Surviving the firsts

After all the build up, the worry, the pain and the sorrow Christmas Day has come and it has gone. I can now add it to the growing pile of occasions and landmarks that I’ve faced and survived. With that comes a sort of grim sense of achievement or maybe a little nugget of self belief that somehow I can keep going in this mess.  

The day itself was a busy day full of love, celebration and support. Every step I took it felt like there were people beside me and behind me to help if I faltered. I could almost touch Liane she was so present in so much of it - in the warmth of her family, the mischief of the board games and the love of the various clinches. 

For me the hardest part was the day before when a wave of grief washed over me like a tsunami - destructive and relentless. I expect there will be many more days like that but yesterday was a comforting day, an example of how occasions don’t have to be misery and pain.

On to that I will hold in the future, when the bleaker side of grief tries to settle in. 

Let the count go only so far

Today I spoke to someone who lost his wife. His circumstances were very different and his approach different too but the hurt, the loneliness and the new life quite similar. He took my by the elbow and squeezed saying “don’t let the count get to 10 Mark - never give up. It might get to 7 or 8 but you’ll always having the beating of it. Never let it beat you”. 

I like this analogy. I like it because it allows me be hurt and go down. It allows me to fail. But, importantly, it makes sure I fight. Never out for the count. Always with reserves. And I feel that way - I feel as though all these experiences and all this growth have built my inner strength to a point that I can’t and won’t be knocked out. There’s just too much to fight for. 

Uncomfortably numb

Sometimes I wake up in a fog, my energy hard to draw on and my mood low. Liane used to call it my “funk”. It’s hard to explain - apathetic, unmotivated, flat and happier alone, or at least less unhappy alone. But the pervasive emotion is one of grey dullness. 

With every high must come a low. People like me who are naturally social, positive and outgoing have to have low points. It’s the nature of the beast. I guess it’s how we manage those low points that allows us to cope, or not cope. For the past decade I’ve had someone to help me through these patches. She’s gone now, so I’m turning to friends, to family and in time, to a professional (an important topic that I’ll come back to).

In the past I’ve gotten by with raw determination - a sort of grim wrestling match - to get up, to get moving and to face the day. I’ve used music to draw my mood out of greyness and to somewhere lighter. I’ve forced myself to exercise - playing Ultimate, running, cycling and now swimming. That first step is always the most difficult.

For the past couple of days that fog has settled and then drifted and then settled again. I wonder if it’s a self defence mechanism, shielding myself from the inevitable pain down the tracks. Or maybe a result of chasing sleep and a bout of man flu. No nurse Pannie to be found in the middle of the night. Whatever it is, this funk is taking its time to drift away. I imagine that’s pretty relatable for a lot of people this time of year. I’ll be asking around for advice on how best to go forward and get back up again. Help me up off this canvas. 

Celebrations

Tomorrow is December 20th meaning Liane is dead 8 months. Writing those words is difficult, saying them harder still but trying to comprehend them...

Anniversaries of Lianes death have been strange for me. I’ve marked nearly every one of them in some way, some more than others and each with a different level of strength or of pain. Am I meant to get used to it? Is it meant to be something I do every month forever? Does not marking it make it sadder or easier or even disrespectful? Will every 20th be a day of internal struggle for the rest of my life? 

Tomorrow feels like a big day already. The proximity to Christmas, the last date of 2017, the round number of 8 and the sense of time passing so very fast. I haven’t tried to process the day yet. I’ll be in work for a lot of it and then to a big dinner. My parents have invited lots of my friends over to thank them for being such rocks for me since April. I don’t think I’d be here without them and my family. That’s sounds extreme but I mean it - I can’t think of facing what I’ve faced and surviving without the crutches beside me at every turn.  My heart has rarely been so nourished, comforted or full despite simultaneously being so hurt.   

8 months.

So much takes place in that vast amount of time. Babies are born. Friends get engaged. People start new jobs and move to new houses. Travel happens and growth with it. New experiences and the forging of new memories. Time always passing. Life always changing. 

All without Liane there. That’s such a hard thing to accept. So often I turn to share something or look to find her only for that special nook in my life to sit empty. I wonder how many more months and years will pass with that same feeling...

Lost for thoughts

Sometimes the yawning abyss of no more sharing with you, no more holding you and no more being with you is unfathomable. As in I literally struggle to get my head around you not being here. There remain infinite occasions where you’d be in your element, bringing your unique slant to them not to mention that gentle beaming grin. Instead I still rattle through like a stubborn bowling ball down an empty alley.  

Maybe the weather is getting to me today. Maybe the lessening daylight and the increase in work pressure is at me. Maybe I’m realising what’s coming - holidays and empty spaces.

Whatever it is, I thought I was prepared. I’m not so sure any more.  

Reaching out

Last week I got off the train, my earphones in my ears and my mind away in the skies. I started towards home on my usual, reliable path. As I did a hand tapped me on the the shoulder. Tired and slow, I turned and looked into the warm face of a stranger. He looked vaguely familiar but we hadn't met before.

"Hi my name's D" he said, "I just wanted to say that myself and my wife are your neighbours and we're sorry for your loss. We saw your article in the paper and we've thought of you and spoken of you at home. We've bought just around the corner if you ever need somewhere to pop in".

We walked alongside one another chatting about Liane, about life, about his family and the usual mundane things that pop up in a comfortable exchange. It was a warm conversation and reminded me how many good people there are out there in the world. All it took was five minutes of his time and a little bit of courage and with that he snapped me out of a tough moment and into the present. 

I'm going to make the point of keeping a special eye out for those around me struggling with their own battles. I'm going to reach out and ask a question or two. I'm going to be there for others the way people have been there for me. 

Ritual Pain

Last night I bought a Christmas tree. It was the first time I've bought one without Liane since 2011. Five years of tree buying makes it a ritual in my book - something to look forward to, to enjoy and to do with someone special. This year that's so different. I walked through rows of trees in the same place we bought our tree last year. I went with my mum who left me the space to go in alone. It hit home so many times -maybe most driving home not in Liane's Micra Oliver with the tree taking up over half the space in the car. 

Decorations from the attic. Dressing the tree. Gathering the firewood. Digging up the playlist. No mulled wine this time around. 

The month is only 5 days old and the pain is repeated and building. I have decided on an approach for this year - facing it all full on. No changes in routine, no new manoeuvres or cancelling of traditions. I love this season and have done for many years. It will be different this year in a deeply sad way but the love of family and friends will likely be more obvious and warmer than ever before. To that I look forward. For the now painful rituals I brace myself. What else can I do? 

Cherish, cherish and cherish

Every moment is precious. I can't stress that enough to every couple, parent, sibling, friend and whoever else might listen. Bathe yourself in the small moments. Every second of it. You don't know when it could be gone. Life is a fickle mistress. Drink it all in.

The first time I sort of thought about a post like this was to give people advice. Who am I to advise anyone? I'm a 36-year old man, born into a happy home in a stable country and to comfort. I've lived a lucky life full of love and opportunity.

The thing is, I look around me and see so much of what myself and Liane had - understanding, love, gratitude, hope and dreams. I want to see those flourish while they can. I want to see my friends and family be positive, seize their lives, attack their futures, take what they want from their time here and enjoy the journey. It seems so easy to get caught up in life, in being busy, in living day to day and week to week - then a year has passed and another dream long-fingered. Soon you're too old, too tied down, too busy to follow all that desire that abounded.

"How did that happen?". 

I also see people upset with the small stuff, getting bogged down in the details and losing track of the big picture. We were like that. We fought over silly things, got upset over the irrelevant and sat angry until we couldn't remember the reason. What I'd give to take all that back. To spend more time apologising and accepting I was in the wrong. Openness. Honesty. The difficult road but the one that rewards. Push yourselves for each other. Cling to your love. Nurture it. 

I saw an interview with Ronan O'Gara recently, the ex-Muster & Ireland rugby player. He's become a coach since hanging up his boots and plies his trade in Paris at one of Europe's bigger clubs. A couple of weeks ago he announced he was moving to New Zealand to coach at one of the best teams over there. When asked why the sudden move he referred to the death of close friends of his: Ever since... it was really brought home with Paul Darbyshire and Axel. I think now, it is [living in] 'the now'. People are asking, when are you going? Everything as a result of that, I look upon it very differently, a short-term game.

Life really is a short-term game. My advice for what it is worth? Seize it. Enjoy it. Live it. Love it. 

X

All the little things

Memory is a harsh and unwielding thing. One minute a warm comfort and the next a piercing pain. Unpredictable. Unexpected. Uncontrollable. I never knew how unstable grieving is - so much lurching, so much renewed pain and doubt. 

Triggers are everywhere. Today it was as I battled to get out of bed, remembering a game we played to help face the day ahead. Today it was a gentle conversation with a student. Today it was angelic female vocals in a song. Today it was a tearful conversation with a colleague. Today it was forgetting my gloves. Today it was the taste of a mouthful of tea that rocketed me back to our couch. That’s just one day and it’s not even through. 

So much of the patchwork of my life has been tenderly knitted with one person and has now unraveled/is unravelling/will unravel.  And while that’s a scary thought it’s part of it all, another challenge I didn’t ask for but am facing head on.

Into the breach, as usual. Who ever knew my normal would be like this...

Humming the Bare Necessities

Today I received a photo from a friend on whatsapp. She’d taken it at a recent Oliver Jeffers talk in the Science Gallery - one of my favourite authors/illustrators. I saw him speak as part of the Dublin Literature Festival a few years back and he blew me away. I’ve bought his books for many of my friends and family. There’s a simple beauty to his narrative and illustration that I find inspiring and touching. 

Anyway, the photo was of a quote attributed to Oliver’s Mum and it resonates strongly today, a tired Monday alone after a busy weekend surrounded...

“Someone lives for as long as you remember the smile on their face, hum their favourite songs, and tell their favourite stories” 

What a beautiful thought... 

Without structure comes the void

Three years ago the school I work in moved the Christmas exams forward a month to late November. There were many reasons why, which aren't important here, but what it means for me this week is that, given the exams are on, the usual 8am-5pm routine, the flow of my 5 day working week, has been turned on its head. 

There are merits to this and it was on those merits my focus lay early in the week. A chance to catch up on sleep, to attack a load of work admin that had piled up, to see some friends and to try and get some headspace away from the hustle of life. I achieved some of that but after Monday what started becoming more pressing was the open time with no plans - a sort of yawning abyss of loneliness. I found myself wandering around uncertain of what to do or who to call. I went to the cinema for pure escapism and found myself getting unusually upset at any vaguely emotional scenes. I quickly became insular and apathetic. I stayed in, ignored invitations, turned down helping hands and wallowed. It wasn't really a choice, it just sort of happened. 

Yesterday the same feeling came on again and I faced it. I decided I wasn't going to fall into it. I then broke down in tears walking down a main street. I tried to pull myself together but couldn't. I changed the music I had on with little or no effect.  I made it to a friends house and cried on shoulders. Then I ran a 5km race in the cold and in the rain. I finished it elated, a feeling of positivity that has swept through to today. 

Perhaps most importantly, I understand what happened, how it happened, why it happened and that it will happen again. That means a lot to me. Recognition and understanding give me strength and if I can learn from the lows then they will become ever so slightly less low. That is today's hopeful thought. 

Here comes Christmas

Something about Christmas appealed deeply to both myself and Liane. The generosity of it, the focus on the family, the warmth of fires after long walks, hot toddies in hand and surrounded by friends. Even just the simplicity of holiday time spent together, away from work and normal weekly pressures. It was always a time we really enjoyed.

We lived in a cold house where watching TV happened wrapped up in blankets, curled around each other with the fire feeding us its warmth. From mid-December there was a dressed up tree in the corner and tinsel on all the framed photos. We collected Christmas decorations accidentally, almost apologetically. Liane hated clutter - unnecessary objects lying around around the place were not allowed - but at Christmas there was leeway, and together we picked up wooden toys, handknit finger puppets, cute baubles and other bits and pieces to share around the house.

I'm not sure what to do with all that stuff this year. Do I get a tree? Do I start afresh? Do I wallow in all our collected memories? What will it be like to come downstairs and turn on the lights like I used to before her shower in the mornings? Will there be a night of mulled wine driven fun this year? Will my friends find it weird without her? What will Christmas Day be like in her aunties house and after dinner with my folks? 

I watched that LIDL ad from last year in the cinema yesterday. The one where they bring the granddad up to his old house and surprise him with it all done up and full of relatives. It's corny and it made me collapse into tears. He glances across to an empty seat at the table, his eyes sad, and it made me think of everything Liane has missed and will miss.

I'm 5/6 weeks weeks out and crying at ads in the cinema. I imagine I'll return to this topic.

Here comes Christmas indeed...

Running to stand still

As another month passes I find myself busy, relentlessly busy. This isn't new. I've often been this way - it was cause of a lot of upset between myself and Liane. She always disagreed with me about how much I took on, how much I committed to and how many others I put ahead of us, ahead of her and maybe most importantly to Liane, ahead of me. I learned to control the desire to help with everything, to organise everything and to be at everything. I thought hard about what I needed from all this involvement and what I thought I was getting from it. Was it a popularity thing? Was I really that scared of missing out on something? Was I scared to stop and take stock in case I found something I didnt like? 

Somewhere and somehow I've drifted back into the pattern. The reason is easier, simpler this time - fear of being alone. But the solution is not found in careering around living life at top speed. Instead I'm in a permanent state of exhaustion - physically, mentally and emotionally. My brains tired. My hearts tired. My soul is tired.

So what to do? Well, I'm trying harder to make time for myself and to choose to spend time alone. I'm trying harder not to book something for every night in a week. I'm trying to sleep for longer and eat better food. It's a difficult process that doesn't come easily to me. It needs work.

Everything needs work.  

Repeat until trivial?

Another Dart journey spent fighting back tears hoping to avoid anyone I know. I can’t handle it today, quite suddenly too; I’ve had a good day on many counts. 

But todays not what I want to talk about. I want to try and get across an idea that’s been prickling at me a while, bubbling under my surface and looking for a way out. Well, here’s hoping I can give the thought the words and phrases worthy of it... 

A few weeks ago I stood halfway in and halfway out of my office. It was the middle of the day and during a class period, students tucked away in classrooms and corridors empty, for the most part. Myself and a colleague stood there sharing our respective grief through familiar tears and a volcano of rushed honesty and bitter truths. We got to the kernel of the conversation pretty quickly, a private thought being shared for the first time - “how often do I tell Liane’s story using the same words I’ve used before? How often can this language be repeated until it loses meaning, hubris and emotion?. Is that even possible? And if it is, how do I feel about it?”

I know it’s easier to talk about the broad brush strokes of her life now than it was two/four/six months ago. But how easy is it to discuss the fine details? The deeper and more important nuances. Are they private? Should I even share as much as I do? Everyone knows she hated small talk...

I keep reminding myself - there are no rules here. There are no guidelines. This is unchartered territory for me, just as much as it has been and is for others all around me. Strangers on this train are hurting from loss. Both new and old loss, raw or blunted, but loss; ever present loss.  How are they coping with it? Who do they turn to? What does their life look like now?

(Skip the/her/our La La Land song on the playlist before it gets me again. City of Stars no longer). 

I drifted. My mind is wide open today, my brain keen to help my heart express itself, the pain bringing with it a crystallisation of thought and a flurry of half-explored ideas. What I’m trying to convey in this post is a simple thought with a difficult thought process behind it... Is the discussion of Lianes life and who she was lessened by repetition? Or, is my mind unaccustomed to telling so many people so much so often? Can she, and I, become some sort of dinner table topic? Does it matter? Am I overthinking it all? I don’t know any answers to all this. I know I’m doing my best for her memory and for now that’s all I can do. 

So many questions PT. You left us all with so many questions... 

An oak in a park

Bootcamp. Or as I jokingly referred to it with Liane "public humiliation camp". In a bid to be healthier and to better herself Liane took up bootcamp maybe 18-20 months ago now. Perhaps more, I'm not certain. She attended a 2 night group call Fitness Forever based in Blackrock Park and grew to adore it. She'd come home flying high as a kite, loaded with funny anecdotes and wearing that post-workout glow, alive with energy. She even succumbed to activewear (a long-running joke of ours) and made new friends, young and old. 

After her death Anto, the lovely organiser of the bootcamp, got in touch and suggested we plant a tree for Liane in the park. I chose an oak tree, he sourced it and last Wednesday we met to plant it. In a windwsept candlelit park, looking on to the pond, 30/40 of us stood and thought of Liane as we planted the young tree with a small plaque. I was really touched by the evening - the amount of people who came, the chatter, the speeches and the planting itself. I think Liane would be equal parts chuffed and mortified about all the attention! 

The tree is in a place I will visit often. I love the idea that I can come and talk to Liane and focus my energy on something that will grow over the years. On the plaque is a Roal Dahl quote that I hope will inspire us all as life carries on around us...

"Somewhere inside all of us is the power to change the world"

Light in the darkness

I've had a recurring thought since the early hours after Liane's death - there is positivity to be found in the toughest of moments. At times, maybe even often, this thought can sound churlish or perhaps insensitive but I believe it to be true. 

There have been so many occasions over the past 6.5 months when at my lowest ebb someone gets in touch or something goes my way. I received a book in the post last week - with no note or anything - that is a story about facing adversity and being strong. I get cards every week from across the globe - some silly, some deep and others kind. I've had strangers contact me opening their hearts for my benefit. Hugs, clinches, texts, emails, notes, dinners, drinks - an endless list of people giving their time up for me. I've never felt more humbled. 

At some many turns on this road I've been helped, my burden eased and my elbow steadied. Simple humanity. Raw kindness. Love & decency. In the midst of all this pain there is to be found hope and a way forward, even when the room is dark and the path lonely. 

Beannacht by John O'Donoghue

I was sent this poem by a stranger through the website recently. It touched me deeply. 

===

On the day when
the weight deadens
on your shoulders
and you stumble,
may the clay dance
to balance you.

And when your eyes
freeze behind
the grey window
and the ghost of loss
gets in to you,
may a flock of colours,
indigo, red, green,
and azure blue
come to awaken in you
a meadow of delight.

When the canvas frays
in the currach of thought
and a stain of ocean
blackens beneath you,
may there come across the waters
a path of yellow moonlight
to bring you safely home.

May the nourishment of the earth be yours,
may the clarity of light be yours,
may the fluency of the ocean be yours,
may the protection of the ancestors be yours.
And so may a slow
wind work these words
of love around you,
an invisible cloak
to mind your life.

~ John O’Donohue ~

(Echoes of Memory)

Embracing the pain

Sometimes you feel it coming. Maybe all day, maybe from a moment in the middle of the day. Other times it’s a sucker punch in public or a sharp side swipe on your own. 

Today I knew it was coming from when I woke up after a fitful sleep, raw and unsure. I felt it in the handshake of a student who looked me in the eyes and told me what my article (published in the Irish Independent yesterday - post to follow) meant to him. I felt in the quiet morning confide of a tearful colleague. I felt in on the bus journey towards home. I felt it in a friend’s house after dinner. And I felt the full force of the pain when I got home and put on Bon Iver, inviting the emotion to wash over me. 

Maybe she’s trying to talk to me. Maybe I’m trying to contact her. Maybe our souls are sharing a delicate dance of sadness and lost love. Maybe I’m just tired and lonely. Maybe it’s simple biological yearning. Whatever it is, there are times you can sidestep and there are times when you need to face and embrace. Tonight’s one of the latter occasions - let the emotion in, drink in the rawness of it, bask in the alone and let the pain flow through.  

Liane Deasy - you’re the world to me. X  

Written in black and white

Today I got home from 10 days abroad. There was a pile of post on the table where my mum had left it (she likes dropping in and filling the fridge the day I get home form holidays). In the pile was a large brown envelope with a logo that looked familiar. It was from the Coroner's Office. 

When Liane died they needed to do an autopsy to work out the reason for her death. 6 months and 2 weeks later I read today on the Coroner's Report that the cause was SUDEP - Sudden Unexpected Death from Epilepsy. After two pages telling me how healthy her organs and body were was the Coroner's finding. Reading it broke my heart, again. The finality and the fact that there's no reason for it. You can't prevent SUDEP if you can't prevent seizures. 

Another piece of paper for a file about Liane's death. Another piece of writing confirming the hardest fact I've ever faced. One more little brick of pain to add to the pile. 

Another star drifts away...

It is hard feeling such a profound sense of loss for someone I but read about and knew of second hand, but that is what I feel today. I heard over the photocopier in work first thing this morning that Simon Fitzmaurice had died yesterday. It was a shock. He's fought MND for years - a harsh and painful station. His wife Ruth has inspired me hugely - through her book, her kind words to me in private and her pure willpower, love and honesty. 

I feel some of her pain today but much like many people when Liane died am at a loss as to how to act. I'll be thinking of her and her children, of her friends and their families. I'll be sending my love and my empathy. I'll be hoping that the little raft we call life settles them onto a gentler sea and allows them to grow and to celebrate Simon. I'll be summoning courage and support and pushing it out into the world where maybe some of it will filter over to them.

And I'll be swimming - I'll be swimming with them in my thoughts and in my spirit. 

Safe journey Simon, tell Liane hello.