Post 129: Tiredness ensues and a (poetic) text to Kev.
Easy Sundays aren’t always easy.
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The good news was that the cat, Mr V, had none of his cat-flatulence of yesterday, which was the best news in my opinion. Otherwise, my day was short and sadly sad while I dwelt in the depths of my pool of self-pity.
My dearest friend and brother-in-law’s funeral is being arranged without me, which leaves me wallowing with selfish thoughts—how missing the whole full-Irish send-off feels like the fault of some all-powerful master that hates me in particular. It’s dreadful how all too easily I slip into a persecution mode where my illness or treatment feels used against me. Yes, I’ve heard the family say all the nice things to help me through the week, but it doesn’t help much.
The full-Irish is a phenomenon. The wake, the funeral, the interment, and lastly the reception all follow in a caring but very tiring 24 hours (or more) of goodbyes and memories.
The first time I experienced it was a real shock and helped me understand the importance of life.
In that case, it was three months after our eldest was born, and it began with a call one quiet Sunday evening in early April after we got our new baby to bed. Back then, the landline was the only way to communicate overseas, calls were few, and they were costly in the big scheme of things. We had little money spare for anything but didn’t often grumble.
The voice on the other end of the line was brother Kev (from America). His next utterance was sincere, not jokey, and direct:
“Can you get Val over here asap?”
The gravity in his voice told me everything, and he needn’t say more. By the clicks on the line I knew this was not transatlantic, here was in Ireland, that’s a biggie!
I automatically knew it was my Darling’s mum who was not well, and the call was no dress rehearsal. I put the phone down and, while looking through Yellow Pages, got a number for British Airways and bought an open ticket for her and our baby on the 06:30 flight the next morning.
I suppose this is where I should add a little story about strength, waiting, and resolve. I didn’t expect to, but this short blog is turning into a bit of a cathartic rant. Sorry.
Molly, the matriarch of a family of huge size (15 kids), was the absolute centre of my Darling’s world. To be by her bedside was all she could think about after touching down in Dublin.
I was told this later by my siblings, because I wasn’t there and stayed home in our one-bed flat, worried and awaiting another call. My Darling was home with family—and so too our tiny little baby—but if there’s one place that can look after kids, it’s Eire. So I knew they’d both be in capable hands.
She was brought to the hospital where her worn-out 63-year-old mother lay, and as her mother’s eyes spied her second youngest daughter, she sat up in bed and, with such energy not seen for days, scolded my Darling with a direct question—
“What are you doing here, and where’s your baby?”—in a way that only a nanny can.
After explanations and hugs in a quick visit it was all too much for both to take, and it was advised that nanny needed rest.
I should have already said that my Darling was the last remaining sibling to visit the hospital since her mum’s admission, and that Kev was back in Ireland from his two jobs in New York, even though he had only just acquired his Green Card. I knew this was serious from the start.
But about half an hour after my Darling had left her mum’s side and met up with all the sisters and brothers and in-laws in the corridors outside the ward, her mum passed away quietly, with the whole family nearby. To everyone it seemed like their mum had been holding out to see and hug her overseas daughter who had the newest baby grandchild—like she had saved a bit of strength to say goodbye. Whatever it was, my Darling had just made it and had a last cuddle with the person she loved so very much. Her mum will always be special, and that last moment treasured.
I got to my Darling’s side the next day for the wake and learned so much about what a community can do to ease the pain of death.
I couldn’t do much—our baby was down the road with a neighbour, my Darling wrapped up in endless tearful hugs from the family I had grown to know—and the flow of tea and sandwiches and whisky and Guinness and genuine kindness and love was the mainstay for the huge Catholic service rituals: from chapel of rest through the church and then Mums coffin carried over half a mile on the eight lads shoulders in a feat of amazing strength and loyalty to their family graveyard plot, in a way only the Irish can do.
Up until then the mood was so somber, (and sometimes still is when we cast our minds back) but Mum was a happy soul, and the reception put smiles and colour back on the greyish, exhausted faces of the family.
I will miss all this for Kev but know he’s going to have the most wonderful send-off, as he truly deserves.
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My body caved in to the chemo tiredness early afternoon, and after catching a few hours of naps upstairs in bed I found enough energy to loosen my thoughts and write a little poem for Kev, which is below if you’d like to read it.
The slow-release morphine pills are really helping my whole body stay pain-free all day and night, and I’m still eating well. My Darling indulged my want for some more homemade coronation chickpea sandwich filling, so I’m in lunch heaven again.
After yesterday’s loose stools I had none at all today—my ever-watchful Darling provided a just-in-case Laxido to assist in transits. I await the results with glee 
.
So I’m doing okay physically, and that’s the best thing.
The bus is en route and I’m not hopping off.
I’ve got to get my questions ready for the GP’s F2F later this week for that QoF meeting (or cancer care review). It might just be a pill review, in which case there’ll be no time for bugger all else, ha-ha.
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A text to Kev.
(By Mr U)
I’ll start by saying I love you
with every grieving part,
The days have grown more difficult
within my broken heart,
It’s away you are from all of us
who love you deeply too,
But most of all please ring me, Kev,
so I can speak with you,
I hope you’ve got a drink in hand
wherever you may be,
A white wine or a mojito—
it’s all the same to me,
Flying high above the world
to see what you could see,
With a hard-earned wallet always full
treating all so generously,
So don’t be shy, just call me soon—
I need to ask you why,
Of all the people that I know
why it’s you who had to die,
I didn’t say the things I should
or pause to reminisce,
The pinky promise that we made
I’ll have to now dismiss,
Call and let me see your smile
from all the stars and bars,
Tell the worst jokes you can find
from that silly skull of yours,
I miss you, Kev, I miss your calls—
don’t ever leave my head,
I’ll grab myself a tissue now
and smile with you instead,
