Brakes on

At the moment everything's moving so fast. Hours whittle away, days become weeks and weeks disappear into months. I feel like everything is on fast forward. I desperately want to be in the moment and feel what's going on but sometimes it's just too much.

I'm sort of lurching from one event to another - small challenges, big experiences - with an open heart and wide eyed. I just wish time would slow a little, let me catch up. I'm trying to stay busy, to keep me moving and living, yet I'm trying to make sure to process and talk too. It's pretty exhausting. 

Today I ordered in a hungover dinner from her favourite Thai restaurant. Our last order was stored on their website. Memories of the excitement she had every time we got takeaway and lay on the couch on Sundays came flooding in and with them tears, anger, bitterness... Why me? Why her? Why us? Nothing makes sense any more...

The Colour of Our Love

For our wedding day one of Liane's closest friends wrote a song for us. Miriam Donohue is a Dublin-based Galwegian with a stunning voice, a huge heart and one of the most honest & friendly personalities you'll find. Her and Liane were like crutches to one another - always ready to support and never found wanting. Their friendship was a constant, tested by time and distance, but flourishing still.

Miriam re-wrote the song for Liane's burial and stood at the grave in the sunshine that day singing through tears, her heart open for all of us to see. It remains one of the most precious memories, both from hearing the song whilst holding Liane's hand on our wedding day and from that beautifully sad day in Wexford. The lyrics are below. Thank you Miram x

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Orange is the colour of our love, like a wheel thats turning

Like a moon so bright its burning, on a midnight bicycle ride

Yellow was the colour of your hair, like a bloom in springtime

Now you stole my heart its ring time, 

its the colour of our love

On a blue and crispy morning we climbed Killiney hill

I said will ya will ya Darlin, you said yes i will

And I gave you a blue promise ring, you said I understand

As I slipped it on your finger, we held each others hands

Silver is the colour of your hair, many years from now dear

But I don't mind at all dear, for its the colour of our love

Gold is the colour of love, as here we’re standing

See our friends and family smiling

at the colour of our love.

On a Blue sunny morning, a warm day in July

I said will ya Darlin, if you will so will I

We'll watch the people dancing, watch the colours spin

We’ll stay here for ever and watch the colours fly

The colour of our love

On a Blue and windy morningthe 20th of May

We’re all standing here together to scatter you away

And I thought that all the colours, they might fade away

But now I see you as a Rainbow and a Rainbow you will stay

Oh The Colours of our Love.

The Liffey Swim

On Saturday I swam in the Liffey Swim, an annual swim that takes place in the Liffey River that bisects our lovely Dublin city, alongside 400 other men and women. It was the culmination of a season of sea swimming and felt like an appropriately big occasion to mark how important my new hobby has been over the past 4-5 months.

The day itself was nervy and fun. Much like many volunteer run organisations the atmosphere around Leinster Open Sea swimming events is a warm and welcoming one. I've met some lovely people over the course of the summer/spring and am excited to be a part of it all again next season. Some of them knew Liane, some of them have never met her. It can be hard talking to strangers about what motivates me to swim - I don't want to upset people and yet I like talking about Liane and how she's changed my life so much.

The night out that followed was predictably heavy. I feel like lately there's almost a monthly blowout where I push the boat that little bit too far and pay for it the following days. My mind and body can handle it for now but I'm very aware of how unhealthy it is. The release is cathartic, the resulting fear, paranoia etc less so. 

Somebody asked me what my next challenge would be and it got me thinking... What is my long-term goal? What do I want out of the Epilepsy Ireland fundraising? How long will I push myself to organise events and take on challenges in Liane's honour? Is it honouring her? How do people keep moving forward when surrounded by such deep pain? What can we do to help others in times like this? Is this my life from now until I die? 

There are probably more questions for me than answers at the moment. I'll keep teasing them out - here and with friends/family in person. I don't know if I'll ever find answers that will satisfy my heart or mind but am not sure what else I can do but keep searching. 

Schwimmen lernen

 "In einen Meer aus Schmerz ertrinken die einen, die anderen lernen darin schwimmen" - Kyrilla Spiecker

Since Liane died I've been looked after by many people. Friends, family, colleagues, students, strangers and more. It's been a very humbling experience and one that's made me feel equal parts loved and lucky. I've grown closer to people through my grief - their support and love transcending my pain (even for the briefest of moments) and helping me find purpose. 

I can't possibly name each person or detail what they've done for me but one such friend sent me a message yesterday that gave me a much needed lift. Nici lives in Hamburg and is a funny, caring and very smart soul. She's been a rock from afar - always there to talk and expand on thoughts, share opinions, guide gently. The quote she sent me above fits me like a glove. It means:

"In an ocean of pain some people drown, others learn to swim"

Any swimming I'm doing is thanks to the many life buoys/rings I have around me. The constant help really means everything to me. Thank you all so so much. 

A gut punch

Yesterday afternoon I was walking towards Grafton Street with some tunes on and trying to make my mind up as to how I'd whittle away 90mins before shooting a gig. I paused, dug out my phone, checked it and replied to a few things from the side of the footpath. When I looked up I saw a pretty brown-haired woman in her mid to late twenties walking up the street, her eyes scanning the crowd. She found who she was looking for and her face lit up - her eyes danced and her smile spread wide. She walked faster towards her man and when she got to him threw her arms up around his neck pulling him tight to her. They stood there in a clinch oblivious to the world scuttling by. 

It was beautiful and it broke my heart. 

Back to work

After a few months off, this week I'm back at work. Back to routine, pressure, expectation and well, work. Having the long summer break has meant so much. It gave me time to face my pain and try to understand my loss. It allowed me space to try and start rebuilding and work out where my life now stands. I had the chance to travel and experience new things on my own (a tougher task than I had anticipated). But with all the positives came the difficulties - gaping open days full of fear and loneliness. A looseness and lack of structure that was as scary as it was unchartered. A relatively constant state of confusion, bewilderment and dizziness that made the simplest of tasks become some sort of obscure puzzle. The inevitable apathy - why bother getting up let alone getting dressed...

The first few days back at the grind have been good. I'm lucky to teach in a school with caring and friendly colleagues. I've been there for a decade as a member of staff so I know the place pretty well. It's been surprisingly nice to see the students again - while that might sound funny I mean it sincerely. There's something reassuring about seeing them again, taller and bigger but the same characters that left in May, growing and getting ready to go on and make their respective marks on society over the coming years. Like a sort of constant of some variety. 

What I've found difficult is the commute and the return to the empty house.

Commuting is a funny space - you think, you dream, you communicate, you listen to music, you read... I shared my commutes with Liane in so many ways - music, messages, phone calls, photos etc. It was part of our relationship - tales about the world spinning around us, laughing and teasing, making plans for our evenings and weekends together. Like many other things that is gone now, altered abruptly and without farewell. In lieu I have a choppy sea of thoughts and newly haunting music all the while heading beck to meal times for one and an empty bed. 

Routine can give you strength and structure but with it can come memories and melancholy, perhaps more then I anticipated. New steps like this aren't easy, I understand that, I just underestimate some of them and their power.  

MIA: 1 x companion

I guess I've always been with someone. In 6th year of school, for the first few years of college, for the next few years of after college and then Liane. I love the intimacy, the companionship, the sharing, the leaning, the being leaned on. I mean, what are we here for? To meet a soul mate and build a family was always one of my answers to that question. 

In Liane I'd found my perfect companion. Everything about her - I felt like a chancer of a lightweight boxer who'd tricked a title-winning heavyweight to dance with me. I was the cat covered in cream. We fit. I've spoken before about how people work together - you look across at how two bodies fold into shape together and marvel how they ever existed apart. That was what we felt like. Aside from that physical attraction and tangible matching our personalities seemed to complement and enhance. Our wits sparked, our philosophies flirted, our boundaries ebbed and flowed as our souls grew closer and closer. She became my best friend - loyal, loving, supportive, caring, intrigued and intriguing. 

Without her the world is so newly strange. There's so much unshared now. There's no more giddy texts to her about the funny sounding lady on the train or the odd colour of my chai latte. There's no clutching embrace after time apart or simultaneous sighs after long days at the office. It's lonely, and in an acute way I've never experienced before. Sure I can hang out with other people - and I do - but my mind often wanders and soon my heart follows. What I'd do for one more evening collapsed on the couch in a jumble of limbs... 

I don't know if I'll ever feel that sort of bond again. Part of me wonders if I'd ever want to and another part guiltily yearns it. As with so much of my life, confusion reigns and through it I stumble, "yearning to belong" as the Nick Mulvey song goes...
 

Just another day

I'm writing this from a near empty Dart train carriage on my way home from Killester to Glasthule. I'm tired. I've had a long and turbulent day, that in hindsight has been almost a perfect microchosm of my current life. I'm emotionally drained and ready for my bed. Soon I'll be waking up to do it all again...

So what happened?  

The day began well - a spectacular swim. A low ruby of a sun sat prettily over a pond-like sea, hardly a whisper of wind and a calm silence that makes you feel equal parts lucky to be so close to nature and utterly insignificant. We swam. We chatted. We laughed. My body was happy. 

I later met a friend for coffee and we spoke about Liane and how we missed her. Our emotions flooded out. It was lovely - two of us talking, crying, sharing and comforting. I needed it. I didn't know at the time but I needed it. I got home exhausted and cried more. Reading old messages, looking at old belongings - the wave had taken hold and I needed it to wash me to wherever it was going. I let it bring me deep and it hurt.  

Soon it was time for meeting another friend with whom I swim, usually longer distances. We met, chatted, drove and then swam. It was sunny and windy. My brain focused on swimming, on the current, on the new location and the pretty scenery. I felt free and alive, happy and glad. I met other friends for lunch then popped in to school to do some work.  I was feeling stronger and was pushing myself to get a lot done.

Suddenly I found myself involved in a tough conversation and the mood flipped. My mind changed. I needed to leave. I was claustrophobic and stuck. I needed out. It comes on so fast - the helplessness and the pain. It dominates. I left for the city centre, for fresh air, for my own thoughts...

Town was a blur. A confusing stepping stone to the next part of my day. I bought and shopped and wandered in and out shops aimlessly, unsure of what I was doing. My brain was fried. I ate and headed to play frisbee near Killester which turned out to be fun and a great end to the up and downs of the previous 14 hours. 

Everythings so different now. Here I am homeward bound to an empty house. Days come and go in different shapes and sizes leaving trails of pain and sometimes of joy. The complex rhythm of my new existence is an elusive beat, one I'm still chasing, yearning. Soon it'll be bed again and another chance to sleep and wake up for more of the same perhaps.  

Children

Today's post has been brewing a long, long time. I've scribbled thoughts on paper, fleshed them out on my phone and now am going after them with my mind open and my heart willing. (Aside , it can be a strange process sharing all this sometimes - the actual nuts and bolts of how these pieces come together changes. There's times I want to write and can't and other times I don't want to sit down and face it but my minds churning out thoughts, memories, words and more).  

Ive always loved spending time with children. The energy they have, the purity of their love, the endless intrigue, the simplicity and the unwavering loyalty. Ever since I was a young adult people told me how good I am with kids - "he'll make a great dad someday" - and to me it's something I really enjoy. I think if you show honesty, openness and love to any child their response will reflect that.  

My dreams to father children with Liane are over now.  Our children were going to be long-haired, barefoot, cheeky and wild blurs tearing around the house in a lovable tornado of song, dance and mischief. Carefree, imaginative readers. Feisty, independent thinkers with a thirst for fun, for art and for the outdoors. Grandchildren to doting grandparents. Cousins to my godchild. Friends to our friends children. Brothers and sisters to each other - protective, proud, quarrelsome, loud and happy. 

Instead I'm left behind. I've four godchildren and I love them more dearly than most things in this world. Spending time with them (and with other children) is uplifting and special. The bond I feel growing is so full and unquestioned. I wonder somewhere deep in this cosmic ballet if that was part of the plan for me? Or if the chance to parent will come back years/decades down the line?

Either way, the fact is that spending time with children brings me great heart and happiness. Life is so straightforward. They help me reset, much like a cold morning swim. Cherish them. 

I miss you completely

Over the course of the next three days I'll be throwing myself into the frisbee tournament I organise every summer. 350 players, 20 teams, 6 pitches and over 120 games played. It's fun, it's intense, it's exhausting and this year it's without Liane's support. Events like this crystallise how much she's missing and how much I miss her.

I crossed the line of a sprint triathlon a few weekends ago and collapsed in floods of tears on a friend's shoulder, her absence so total. I walked through an empty supermarket on Thursday night and cried as I shopped for one, no more dinners shared or cooked for each other. I saw David Kitt's setlist for Castlepalooza included his cover Dancing in the Moonlight and wept at my computer - a song tied to her in every way.

Everything is so raw sometimes. So many steps forward then a lurch backwards. Here's to surviving. 

Clearing

The spare room in our house became Liane's room over the years - a walk in wardrobe of sorts with a desk of makeup and clothes across most surfaces. It was a busy, warm and messy room - a microcosm of our house- and a little haven of procrastination. This week with Liane's mum and her sister I emptied the room.

I'd feared the room for so long - piles of memories, clothes I love on her, make up that won't be used again, books we'd shared, her little CD player with "mixtape" CDs I'd given her way back when... But when we got in to it and started the weight fell off my shoulders. It became an exercise in group therapy almost - laughing, crying, sorting, chatting. It helped. Like many of the obstacles I've faced, attacking it head on and with others helped enormously. It even became cathartic watching the clothes go into bags and thinking they'll help other people done the line. Before we realised it we'd cleared drawers, a wardrobe, tables, chairs and the floor (!) of everything. We'd done it. We'd faced something hard and come out the other side. 

There's many difficult parts to the process I am going through, some of them predicted - pain, sorrow, anger, helplessness - but there are also purely positive moments of strength, humour, love, growth and more. Standing amongst her clothes holding an old photograph with the warmth of two of the most important people in her life standing beside me was one such moment. We got through a really tough task together and through tears with a smile. It was an evening I won't forget for a long time. 

"She'd hate to see us all upset" is something I cling to as I bundle on forwards and it's as true an ideal as any I've got. She was always a bright and positive shoulder to lean on and that is what I want to be for those around me. Another brick in the new wall. 

A long, long month

Toughness, pain, strength, determination, loneliness, stubbornness, support, numbness.

I look back at July and wonder how I got through it. How did I weave my way through the many obstacles? Did I do the occasions justice? Was I hard on myself? What did I gain from my head-on approach to birthdays, anniversaries and other landmark moments? How will I do it all again? What would Liane think? What do her friends and family think?

From my birthday on the 7th it was clear what a difficult month lay ahead. I decided to spend that weekend with my brother and some friends in Clonmel. We'd a really positive weekend - lots of fun, some gigs, a couple of great (and bizarre) boozers and good time spent with each other talking and reminiscing. It brought home how much I enjoyed Liane's company, how easy it was between us and how comfortable we were together. There were many times I turned and felt her absence so keenly and times I went to call/text her... I wonder when that will fade or if I ever want it to fade. 

From that weekend the month just seemed to barrel through me. I went out west for our wedding anniversary and spent time in Galway before staying in the inn where we got married. It was a beautifully sad experience, part gut-wrenching, part comforting. I wandered through the town of Clifden and memories cascaded back - shops we'd been to, meals we'd shared, the excitement of the wedding planning, the late night wanders full of Guinness, the early morning strolls, all the guesthouses we tested in the months before our marriage. It's a place that will be forever in my heart. 

On her birthday a week later I went swimming with a big gang of friends and ended up having 25 people to dinner for Indian takeaway. She'd have loved it. I spent time at her grave reading to her, talking to her, listening to music with her. It's a beautiful place - serene, natural, pretty. She'd love to see it. Her 3 month anniversary came and went. How can it be so long? It feels like it was just yesterday and at the same time it feels like I've done so much without her. I miss her every day - its like a constant part of me now - the rawness of her being not here. 

People told me I could prepare for occasions. That they'd be difficult but you can line them up and see them coming. Brace yourself I was advised. I waited, I braced, I planned and I wasn't ready. I couldn't process it all - not mentally, not physically. It was all so much and all the time. I left July shattered - a numb, drained and underslept wreck. I survived it but with scars. This journey is going to be long one. 
 

Happy Birthday Pannie

To the most beautiful, kindest, warmest and special person I have ever met - I hope if there's part of you somewhere watching over me that you know how much you are missed every passing day. We celebrated birthdays in our own haphazard and funny way, it's crazy to think that that is now a thing of the past. I'll miss your handmade cards, your birthday energy and your randomly brilliant presents so much. 

You'd be happy and proud to see how clean and uncluttered the place is. I'm trying to put my own touch on the house without changing too much; all those plans we had hatched will come into fruition soon. I even bought myself a hammock for the yard, hung all the art we'd left around the floors and finished the DIY stuff you'd started for me getting home from Oz in April.

I'm meeting your dad for a swim today. I don't think he's been in the 40 Foot for a long time. We're closer than ever; you'd love it. I've a big crowd of friends coming for another swim tonight and then we're ordering in Indian in your honour. Saag Paneers and Peshwaris Naans all round... Jane organised a big get together on Saturday where we celebrated you as a family in Mary & Anthony's house. It was so nice to see the Deasy clan out in force including the latest addition - Jane & Mark have an amazing pup called Einstein. You'd love her. Your family is so kind to me. 

These occasions aren't getting any easier and there's only been three of them so far PT. The thought of Halloweens, Christmases, NYEs and so on is so, so daunting...

I've so much more to share but this is too difficult today. I love you and I always will. X
 

The tapestry of life

Sometimes my mind is capable of rare moments of clarity where everything seems to make sense in a sort of broad arcing way that ties a lot of ideas and thoughts together. It is as if life has slowed down and clicked into place in a way I don't see very often. When this happens I find relief in it, a sort of comfort and control that eases me. 

So often in the past 3 months I have looked at my purpose in life. What am I here for? What is my aim? Do I have a predestined purpose? Is there even such a thing? Is someone else or something else in charge of my fate or am I? Are we all part of a design? Is life about living then that's it? 

Perhaps more frequently I've been asking myself if the many coincidences are signs of some sort or just a simple yearning from my psyche/heart for signs of the person I miss so much. So many things have happened that feel like Liane has had a hand in them - events, meeting people, token finds, conversations, moments in nature and more. It can really feel like she's communicating with me (and others), which sounds utterly crazy. I think this is a natural feeling that some people cherish and hold on to. It's hard not to look for hope and love when all around you is chaos and fear. 

Then comes the hard and cold realisation that she's gone. It is a fact that I need to face, both with others and on my own. I've come home to our house a few times this week and had an uplifting feeling of her being here only to walk up the stairs or open a door and be alone. I spent a really special day with her family on Saturday and felt her there but not there. So often the phrase "Liane would love this" was said...

I'm not sure what life is about or why we are here but what I am sure of is of how rich a tapestry life weaves around us. So much of what happens to us all is linked. So much of the coincidence, the joy, the pain and the daily struggle is shared. In the hard times and the unhappy times this gives me some measure of comfort - to know that others have survived what I'm going through and that others can gain from what I am sharing and learning. Somebody recently told me that after the all-enveloping pain come small shards of light - little signs of hope. Maybe this shared existence is beginning to send some of those shards my way.

Finding Words

I'm sitting here at the kitchen table in my house trying to gear myself up for a 1500m open sea swimming race at lunch time. I'm a bit tired, feeling flat and a little guilty about not having written here recently. I've so much to say and yet right now my thoughts are short on clarity and passion, a jumbled mess of half ideas and unclear expressions.

For a change I'm fighting to find the words I need to express myself. Maybe it's the fact I was out drinking yesterday or haven't slept too well. Maybe the emotional toll of this month is too much - the incessant hits of birthdays, anniversaries and milestones. Maybe I need to step away from the laptop and do something else... But that would be giving in. Part of the idea behind this website was to share my emotions to show what I'm going through - a window into grief and it's baggage. To not post seems to me like an easy way out. And yet, pressurising myself doesn't do me any good. Self-awareness; a double-edged sword. 

I'm going to take today in simple blocks. I think the clutter in my mind is a mental reflection of the clutter in my house and the lack of routine in my days - a sense of drifting pervading my thought process. I can simplify things and clear my brain. Food. Swim. Start work on one room in the house. Then to Dunkirk. Clarity through simplicity and singularity. Easy, right? We'll see. 

Moving home

Since I came home from Australia on Friday April 21st I've lived in my parent's house in Glenageary, not far from myself and Liane's place in Glasthule. They've been incredible in so many ways. They've both been understanding, loving, thoughtful and positive. Whenever I've come home and collapsed they've picked me up. When I've needed space they've stepped back. They helped me through the toughest part of all at the start and shared tears with me throughout. I can't think of how I'd possibly have made it this far without them.

Since Tuesday night I've been living back in my house where myself and Liane had built a warm and cosy home. It's been tough. She permeates every room and most of our belongings in the house. Before I came home she'd made a point of rearranging the place, hanging some long forgotten artwork and even replacing the broken kettle (subject of an ongoing and impressive standoff between us). The house looked like she'd just popped out for a while - her bags where they usually sit and her jackets hanging under the stairs...

So much of who we are and what we made is all around me here. And with it comes comfort and a sense of grounding. I don't know if I'll always feel this way but for now home is very much where my heart is. I feel like being here and I think rebuilding here will be good for me. I plan on changing things - in fact we had summer plans together to paint the front of the house, replace the front door, change the bathroom, revamp the yard, get new furniture - and I feel like following through on those plans will help me and be a nod towards Liane; a sort of completion of plans for the two of us.

There are so many steps on this journey, but the smaller I make them the easier it gets. One day at a time, one meal here at a time, one room at a time and soon home will be somewhere different, but hopefully as warm and as welcoming. Time will tell. 

Never-ending Paperwork

Our house is not a house where you can immediately put your hands on any given bill, document or certificate. There are a number of places these pieces of paper might be - the filing boxes, the magical coffee table, the make-up desk, the catch all kitchen table - but there is no guarantee that they will reside where they should. Looking for something requires a certain amount of patience and a large pinch of good luck. Since Liane has died I've been expected to know where everything from birth certs to car ownership manuals live. Each search makes me smile and sad in equal measure.

What I've found much more tough about the whole administrative and numbingly practical side of her death is the amount of paperwork needed. First up was the funeral planning, then the burial, then closing bank accounts, then cancelling insurances, then shutting down her phone, then selling the car and now dealing with the Revenue. Each step has presented another set of choices/demands to be made by a person deep in grieving, with a vague focus and an unsteady hand; me.

Despite offers of support from every friend and family member I feel these things need to be tackled head on for two reasons - 1) I'm her husband. I think it is part of that role for me to be doing this. That sounds odd when I write it down but there's a stubborn loyalty and possessiveness about me doing it. 2) It will make me stronger.

When all dust settles I will need to be able to function alone - to do my shopping, to clean my house, to go to work, to live a life like the people around me. The more I face that now, the more I get closer to being able to live that life. And while it is not a life I wanted it is the life I have got and I'm going to make a damn good go of it, albeit swamped in paper with the same filing systems that failed me as a teenager/young adult. 

From favourite month to one of fear...

From early on in our relationship July was always a favourite month. Being slap bang in the middle of the summer (i.e. my school holidays) we usually went away at this time of year. Add to that the fact that the 7th (today) is my birthday and that the 26th is Liane's birthday it was always a month we looked forward to, enjoyed and celebrated. We chose the 17th of July as our wedding date because it was a third reason to celebrate us and sat in the middle of the two birthdays. And this year we'd booked a week long yoga retreat on the Adriatic Coast (via Ashtanga Yoga Dublin - Paula and David are incredible people and excellent teachers) which was ending today before a trip around the Italian coast. Dreams eh...

So many people have spoken to me in person/online/via messages about the occasions being the toughest part of this new journey I am on. Birthdays, anniversaries, events and so on. It's strange - you take partners for granted on those days - rushing to be on time, fussing over gifts,  worried about booking the right restaurant etc. - what I'd do just to hold her hand today. To be given one of her handmade cards. To laugh at another quirky and thoughtful gift. To argue over a trivial detail. 

(I'm sitting on my parents' couch eyes full and throat tight, trying to articulate a maelstrom of thoughts for this post and in runs my ecstatic three year old niece - "Mark, look I got a jelly! I did a wee in my potty!" - kids are amazing and have helped me more than I can express. That's another day's post).

I've a simple approach to these events - launch myself at them with positivity and surrounded by friends and family. The phrase "it's what she would've wanted" gets said with ease but it remains a staple of my current mood. "What would Liane actually want me to do here?" - I can tell you what she wouldn't want - moping, self-pity, withdrawal, hiding, dishonesty, fear. She'd want me to be strong, to believe in myself and to reach out and lean on others. And that, that is exactly what I intend to do.

I'll celebrate my birthday with my twin brother and some friends in Clonmel this weekend at a festival she'd have loved. I'll celebrate our wedding anniversary in Clifden, where we were married, amongst the wild charms of Connemara. I'll visit her grave, I'll swim, I'll eat Indian and I'll meet our friends/family on her birthday. Each day will be difficult in different ways. Each day I'll face knowing others are with me. Each day I'll miss her with all my heart. And each day I'll persevere. What else is there to do? 

Born in Dublin, Alive in Galway

As all of her friends and family know Liane adored the city of Galway. A bustling, open, friendly city full of character and heart, nestled on the blue sea and surrounded by some of the prettiest scenery in the country; it fit her like a warm glove. The laid back pace, the warm pubs, the wild water, the gentle people, the walks, the fireside conversations, soft days, those first clinches on hill tops and piers... 

We met at a fancy dress party in Galway in December of 2007 and by Easter of the following year we were both pretty smitten. Late nights dancing in the Áras, bike rides on our matching orange bikes, home cooked dinners with friends, aimless wanders through parks, shared meals in Kashmir, gigs in the Roisín, hours in bookshops, too much tea and long mornings and nights cocooned away from the world. 

We've visited Galway often since we moved home to Dublin. Most recently spending weekends with Aran & Kate in their beautiful home, inspired by what they'd built together. Whenever we went to visit we'd get off the bus and Liane's whole demeanour would change. You could see the weight visibly leave her shoulders - work left behind, Dublin's rabid pace of life left behind, fresh western air filling her lungs, not a care in the wide world. She practically floated down Shop Street, that beam of a smile spread wide across her pretty face. 

I walked down the same street yesterday in tears. Being there without her warm arm (and cold, purple hands!) linked through mine felt strange, foreign, wrong. I felt her with me and yet nowhere to be seen. My throat constricted, my breath quickened and my palms sweated. I tried changing my mood with music, with distraction but resigned myself to letting it out. I sat and stared out to the sea near the Claddagh and bawled.

One thing for it - head to Blackrock and jump off the top ropes into the sea. The ocean will know me and help me. The sea will wash away my pain, at least giving me a momentary respite. The long walk was longer than usual, Xavier Rudd on my earphones and my mind scrolling through a  vast catalogue of Liane memories - football in the park with Jonathan, night time wanders on the shore, learning how to hold each other, meeting her friends, sharing my friends... By the time I got there I'd been walking for 40 mins and was sweaty, tearful but excited. The swim was perfect as was the company - a group of weather beaten, world wise Galway men chatting me back to full strength. 

I don't think I've ever met anyone so linked to a place without having been reared there. It was like Liane was purpose built for a life in Galway. We often spoke about returning there, inspired by the life/home/family we saw friends building on the west coast. I always thought we'd take the plunge some day, maybe jump into photography and take a career break if we'd a young family. While that won't happen I'll still have part of me rooted in Galway and with it will remain her sweet, gentle Galwegian soul, lying back on the soft grass after a bracing dip with full hearts and unforgettable smiles. 

Finding your tribe

I’m writing this piece on a train carriage. There’s a topless man drinking a can of Devil’s Bit cider sitting in the next row of seats. The smell of cigarettes from him is as powerful as it is disgusting.

I started a new book on this journey, one I picked up on a thought-filled, aimless wander around Blackrock shopping centre. My mind was worlds away, unsure where I was or what I was feeling but my feet took me a shop Liane loved – Dubrays Bookshop.

The book sat in front of me as soon as I walked in the door, on a small stand, winking up at me with it’s sea blue cover. It is called “I found my tribe” and tells the story of how the author, a mother of five children, has found saviour from the cards life has dealt her in the cold embrace of the sea. Ruth Fitzmaurice's husband, her best friend and the father of her children has Motor Neuron Disease and can now only communicate with his eyes.

So much of what she has spoken about in the first five or six chapters resonates with me. I leave the sea, like her, a different person to when I go in. I have friends, like her, who accompany me on my daily dips. I am jaded, like her, of being brave and of being strong. I put my armour on, like her, when I go to meet groups of people.

I'll write again about the book when I finish it, which I expect to be quite soon, but for now urge you to buy it, read it and live through the lens of an articulate, funny, heartbroken and exceptionally strong woman.

When inspiration is needed it will be to her writing that I will turn.