Can we talk for a second about grief?
Almost one year ago I got the call that everyone dreads. I emigrated four years ago to New Zealand from Cork with my family and before we left everyone was equally excited and terrified for us. Every-time someone said; “How are you feeling? You must be so excited!” I would automatically say;
“But what if someone dies?”
That sounds dramatic right? It was my biggest fear. It was the one reason I wanted to stay. But there were so many reasons to go. It was the start of a whole new life for us. A new adventure, I knew if I didn’t at least give it a try I would always wonder, always regret not taking that giant leap to the other side of the world.
Three years later after working hard at building a new life for us, making new friends and even having a baby over here. On that fateful morning, I was feeling good. My husband was about to take the kids to school and I was getting ready to meet a friend for a coffee with Amy, my youngest. I was thinking how lucky we were living in such an amazing place and what a great life for our kids to experience. In a movie, when everyone is happy you know something really bad is about to happen. I looked at my bed and my phone was on silent but it was ringing. It was my sister. I was excited to hear her voice and quickly answered. “Hello!” Silence. Then sobbing.
My heart started racing. “AOIFE! WHAT IS IT?”
“He’s gone Emma, he’s gone, dad’s gone.” She was inconsolable and could barely get the words out.
“No Aoife, NO AOIFE NO NO NO,” I kept screaming the word NO while running out the front door to wave down my husbands car. Seeing me in such a panic, he came back and followed me into our bedroom. I collapsed on the floor where I had been standing and I honestly don’t remember much after that. Dad was 70 years old. On the evening he died he had been doing some gardening. It was a beautiful warm evening in Cork on May 31st, 2016. He finished his dinner. Mom gave him a bowl of ice-cream and he said; “I’m going to go out the back and catch the last few rays of the sun.”
Those would be his last words.
I have never been paralysed by grief and shock before. I never knew the physical effect devastating news can have. I couldn’t move my legs. I couldn’t move from our bed. People came and went that day. It was all a blur. I’m not sure what was said.
My husband went into military mode, booking flights- he told me we would be leaving the next day. I don’t know how I got through that night. The pain of trying to process the fact that your dad has died coupled with being 32 hours away from hugging a family member was at times unbearable.
Even though we brought our youngest back to Ireland with us (She was almost 2) I don’t remember any of the journey home. I had to leave Ryan (7) and Zoe (4) with their grandparents in New Zealand. I don’t know how I physically got on those planes. I know mentally I wasn’t there. It felt like an outer body experience like there was a shell of a person who used to be me sitting on the plane but my head was still wailing on my bedroom floor trying to take in what had happened. I do remember panicking that dad wasn’t warm enough and between flights I would phone my siblings and ask if dad was cold or if he was okay. I kept telling them to tell him that I was on my way. I begged and pleaded; “please tell him I’m on my way..TELL HIM! And keep him warm.”
My dad wanted to donate his body to science after he died. We respected his decision but it meant we only had a very limited time with his body. If any of my flights had been delayed I would not have seen him, I would not have been able to say goodbye. I missed the wake that was held at my mom’s house. They told me there must have been hundreds of people coming and going, they had come from all over the country. Such was the impression my dad had made working as a veterinarian for over 30 years. My family heard the most amazing stories from his past, it was almost like hearing about his other life, the one he kept quiet about, the one he was most modest about though he had discovered diseases in animals and saved farmers thousands of euro diagnosing the most complex of cases, giving all of his time to his vocation.
When I got to Cork, my brother and sister greeted me. It was so surreal, being back on home ground, feeling relieved to see members of my family but so bereft at the circumstances. I was told his body would be in the funeral home for one more hour. The irony of being stuck in traffic, five minutes from where he lay having flown 3 planes and 32 hours without any delay was not lost on me. That car journey was 10 or 15 minutes but it felt like an eternity. I had one hour. One hour to hold him, I kissed him on his forehead and I hugged him. He looked so handsome, so peaceful. We all stood, arms around each other. This would be our last time all together as a family. From now on there would be five and not six of us. We hugged and cried. My two year old who was oblivious to everything was singing ‘Tomorrow’ from Annie at the top of her lungs, looking back my dad would have found that really funny and touching, in a valley of tears hearing a toddler sing “When I’m stuck in a day that’s grey and lonely, I just stick out my chin and grin and sayyyyyyyyy…” . We said our last goodbyes. I went back to my mom’s house and felt like I was dreaming. I had nine days in Ireland and I can only remember a few snippets. People called to the house, endless cups of tea, me sleeping on my dad’s side of the bed consoling my inconsolable mom at all hours of the night. I wanted to spend every minute holding her. How could I leave her like this and get on a plane?
It’s been a year now and looking back part of me still can’t believe it happened. Grief can be all consuming. When you lose someone who has been the back-bone of your family, your security, your rock, it feels like the anchor has been pulled and our ship is rudderless. We have all struggled but we have kept each other going through the bad days. Grief is all the love you have for someone with nowhere for it to go. I have three children, they need me- as much as I would love to spend a day crying my eyes out and not getting up in the morning, I have to and life moves on. I have realized that hopping on a plane won’t erase my grief, I can’t fix it for mom and make her feel better, this journey as rough as it is, it’s unique for each one of us. We all had a different relationship with dad. We have to now find a new normal. For my siblings and I, our day to day lives haven’t changed but I can’t imagine what it’s like for mom who spent 44 years of her life with someone who isn’t there anymore. Her strength this past year has astounded me and I am so proud of her. Just to get up every day and keep going having lost someone so suddenly and without warning is a testament to how strong she is.
I’m going home for Christmas and I’m hoping by then we will have emerged out of the darkness and into the light. I want to make it a good Christmas for mom, surround her with grandchildren and spoil her rotten.
Grief is messy, unpredictable, difficult but necessary. It’s part of life and unfortunately its something we all have to face whether we like it or not. But if anything it has made me realise how precious life is. How our legacy is not what we achieve but it is the imprint we make on the people we meet. My dad left such a huge impression on everyone who crossed his path. His kindness, modesty, sensitivity, understanding, and being a decent human being. I can only hope to emulate what he did. His legacy lives on in me and my siblings and all of his grandchildren. He would hate for us to wallow, if he was talking to me now he would say; “Come on now Emma, no more tears. You are so much stronger than you think.”