Hurdle after hurdle

Right now it seems each day of each week has a new curveball to send my direction. Since arriving home from France I've faced so much in such a short while. My parents were away so I had space and time to myself but coupled with them, loneliness. I decided to face a few of the difficult tasks on the seemingly endless list of administrative work. 

• I sold Liane's car
• I sold our TV
• I gave away our towels and bed linen
• I backed up and erased her phone
• I closed her bank accounts
• I spent time in our house
• I visited a grief counsellor

All of this has had different results. I've been exhausted and busy. I've been able to talk through it all with friends and family. I've felt pressure and stress but haven't buckled. I've opened up to the pure grief and let the tears and anguish flow. I've had a blow out night out. I've swam in the sea more than ever before - currently averaging two separate sessions a day. I've helped others. I've bought books and set out new resolutions. I've started thinking about the house and what I need to do to it. I'm continuing to walk forward, step by step. 

I always realised this process would be incredibly difficult but that recognition and acceptance isn't giving me quite as much solace as I hoped it would. On friends and family I continue to lean.

An inspiration

My granny Maura is a smart, strong, creative and proud woman. She's my dad's mother and is 96 years old. Maura and Liane got on very well - they loved & respected each other and had grown closer as Maura got to know Liane better over the years. More recently, since a stroke affected Maura's speech, Liane's professional experience and bedside manner dovetailed with their love and further helped their relationship. 

As a grandchild I (much like my brother and sister) can do no wrong in Maura's eyes. She's supported me in everything I've done and has advised and encouraged me along the way - even if I don't visit her as much as I should. Last week I went to her for the first time since Liane's death. I knew it would be a difficult and an emotional visit but maybe wasn't prepared for the pain of it. Just seeing her made me burst into tears. We spoke about losing loved ones - she's outlived her husband, siblings, parents and all her closest friends. She says she still talks to her sisters and her religious beliefs help her. She held my hand and soothed me through many tears. Her life now is so tough - she's in constant pain, unable to paint/create and has lost all independence. And yet there she sat, comforting me and promising me she's try to stay positive and strong, to make the most of her lot, all the while wearing a yellow bracelet. People speak of inspiration...

Coming home...

About two days before I left what had been a busy and positive week in Royan my subconscious started to turn it's focus towards home. I began to feel nauseous and deeply sad. I tried to hide it. I needed to be in the moment with friends, with other players at the tournament and with people I was getting to know. I buried it. Like all emotions it found it's way out and now I understand what it was already aware of.

Coming home to Liane is a long since established part of my life. I often travelled without her - for work, with frisbee, for friends - and I always loved coming home to her. That first hug, the gentle kiss, the rush of experiences to share. She laughed at how I told her every detail in a chronological order. I laughed as her mind leapt from one story to another with a gleeful abandon. We enjoyed being together again, having missed the intimacy, the sharing, the warmth and the touch of each other. That's all gone now and I don't know when passing through Dublin airport will get any easier. I don't know when disembarking the Aircoach by the church will feel normal without her there. I don't know how I'll walk in our door...

Of all the adjustments to my life this is one I'll struggle with repeatedly. Hopefully practice will blunt the edge of these feelings for now I'll cherish the memories. They're all I've got. 

Swimming in a fish bowl

Everything I am going through somebody else has been through before me and another person will go through again. All the hurt, the anger, the injustice and the lack of understanding. All of it is part of life, part of the Human Condition.  So, how can I use my experience to help other people? What can help me? Where do I turn? 

I met lots of people last week when I was away and spoke in depth about my loss, our loss. Two conversations stuck with me because they were so tough and have remained with me.

The first was with a person I'd never met before. He's now in his early 40s and his sister died, aged 14, about 2 decades ago. She had epilepsy and died from suffocating on her bed sheets with her parents asleep next door. He'd spoken to her hours earlier just before she went to sleep. We cried together last Saturday - me and a stranger holding one another as we wept on each other's shoulder. He told me it had been a long time since he'd spoken about it and let it out. He thanked me and he listened to Liane's story. We sat together in comfort and in shared loss. I'll be posting yellow bands to his parents in the US and looking him up the next time I travel west. 

The second was with someone I've known for years and played against for longer still. His partner has uncontrolled nocturnal epilepsy - the very same condition than took Liane from us. I never knew. He told me through restrained tears and I didn't know what to say. I hugged him and felt sick. I was stumped - what could I say? I wanted to tell him everything will be okay. That for every one person who dies there are hundreds and thousands who don't. That life isn't cruel to all of us. That where there is belief there is strength. But I stopped. How can I promise any of this?

In fact, the second conversation left me thinking to myself later that night - could I have done more? Maybe we lived a life that was too much for Liane? Maybe there was something we could have changed? Or, maybe we lived the life she wanted to live as a proud and independent person? I know this to be true in my heart. I know she was happy, adored and enjoyed her life but every now and then the little dark part of my mind gets it's claws in and sows doubt. The Human Condition...

Yellow Wristbands

Just before I left for France on June 16th I got 500 yellow wristbands made (big thanks to Camden Clothing for the fast turn around and their kindness) to give out to other people. On each band are the words: "Be strong & be yourself #LianeUp".

The idea is simple - to promote the personal values/strength that Liane's love and kindness helped to build in me. She gave me confidence, self belief and inner strength. She taught me to be self aware and to back myself in situations I wasn't ready for.  Liane's belief in me got me through tough times. I'd like people to wear the band, to pin it up to their wall, to give it to someone else or to put it away somewhere safe but to always remember that you have inner strength and your belief in yourself has got you so very far already. 

I hope this little token will help someone, somewhere just like Liane helped me. 

Home is where the heart is...

I was at home for 3 full days this week and it simply wasn't enough. Between catching up with family and friends, planning for a 10 day trip to France (during which I'll co-captain a team for a week long tournament) and tying up some loose ends a work, I feel like I didn't have a minute to myself. I haven't reflected. I haven't been to my house, to our house. I didn't see my grandmother. I turned down more invitations than I accepted. I felt a pressure to be around people, to give myself to people and to conduct myself in a certain way. It's a strange bedfellow of a feeling.

Leading up to my flight home from Amsterdam last Monday my mind was busy with confusion. Was I returning to pain? Should I feel guilty about my time away? Was I needed by people at home? Was I missed? Was I being disrespectful by travelling so much or so soon? Had I been thinking of Liane enough? 

As soon as I got home it was clear that Dublin is special to me and there's nowhere else I'd rather live and/or be. The sea, the people, the house, the memories, the pain, the happiness. Everything is here and as much as it pains me so does it nourish me.  I'm looking forward to spending time here, at home, where I belong over the coming months. I need it to ground me and to centre me. 

Liane in a word

Below are some of the words that friends and family came up to describe Liane. I find reading them comforting and it makes me smile. She gave so much for one person and continues to inspire me on a daily basis. If I can be a third of what she was I'll be a special person. 

The Power of Music

I love music. I was brought up surrounded by it - the Beatles, Pink Floyd, U2, Tina Turner, Queen - always something playing and keeping my mum/dad singing. I love the way it can manipulate you, bring you somewhere else and connect with you. I love the power of the memories associated with lyrics and notes put together by people from another time and place that I'll never meet. It transcends so much. Right now it is one of the most difficult things for me to face. I need it on a daily basis - it's part of who I am - and yet it's terrifying. A few words, a few bars and I'm in bits. Am I meant to get though this? Am I meant to put songs away and not listen to them again? Songs that made me grin from ear to ear fold me in half. 

Just this morning I drifted on to a playlist, half aware of what I was at. I needed something familiar and warm. I was working at something else. Next thing I'm transported to chasing Liane home from the cinema having been blown away by La La Land. We'd City of Stars playing on my phone, trying to sing along to a song we were hearing for the second time, feeling like two love drunk teenagers out later than we should be on a school night. It feels like yesterday. She'd beam at the memory. I could just text her. Send on the song link... 

(I've added some more videos to the music section of the site with a note about what I'm feeling about those songs, among many others at the moment).

Scars & Waves

Soon after Liane died an old friend of mine lost her brother to a road accident in the States. We shared grief and love over phone messages, keeping each other upbeat, as much as we could anyway. She asked me if anyone had sent me anything that helped with the pain and I remembered a post that stood out. Another friend had shared it whilst mourning her father earlier this year. It struck a chord with myself and Liane - I remember how touched she'd been as I read it to her. Liane's father also sent it on to me just a few weeks ago. Here it is...

===

I'm old. What that means is that I've survived (so far) and a lot of people I've known and loved did not. 

I've lost friends, best friends, acquaintances, co-workers, grandparents, mom, relatives, teachers, mentors, students, neighbors, and a host of other folks. I have no children, and I can't imagine the pain it must be to lose a child. But here's my two cents...

I wish I could say you get used to people dying. But I never did. I don't want to. It tears a hole through me whenever somebody I love dies, no matter the circumstances. But I don't want it to "not matter". I don't want it to be something that just passes. My scars are a testament to the love and the relationship that I had for and with that person. And if the scar is deep, so was the love. So be it. 

Scars are a testament to life. Scars are a testament that I can love deeply and live deeply and be cut, or even gouged, and that I can heal and continue to live and continue to love. And the scar tissue is stronger than the original flesh ever was. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are only ugly to people who can't see.

As for grief, you'll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you're drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it's some physical thing. Maybe it's a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it's a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.

In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don't even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you'll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out. But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what's going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything...and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life.

Somewhere down the line, and it's different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O'Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you'll come out.

Take it from an old guy. The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don't really want them to. But you learn that you'll survive them. And other waves will come. And you'll survive them too. 

If you're lucky, you'll have lots of scars from lots of loves. And lots of shipwrecks.

http://www.tickld.com/x/old-man-explains-death-and-life-to-grieving-young-man

Conversations

Yesterday, as I explained to someone that not only hadn’t I booked a hotel in Paris, I wasn’t even sure how I was getting there - I found myself saying “I’m not usually this disorganised. In fact, I’m usually the opposite. It’s just that...” I paused and she looked at me. What do I say? This polite and friendly person I’ve met but thirty minutes ago and we’re about to share a train journey to Paris for three and a half hours “…Life at home is very difficult”. I welled up. I looked away. She didn’t press and the conversation moved on. How many times will there be moments like this?

Earlier in the weekend I met many friends – some dating from when I first started travelling Europe playing Ultimate almost 17 years ago and others from more recent times. With most of them there was a sadness, a lack of words and a warmth of emotion that touched me with each of their embraces. I didn’t know what to say and neither did they. Sometimes I opened right up and others times I shrugged and we implicitly/silently accepted that life had dealt me a rough hand. It’s hard to know how people take either reaction. I don’t want to upset anyone else and yet I don’t know what I’m doing – it’s a daunting new and uncertain path. For someone who loves talking and interacting with people this particular topic will likely be one I come back to a lot. Here’s hoping I find some answers.

Time to get away?

Today I fly to France for some time away from Dublin. I'll be playing a beach Ultimate tournament called Yes But Nau in the north west with a team of players mostly based in London. On Tuesday I'm heading to Amsterdam to work and play with a clothing company called Five at the biggest tournament in Europe - Windmill. I get back on the 12th of June.

So, how do I feel about it? To be honest I'm pretty scared. I worry about the many conversations about Liane's passing that I'll be having. I'm nervous about down time with nobody around - time usually spent texting/calling Liane on these type of trips. I'm unsure how I'll feel about the constant social side of the trip - usually something I enjoy immensely, but recently something I've been pretty ambivalent about. I've also got a guilty feeling - should I be going away? Should I not be staying around to help friends and family? 

I've spoken to lots of people about the trip and to a person they think it'll be good for me. And part of me is excited too - I've lots of close friends in Amsterdam and old opponents I'll see in France. The love and support I've received from the community of the sport I play has been breath-taking. I couldn't quantify it in words if I tried. But behind the positivity is a niggling worry. I guess it was the same coming back to work, the same going to the house, the same walking the streets without her...

Whatever happens, its another step forward down the new road and another brick in the new foundations.

Another little message

Today I spent a few hours in our house, the cosy little place we built into a home together. I've made a point of being there as often as possible; it grounds me. I have a deep love for the time spent there and, for now at least, I get comfort out of being under the roof. I started the process of changing the place up a little, something I'll talk about more in future, and dug up her laptop. She'd been looking at old pictures of me... Her emails were open and I scanned them to see was there anything I needed to follow up on. One stood out - a message from a friend with death in the title from early April. In it was a link to this poem - Epitaph by Merrit Malloy...

When I die
Give what’s left of me away
To children
And old men that wait to die.

And if you need to cry,
Cry for your brother
Walking the street beside you
And when you need me,
Put your arms
Around anyone
And give to them
What you need to give to me.

I want to leave you something,
Something better
Than words
Or sounds.

Look for me
In the people I’ve known
Or loved,
And if you cannot give me away,
At least let me live in your eyes
And not on your mind.

You can love me most
By letting
Hands touch hands
By letting
Bodies touch bodies
And by letting go
Of children
That need to be free.

Love doesn’t die,
People do.
So, when all that’s left of me
Is love,
Give me away

Back to work, back to a new reality

As many of you know, I'm a secondary school teacher in a school in south Dublin. I love my job - my friends at work, the students, the staff, the school and campus, the ethos we strive towards and maybe most of all the chance to affect change on the lives of those I work for/with. I'm passionate about the work I do and almost ten years after starting where I work I'm proud of the career I have forged; I like going to work in the mornings. Within that context I decided that returning to work just two weeks after Liane's death was the right thing for me to do. Some people told me it was too early, that I was rushing back and others understood but were understandably wary. How did it go? Well, it went.

The first week back coincided with a Whole School Evaluation from the Department of Education, something that comes around roughly once a decade. Three inspectors visited and examined all parts of school life, interviewing staff, students, parents and more. They sat in on classes and met with the Board of Management. They read through all our paperwork and spoke to senior and junior management. It was a tense and busy atmosphere that allowed me return but without being the focal point. The second week back was one of the most difficult weeks of my life. I left work early on a number of days, overwhelmed with the small details - commutes spent on the phone to Liane were now a thing of the past, the daily sharing I mentioned previously was abruptly over and the questions I found myself facing (albeit asked gently and with love) were incessant. I struggled to keep on top of anything. Meetings with parents, Sports Day, Graduation - events I'd looked forward to and revelled in became red rings on the diary I was suddenly scared of.

Had I come back too soon? Maybe, maybe not. Every situation/person is different and it felt like the right choice at the time. My friends looked after me when I needed them and the management in the school were exceptionally caring and understanding. I think I grew stronger from facing the harsh difficulties and I think by facing them in such a public way I helped students see a facet of life they aren't often exposed to. I was worried about upsetting students who may have been through similar loss but the opposite was often the case with a number of the older boys writing notes/cards to me saying as much. 

On the long road to recovery and rebuilding this was a big step for me. There are many more ahead just like it and I expect them to be similar - tough, rewarding and not without pain. Towards them I walk with Liane in my heart. 

Music and photos

Today I've added two new pages to the website.

The first one is a Music page. On it you will find songs from May 25th, when we celebrated Liane in Mt Jerome before her cremation. These songs made up part of the humanist ceremony and were chosen to reflect Liane in terms of her positivity, her beauty and our relationship together. The second list of songs are from May 20th when friends and family met to bury her ashes in Wexford and to scatter her ashes on Killiney Hill and in the Irish Sea. Again, the songs were a mixture of the poignant and the upbeat, each chosen to represent Liane and times that meant a lot to her and to us. I hope you enjoy them.

The second page is a gallery of Images. At the moment it is fairly light on content for two reasons - one; my Hard Drive has all my photos on it so I cannot upload more yet and two; the process of sifting through photos of Liane is a minefield for me at the moment. Some pictures bring me joy and happiness whilst others leave me lonely and down. Looking at the adventures we had, the way she interacted with people and her natural beauty is too much for me right now. I'll add more photos to the page when I can and will post here in the Blog when I do so. 

For now, here is one of my favourite photos of her. She's climbing an old tower out on Ireland's Eye.

Still talking to me...

Before I left with work for Killary Harbour with 84 Transition Year students I went to the house that myself and Liane lived in together to collect a few things I'd need for the trip. Slowly I sort of gravitated towards the spare room where a lot of her clothes and belongings live. I absent-mindedly poked around the room not really paying any attention to anything but the rising and falling tears on my face. I touched some clothes, picked up random jars of make up, smiled at the mess of the place and then opened a press that houses her old college notes. I've no idea what I was looking for or why I opened the press but on the inside of the right hand door was pinned a torn page with the back end of a poem by an American poet I've never heard of called Max Ehrmann. I read it and it seemed like Liane was talking to me...
 

...no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. 

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul. 

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy. 

The poem in its achingly beautiful entirety can be found here. 

The power of swimming

Every day since I arrived home from Australia (April 21st - the day after Liane died) I have swam in the sea. It started as a way of keeping her close; doing an activity she loved (an activity that we loved) gave me comfort. It also allowed me spend time with one or two like-minded friends who have been amazing supports - listening, caring, talking things through - nothing off the table and everything heard with a gentle understanding. At the weekends the group gets bigger - people travel from across the city to spend time in the sea as she did and to share their mornings with me. 

Being in the cold water (currently about 10 degrees C) clears your mind. You don't have time to think or to process. With the cold comes a clarity as your body reacts to the sudden change. I adore this simple feeling. Despite all the early starts, the cold strip downs to the togs, the stiff winds or the almost daily apprehension, the swimming has given me strength of mind and body. It has acted as a tonic for my battered psyche. It has become as much part of my routine as getting up and going to sleep and I hope it will stay with me for life. Writing that makes me think, once more, that this is a lesson Liane taught me, concreted by her early departure. 

Sharing the trivial

Our relationship was built on trust, respect, understanding and love. We connected on a level I've never felt before and while it wasn't always perfect (what is?) we'd definitely grow closer than ever over the past six months. The longer you spend with someone and the more you commit to them the closer you get - that's not rocket science. But for me that wasn't necessarily what brought us together but rather the daily little exchanges like two giddy best friends seeing the world through their own private prism.  We shared anything and everything from the books we read to the tales about commuters on the Dart. We swapped jokes, stories, hearsay, impulses, internet fodder, songs, dreams and more.

At the moment it is one of the toughest things about losing Liane. I miss my confidante. I miss picking up the phone and sending something funny/touching knowing the reaction at the other end would be an uplifting one. I miss the replies laden with her unique wit and views. We shared so much. It's been something I've cried on many shoulders over the past month..

"We had so much left to share"

A tightrope and a yoyo

"How are you?". "Up and down like a yoyo". "How are you?". "I feel like I'm walking on a tightrope. Anything Liane-related knocks me clean off the rope".

Trying to describe how I feel face-to-face is so hard because I well up and my throat constricts. My heart pounds faster and my thoughts flood. I find myself repeating myself or saying things I don't mean. I feel like the words that come out aren't mine and don't do justice to either Liane or the loss I am feeling. Most of the time I end up not sure what to say at all. The person who has asked the question meanwhile is left wondering if I've been upset or corrects themselves in an equally jumbled manner. Two humans trying hard to communicate but without the power to do so...

Ownership of grief

On a walk with friends recently I fell into step and conversation with a close friend who had lost a parent many years ago. We spoke about grief, about mourning, about how waves come and about how waves go. We discussed all sorts of emotions around the death of a loved one. At some point during our memorable talk I finally articulated a feeling/thought I'd been having for a number of weeks. It's a tough one to understand but one she immediately related to and empathised with. Here it is:

"My grief is more powerful than yours and I own it"

I have since realised that the first half of this sentence is not true. I don't think any one person's grief is more or less important/powerful than the next. I believe that the pain and suffering of one person is utterly unique and can/should stand alone rather than be compared. Every relationship is different. 

The second half of the sentence is what I want to look at. I thought that by being Liane's husband I felt the hurt of her death more keenly than anyone else. I found it really hard to see friends and family so upset. "You aren't feeling what I am feeling" I thought to myself. But how could I know? I don't know what Liane said or did with others, what effect she had, what they feel in return. It's not for me to say or guess. But the feeling remained - a sort of odd possession of the hurt. I saw people sharing photos, memories, ideas, feelings and felt like they were insincere and taking something from me that was mine. I then disliked myself for that thought. My heart and my mind were in a turmoil of pain, jealousy, confusion and I couldn't get on top of it. 

What I've come to see is that nobody owns grief. It is an intensely personal and sharp emotion but can/should be shared. The relief I feel when I pick up the phone and talk to Liane's family/friends and hear that they are going through so many things I thought I was facing alone is huge. So many have said it but living it is harder - together we are stronger.

I'm 35 years old and I'm a widower

As sentences go the sentence I have written as the title of this post is one that is rarely expressed. Lives are meant to be lived fully and until old age, with couples knitting hopes and dreams together along a meandering path. Myself and Liane were optimistic dreamers with all sorts of plans; to renovate our house, to raise a family, to travel the world with a young child/children, to swim when grown old and wrinkly and to be there for one another through sickness and through health.

We'd spoken about death but it was always something distant, something remote and something that would happen after we'd completed our dreams. Now it is my present. The suddenness and the severity is a lot to take in. The shock, the grief and the daily reality too. Coming to terms with my new path will be a long process and one I hope to charter here for you to share. I truly believe that good will come of all this hurt and sorrow and hope that the months ahead will show that belief to be true.

For now, it is one step at a time.