It’s only a week since I’ve returned to my Dublin home, only a week since it registered that my dad would never again visit, a week where life continues, and the days go on.
In the days that make a week, I’ve returned time & time again to read the messages of condolences that arrive via www.rip.ie The messages are words of comfort, of a person remembered, of times, people & places of the past. A message from a cousin of mine reminds me of the fun we had, summers spent together on our farm in Kerry. The mind fills with memories of laughter, bales of straw, trips to the beach, ham sandwiches and long evenings chatting and laughing in the kitchen. That family home no longer remains, it is but a memory where most of my childhood played out.
A sense of belonging in retrospect
It is where I belonged and yet it is filled with a feeling of not belonging. I was neither the prettiest, the smartest, the funniest or the one needing the most attention. I was the eldest, the one who could shoulder more, the one who did what she was told and performed deeds of service to be noticed. I naturally assumed the role of speaking up, standing up and representing my younger sisters and brothers as best I could. Part of my childhood was helping my mum with chores and playing my part on the farm by picking potatoes, stones, stacking hay and making tea for dad and the men who came to the table for their supper. Partly adult but only a child.
At the time I thought I’d be noticed, become invaluable and irreplaceable. I was desperate for words of praise, words of affirmation, for love and attention. The more I craved & the harder I tried to be seen, the further away I was from my goal. As the gap grew, my belief in who I was shrank. Maybe I was not part of this family, I wasn’t as carefree as the others, maybe there was a secret. I might have been adopted, I began my research, found my birth certificate which confirmed my identity but not my confusion. I found a marriage certificate, this gave me a reason to feel guilty, the search could stop…. I counted the months; I was born 4 months after my parents married. It was my fault when they argued, it was my fault that things were difficult in the home, I could now trace everything back to me being a mistake. I was the shame, I was the reason my parents left Ireland, I was a secret.
This is how my childhood mind played out. It is not in keeping with the beautiful photos of my mum and dad in the late 60’s as they cuddle this most precious baby that is me. My parents beam, I am their pride and joy and in retrospect, it proves they were willing to move heaven and earth to have me. I belong as do my brothers and sisters to this imperfectly perfect family. We all interpret our place and roles in it differently. They probably see me as the favourite, there are countless pictures of me as child number 1, this is a fact, lots of number 2, some of number 3 and then it dwindles. I became the photographer thereafter so the photographs of my siblings are grainy and yet I remember taking each one. It is an example of the act of services referred to earlier. It is more than that, I loved them dearly and had a need to capture our moments as a family. Mum and Dad were busy, there were 7 of us, money to make, work to be done and they did it all and we just fell into place, into our roles, interpreting and misinterpreting who we are, never fully seeing the truth.
Immeasurable love
Like my parents, I have countless photographs of my 1st born, less of my 2nd and sadly fewer of my 3rd. In my memories, the fabric of my being, my 3 children are equally vivid, valued, cherished & loved. The number of photographs is not a measure of my love for each child; they are but a snapshot of the changing pace of life. My love knows no bounds, it is not something to be measured, to be carved up, it is infinite in the same way my parents love of each of us, their children, was equal, endless and bound up in everyday life.
A week on I grieve for my dad, I grieve for my mum who left this earth far too early, I mourn for my youngest brother who is still in his 30’s without both parents and I rejoice as I see him, his wife and the parents they have become. I can’t help but see the resemblance of my sisters in my mirror, yes, they are still prettier (& will always be younger) but it is undeniable that we are cut from the same cloth, more alike than different. We like our clothes, glamour, fashion and fun.
Of course, I belong, we belong. When I turn to look at my 23-year-old son I see my brother, the brother who stepped up when I needed him, the 1st born son who also shared the burden and joy being an eldest by gender, taking on the male role.
Comfort in grief
People are so good is the thought that forms in my mind when I come across the bouquets of flowers delivered by friends & colleagues as I move about my home. The sympathy cards stay close to where I sit to, cakes delivered by neighbours have been consumed and words of condolences offered have been stored in my memory bank. Images of a time gone by resonate, a smile forms as I remember the children we were, the Ireland we grew up in and the blessings of the now.
Remembering is good, the support of others is invaluable, and all the little deeds of kindness offered are treasured.
I am grieving and yet I am, I am finding comfort in talking and remembering my dad, my mum, our childhood. By talking I am learning and listening to others with new eyes, gaining new perspectives on the past & present. There are times I try to run from grief, I distract myself, reorganise a room, busy myself and then I realise this too is part of the process. It is not running away; it is simply another coping mechanism. There is compassion from others which I am readily accepting and there is an opportunity for self-compassion. Each time harsh self-judgement surfaces I go back to this compassionate stance and the values of friendship, neighbours, colleagues, community.
Growth is possible in grief; I forgive myself for the mistakes I have made as a parent, a child, a daughter, a sister. I see my efforts for what they are & I recognise that none of us get a score of 100%. We are learning as we grow, as we begin to see the bigger picture, lose sight of it, only to begin again.
Every kind word, every listening ear, every moment, every gesture, card, word that we receive and offer is a form of healing on the grief & loss journey. And every slice of cake I savour hits the emotional spot while every walk & chat brightens my days as we adjust to a life without Dad, Grandad, The Legend.
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