Bairbre Cahill
I had been thinking about blessings – Marty Whelan in the morning on Lyric FM, our damson tree setting fruit, two glorious bullfinches in the garden.
Then the blessings changed, becoming more profound but also more painful. My Dad was diagnosed with secondary liver cancer before Christmas. He has lived these months well, becoming less mobile, more fragile but still enjoying the craic, wanting to know the news, delighting in the people who came to visit him.
In the midst of it all was Carmel, my step-mum. If my Dad, whose appetite was failing, had decided that he wanted goji berries from the Himalayas, Carmel would have made sure that they were found without delay!
Two weeks ago Dad announced for the first time that he would stay in bed. Instead of sitting in what was always ‘Dad’s chair’ in the sitting room – with the newspaper, remote control for the telly and the phone close at hand – he remained in his room downstairs at the back of the house.
There is an azalea bush outside the window. It is always nice. This year it has been spectacular, a mad profusion of cerise pink flowers. It is a thing of beauty. In a strange way what was happening inside the room with my Dad was a thing of beauty too.
Journey
I was very aware that we were on the final part of the journey and that for me it was a blessing to be able to be there. Dad slept a lot, sometimes read the paper, talked a little. Every time that one of the nurses or the doctor came in I was struck by the sacred nature of the work that they do.
I was privileged to be there when Fr Doherty came to anoint Dad and we all received the Eucharist. Afterwards Dad announced that he really fancied some mushroom soup! He hasn’t eaten soup in years. Carmel immediately headed for the shop across the road. Mushroom soup was easier to find than Himalayan goji berries thankfully.
Finally the steroids that had given Dad a boost simply stopped working and his descent was rapid.
My sister came home from England. My brother arrived from Chicago. We spent the day together, in and out of Dad’s room. By this stage he was no longer speaking but knew that we were around him.
At one point in the early evening we thought he was slipping away. We gathered, prayed, read Psalms, my youngest daughter sang The Cloud’s Veil.
I struggled hugely watching the pain that my own four children went through but was aware of the strength and solidarity we all experienced in being together, the importance to us of our faith.
Dad died late in the evening of Trinity Sunday. The Trinity is a reminder to us that love and relationship are at the very heart of God. The same can be said of my Dad’s life. Over the days of the wake we were overwhelmed at the goodness of neighbours and friends and the generosity of those who travelled great distances to be with us.
There is something powerful about a wake. We are confronted by the reality of death and yet radically aware of being loved and supported. Stories were told, memories awakened. There was laughter – death-defying music of the Resurrection. My sister’s children, Ciarán and Hannah, were wonderful rays of joy in the midst of our grief.
The funeral was a testament to the man my father was. For me, the first reading summed him up: “This is what God asks of you, only this, that you act justly, love tenderly and walk humbly with your God.”
We have been surrounded by blessings over these days of sadness. We have a journey of grief ahead of us – but we know we do not walk alone. Leaba i measc na naomh do mo dhaidí.
