Thursday 22 November 2018

Peekaboo - I miss you


When Patrick was about 16 months old and walking comfortably, he loved walking back and forth at the foot-end of our bed, peeking through the wooden bars that were just about the right height for him, grinning his cheeky, dimple-y grin. I have a very vivid memory of him doing this often. I recall the curly tuft of hair on top of his head, his eyes, twinkly and bright and his smile.

He took great delight in playing this little game of peekaboo.

It has been one of those things I have missed most over the years.

Then, quite out of the blue the other evening, Caoilfhionn, who had been cuddled up beside me on the bed drinking her milk, turned over on her tummy, slid of the bed and started pottering back and forth around the room. As she passed the foot-end of the bed, she spotted me through the bars, stopped and turned to press her little face right up to them…

…And for a moment it felt like Patrick was looking back at me. Very similar roguish expression, mischievous twinkle in her eyes, dimple-y grin.  

It was one of those bittersweet moments. It felt good to play this game again, yet it accentuated a miss that is just beyond compare.

She spent the next few minutes running back and forth, stopping every time to press her little face right up to the bars and flash a big toothy grin complete with dimples on either side. Seems to me that she has the same sort of devilment about her than Patrick did and occasionally, I feel for her long suffering older brother who will most likely end up drawing the short straw against this little force of nature on many occasions, yet.

As much as this short game brought back some precious memories that made me smile, it made my heart feel heavy at the very same time.

Almost 8 years on, triggers can still lurk everywhere…in simple, unexpected and everyday things.
Emotions remain close to the surface…Irrespective of how many years have passed.

With time, I think I have learnt to acknowledge the emotions that are triggered. I grant them a nod, afford them their place in my life and park them as I need to, to continue going about my daily life, busy as it is once more.

Despite us feeling tired and rushed off our feet week after week right now, I will never forget the day that our world screeched to a halt.

The sudden loss of meaning in life.
The feeling of going from so incredibly busy to just not knowing what to do with all this time once more.
The loss of identity after losing a first born.
The confusion.
The pain.
The never-ending miss.

Life keeps us busy enough so that my head does not get a chance to visit that place all too often but when it does, the emotions as raw now as they were then.

The Miss is real. The longing for the mischievous, curly haired little tot with the dimply grin who has his face pressed against the bars of our bed playing a game of peekaboo.

Miss you lots, Sproggy-pops.

Wednesday 29 August 2018

Making Memories in Thin Places

The Celts believed that the physical and spiritual world are never more than 3 feet apart. Thin places then are places where the veil between the physical and spiritual world is even thinner that that. Those are places where a person can sense the spiritual in a most powerful way.

Eoghan, Caoilfhionn and I recently spent a couple of nights in Gleninchaquin...a picturesque and very remote valley on the Beara Peninsula. Almost right at the foot of a huge waterfall, we spent two nights falling asleep to the sound of gushing water and sheep baaing.


No internet, no phone reception. The perfect get-away from the busy world for a while. We were glamping there with friends and the kids had such a great time exploring and running around in the great outdoors; feeding sheep, playing shepherds to them, chasing them, roasting (no, not sheep! 😉) marshmallows and making smors. Their imagination could run wild as we set off on a few walks along and across streams and up steep hills.

There was something so very peaceful and calming about that place, that it is very hard to actually describe as words just won't do it justice.

Eoghan loves his little collection of gem stones from the Rock Shop near Liscannor and he shared two of them with his friends as they made up stories of their special powers along one of our walks up to a hidden lake that is entirely invisible from the bottom of the valley. The lady owner of our glamping site had mentioned this lake to me and told me how the locals say it was a special place, a quiet place; a thin place within this ancient landscape that has remained virtually unchanged for the past 70000 years since it was formed by the last ice age. Even early settlers to the valley, I suppose, recognised the significance of this place judging by the existence of the Uragh Stone Circle which seems to perfectly align with the waterfall at the end of the valley.



Off we went so, to discover this lake and it was well worth the steep hike up the path to it. Secluded and tranquil, dark and mysterious. Perhaps it was because I had been told about how special a place this is supposed to be but I did get a sense of the energy of all those people who once filled this valley in pre-famine times and throughout the centuries before that. Due to the recent rain, the mountainside around the lake had many little waterfalls running off and feeding into it. They glistened in the ever-changing light. It felt very calming and special to be standing there and taking in the atmosphere...That was until the dark gemstone, an onyx, slipped from a little hand and dropped onto dark rocks within the dark waters of the dark lake...


Despite having a fair idea where it had dropped, we had virtually no chance of finding it. Eoghan was inconsolable and it took a lot of time to coax him away and stop him from trying to run back and potentially topple into the lake himself trying to retrieve his stone. So I told him the story about this being a special, a thin place. I told him about the meaning and that I believed in the existence of such places...Places where we are much closer to those we have loved and lost. I told him I would like to think that Patrick and Norma were looking after his stone on the other side. I told him I was certain that they know how much it meant to him and that they would treasure it...knowing what a sacrifice he had made by leaving it behind.

He was perhaps not fully convinced right away but I think it planted a seed in his head and he bravely let go...believing his "spirit guide" (as he refers to Patrick as of late) and aunty will look after it.

We were later told that seemingly this lake has a habit of pulling things into it. People seem to lose things there a lot...Maybe just a story but where would we be without them...

Who knows...but I know I did feel a sense of peace in this place that I had not felt in such a long time. A sense of happiness and at the same time a sense of wanting to burst out crying at the sheer beauty of it and the mad emotions it evoked in me. A strong sense of being close to our little Sproggy.

I cannot wait to bring Pat there and maybe then he will understand why I have been rattling on about how special this spot is ever since I got back.







Wednesday 25 April 2018

Down The Rabbit Hole

The first week in May will be maternal mental health week. It is a week to maybe check in with someone you know.

A new mum.
A not so new mum.
A seemingly seasoned veteran mum.
A bereaved mum.
Someone who so very much would love to be a mum.

For no matter how wanted and loved our children are, becoming a parent or trying to become one is tough. And if we are lucky enough to already be parents, it does not make us ungrateful to put up our hands and admit just how tough it can be. Perhaps even more so for those of us who belong to the undesirable club of bereaved parents.

Postnatal anxiety and depression do not discriminate. They do not care how long you've been yearning to become a mum or have another child, whether it's your first or 6th, whether you've experienced loss or are lucky not to have.

Anxiety and depression may still slowly creep into your mind and life and temporarily cripple you. It's a lonely, isolated place to be. Feeling you ought to be happy and making the most of those precious first months with baby but struggling to find the motivation to get out of bed and figure out what to cook for dinner. Simple stuff becoming insurmountable obstacles and sources of panic: shopping lists, nct's, getting your dryer fixed, organising bills, not having made it to your son's grave since his would have been 9th birthday, being short of patience due to the stress of it all and months of interrupted sleep and wondering will the unthinkable happen again.

Constant worry and panic about nothing and everything all at the same time and yet perhaps sometimes not really being able to put your finger on what exactly it is that causes the anxiety.

How can you talk about it when it is confusing and impossible to verbalise?

It's easier (yet far more damaging) not to.

I'm very grateful to be mammy to all of my children.
I miss Patrick more than I could ever put into words. The passing of time makes his absence even more difficult to come to terms with.

Eoghan was a blessing at a most difficult time. He's growing into such a wonderful little man-boy and protective big brother.

I feel blessed that we were lucky enough to have our little girl last year... after so much heartache.

Yet...
Yet... I'm still not feeling myself. That doesn't mean I'm not acutely aware of all our blessings. I am. It's just something I still cannot shake and it is affecting me, maybe not daily, but a lot more than I would like it to.

Self care is, I believe, hugely important. For all of us of course, but particularly for any new mum. It's so easy to loose your identity among the sleepless nights, nappies, feeding and being in mammy mode. We still need to be able to have an outlet, time to ourselves.

I know what self care means to me and what impact not getting to practise it has on me. Even still, I often miss my body's and mind's cues until I'm well down the rabbit hole.

Self care for me is running, being in nature (preferably by the sea) and writing. Writing is nigh impossible at home at the moment which is why I am sat here, in my local, post walk, with a sneaky G&T, tapping away furiously at my phone.

I suppose it's time to head back... Back to the most important people in my world... Ever patient Pat (who contacted me to enquire where I put the baby monitor but didn't press any further as to where I had disappeared off to), Eoghan, Squealy-Caoily and our little star in the night sky.


My happy place 

No, self care does not always include a G&T... But it sometimes can. #drinkresponsibly . 😉



Monday 22 January 2018

Dear Sproggy - 2018

7 years since I last held you.
7 years since our first time parent innocence was shattered in an instant and our confidence crushed along with it.
7 years of missing you

I always remember walking around the block with you in your buggy. Snoozing, chatting or watching the birdies. Our usual route by the hospital, down towards the crescent and passing St. Paul's nursing home on the way.

Many times on those walks, we said hello to an elderly gentleman sitting at the bus stop.  He wasn't waiting for a bus. Maybe he lived in the nursing home, maybe not. He sat there watching the world go by. Smiling at us as we passed and said hello or the odd "Lovely day today." His legs, I imagined, tired from a lifetime of walking. His eyes twinkly all the same. I often wondered what those eyes had seen. Where those legs had been.

After you died, I continued going on my walks and I remember the first time afterwards that I saw him. He hadn't been sitting at the bus stop in a while... Probably because it was the height of winter and too cold. But when I saw him and continued to see him many times after, I found myself thinking how strange life is. I thought:

'There you are sitting in your spot at the bus stop... Very elderly and alive... And my little boy is dead.'

I thought this without malice or bitterness. To me, it was just one of life's bizarre moments. The old man outlives the young child. This was against the natural order of things... At least in my book.

I sometimes wondered whether he ever wondered where the buggy and its little passenger had gone. Not that we had ever had a real conversation apart from greeting each other as he sat and I passed.

Part of me wanted to tell him you died. That you had lived. I never did but I kept an eye out for him and said hello if he was there.

At some point I realised I had not seen him in a while. I am sure he eventually passed away himself and his spot at that bus stop remains vacant... Apart from the occasional bus passenger or forgotten tub of coleslaw and cook-it-yourself pizza.

It is strange, the way people are here one second and gone the next. They are ripped from life often quickly and unexpectedly, leaving behind unfinished but mostly mundane, everyday sort of business like a pile of ironing or unopened letters from the bank.

With time, their memory begins to fade but I like to believe that part of their energy remains in the places that were most meaningful to them.

I kind of wish I had struck up a real conversation with this man some time. Before I knew it, it was too late.

I suppose that is something I take from all of this. Don't delay. You never know what is up ahead. Don't look back at a lifetime of missed opportunities. Strike up that conversation. Tell people what they mean to you.

So at this time of the year, during which breathtakingly painful flashbacks can hit us full force, we try to hold on to the good memories we have with you.

Our walks.
The way you peered through the wooden foot end of the bed frame... Grinning your rogue-ish, dimple-y grin.
The way your hair looked.
The way your initial preferred method of getting to where you wanted was rolling instead of crawling.
The way Debbie had to pull you out from under the radiator in the crèche loads of times.
The messy way you ate your spaghetti.
The many Munster rugby pictures we have of you.
The early morning trips to the crescent on a Sunday so you could roll and wobble through the empty mall.
The way you loved sheep and Tipoki above anything else in the world.

Still, as grateful as I am for them, 21 months wasn't enough.
Love you lots, my Sproggy-pops.


Tuesday 9 January 2018

The 2017 Children's Hospice Advert had me in tears. It tackles the difficulty of one of the many firsts the bereaved encounter in the first year of their loved one dying...the first Christmas. If you have not seen it, you might consider looking at it here. It is beyond powerful and poignant and allows a glimpse at just how difficult special occasions such as Christmas can be.

While certainly the first Christmas is the hardest, I find that random ones that follow can feel as difficult...if not even more so. Perhaps it is Christmas also marking the coming to an end of another year that make it a painful reminder of how time whizzes past. 2017 was our 7th festive season without Patrick. It seems so long and yet I wonder how time went by so quickly.

I am not sure what made that year seem harder than previous ones for me. All I know is that I seemed to feel his absence stronger. I remember our last Christmas together - him opening his presents and us taking a picture together Christmas morning. Precisely one month later he was gone.

I hope that people facing into their first Christmas without a loved one this festive season got through it as gently as possible. One day at a time. And I hope holding onto the good memories helped.


We made it through ourselves and are now once more facing into another January. Another anniversary looming large in just a couple of weeks. Still we wonder just how we ended up *here*. No matter how much time passes, it never feels 100% real.

Miss you, my little dude.