We must tell everyone. They should know".

Across the hall there was a day room where my family and friends waited that whole week, taking turns to support us and to visit Diarmuid. At that moment Aisling ran into the day room with tears pouring down her face — she threw herself into the arms of her auntie and her grandmothers and said, "My Daddy's going to heaven, my Daddy has to go to heaven". Then she sobbed and sobbed and she ran down the corridor to her Dad's room shouting, "I have to see Daddy". I followed. 

She threw her arms around him and cried her heart out. Diarmuid gave her a big smile, rubbed her hair and said, "Hey, what's the matter, princess?" She looked at me, looked back at him, and instinctively knew that he didn't know he was dying. She didn't mention heaven. She just said, "Daddy you have cancer". He said, "Yes, but I'm fighting it, princess". He still thought that chemotherapy would be happening. She hugged him tightly and let the tears flow. He looked at her and looked at me and I think in that moment he knew his life was ending.

Four days later Diarmuid passed away with Emmet holding his right hand and Daniel holding his left hand and me rushing into the room as he took his last breath. Within minutes of his dying, Aisling came into the room (she had been out for a walk with her auntie), and I knelt down and told her, "Daddy has gone to heaven, my love". She cried and held him and, along with her brothers, myself, our family, our closest friends, we stayed with him all day, saying our goodbyes.

She sleeps in my bed and I look at her sweet innocent face as she sleeps and I'll tell you something. There is no pain worse than the pain of watching your children's hearts break. My boys too. My handsome wonderful boys. Sobbing over their Dad's body as he passed from this world. It was just so awful. It IS just so awful. This pain... the agony of watching your children yearn for their beloved Dad... it's indescribable.

Drawing a line through her old life

No words can sum up our loss as much as this. My beautiful 8 year old daughter opened her school homework journal a few nights ago and stared at it for a while. I didn't take a lot of notice as I assumed she was checking her homework list. Later when I went to tidy away her school stuff I saw that she had drawn a line through one particular part of it that had been filled out last September long before her daddy's illness and death. "Father's name and phone number". There's got to be a word bigger than 'heartache' to describe how this makes me feel. :(