Its time to sever the historical cord that binds our wombs to religion

The Redemptorist

“How many children have you?” asked
The big Redemptorist.
“Six, Father.”
“The last,
When was it born?”
“Ten months ago.”
“I cannot absolve your mortal sin
Until you conceive again. Go home,
Obey your husband.”
She whimpered:
“But
The doctor warned me…”
Shutter became
Her coffin lid. She twisted her thin hands
And left the box.
The missioner,
Red-bearded saint, had brought hell’s flame
To frighten women on retreat:
Sent on his spiritual errand,
It rolled along the village street
Until Rathfarnham was housing smoke
That sooted the Jesuits in their Castle.
“No pregnancy. You’ll die the next time,”
The Doctor had said.

Her tiredness obeyed
That Saturday night: her husband’s weight
Digging her grave So, in nine months, she
Sank in great agony on a Monday
Her children wept in the Orphanage,
Huddled together in the annexe,
While, proud of the Black Cross on his badge,
The Liguorian, at Adam and Eve’s,
Ascended the pulpit, sulphuring his sleeves
And setting fire to the holy text.

(Austin Clarke)

Tired

I don’t know about you, but personally I am tired.

As a woman in Ireland in 2017 I am tired and battle sore. I also find it incredulous that we are still fighting for the basic human right of autonomy over our reproductive and sexual health.

Why does everything in this country in relation to maternal health have to be so hard-fought? It is simply exhausting.

It shouldn’t be this hard, but it is.

Same-sex referendum

In May 2015 I cheered along with the vast majority of Ireland when the same-sex marriage referendum was passed. I remember it was a beautiful sunny day and I was six months pregnant. I cried tears of pure joy that my daughter would be born into what promised to be a more inclusive, tolerant and kinder society.

During the highly divisive and at times bitter debate I heard the most hurtful things from the NO side.

They said that people who use Assisted Human Reproduction (AHR) with donor eggs or sperm set out to deny their children a right to a mother or a father. That donor egg conception deliberately denied the child the opportunity to be cared for their biological mother.

Those that know me know that after six years of IVF treatment, heartache, failure and steely determination to keep going against all the odds for the wonderful chance to be a mum, I finally got my happy ending in August 2015 when I gave birth to my beautiful daughter. You may also know that she was conceived thanks to the wonderful generosity of an anonymous egg donor.

Abortion

The Catholic Church believes that any form of assisted human reproduction is wrong. It leaves infertile people who wish to be parents feeling isolated and heartbroken. It also condemns women who for whatever reason need access to an abortion to the exact same fate.

The historical ties that bind our reproductive health to Catholicism in this country forces women faced with the knowledge that their much longed for and deeply loved babies will not survive outside the womb, due to the cruelty of a fatal foetal abnormality, to travel abroad for a termination.

These babies are named, cherished and remembered. Their mothers, some of whom are forced to bring their tiny bodies home in a box, are cruelly banished, rejected and forgotten. This is wrong.

The Catholic ethos believes that abortion in any circumstance is wrong.

If a woman is raped, if she is pregnant and has a comorbid physical or mental health condition such that the pregnancy puts her life at risk, if her abusive husband is a threat to the baby in her womb, or if she has made a decision about her own reproductive health that for whatever reason she can simply cannot continue with the pregnancy, the Catholic church says no.

Maternal Mental Health

If a woman makes the desperate decision that she would rather take her own life than go on with an unwanted pregnancy she has to justify this decision to three separate medical professionals. In the case of a physical illness it is two.

The latest report from the Confidential Maternal Death Enquiry (MDE) Ireland revealed that seven mothers died by suicide in Ireland between 2012 and 2014 within one year of the end of their pregnancies.

Women with mental health difficulties in pregnancy or the postnatal period in Ireland need support.

However when a pregnant woman’s mental health is in crisis in Ireland today the supports she desperately needs are simply not there.

There are just three perinatal psychiatrists or doctors who specialise in maternal mental health in Ireland and all of them are based on Dublin, one in each of the three maternity hospitals. They are all part-time.

While thankfully extremely rare, suicide in pregnancy does happen and it is still one of the leading causes of maternal death.

Pregnancy therefore is not a protective factor for mental illness. On the contrary, it is a time in a woman’s life when her mental health and the wellbeing of her baby can be most at risk.

Yet despite this, there are no specialised mental health services for women in pregnancy and in the postnatal period outside Dublin.

The absence of a mother and baby unit  (MBU) where a mother who needs inpatient psychiatric care can bring her newborn baby with her has been described as “a continuing and regrettable deficiency in the Irish health services.”

There are approximately 20 Mother and Baby Units in the UK.

There are no such units in Ireland North or South.

So women who are seriously ill and need admission are usually cared for in a general adult psychiatric hospital where they are separated from their newborn babies.

To separate a mother and baby at a very early stage in a baby’s development for such a prolonged period may well have a detrimental impact on the developing mother-infant relationship and on the recovery of the mother herself.

Thankfully there has been recent acknowledgement of the need for more funding and resources for maternal mental health and hopefully we will shortly see some real developments in this area. But again this was hard-fought.

Citizens’ Assembly

I cheered again recently when the Citizens’ Assembly voted overwhelmingly to support a motion to replace the eighth amendment. I hoped that this was a clear and unambiguous message to the Government that we need to liberalise Ireland’s highly restrictive and in my opinion cruel abortion laws.

New Maternity Hospital

However my cheering was cut short when news emerged that the ownership of the new maternity hospital to be built on the site of St Vincent’s Hospital in Dublin was to be given to a Catholic order.

There is absolutely no doubt that women in Ireland deserve a world-class maternity hospital co located with an acute adult facility. It is also crystal clear that Holles St; a 123-year-old hospital, is simply not fit for purpose and St Vincent’s is logically the best place for the new maternity hospital to be built.

Given the long and disturbing history Ireland has with the Catholic Church, a history, which has harmed women and babies, the public outcry over this decision, was in my opinion justified. Over the past few weeks valid concerns have been raised and communicated in a reasonable and balanced manner by highly respected professionals. This has resulted in more information being made available to the public and much needed assurances of clinical independence.

Theses assurances issued in recent weeks are very welcome but they should have been given at the time of the decision to relocate.

Yes proponents for the move have said assurances that the new hospital would be independent of any religious ethos were given at the time but clearly given the outcry in recent weeks they were not communicated clearly enough.

Women in Ireland are intelligent, compassionate and loyal. Speak to us in a clear and concise manner. Listen to us; you might learn something.

Battle weary

Women in Ireland are also tired and battle weary. However if history has taught us anything it is that we need the brave female and male voices of groups such as Termination for Medical Reasons Ireland, all those associated with Repeal the Eighth Amendment, mental health advocates and those who have raised valid concerns in recent weeks.

I am tired, I am not sure about you. However, I look at my beautiful 20-month-old daughter and know that the fight must go on.

The historical umbilical cord that binds our wombs to the ethos of the Catholic Church must be severed now and forever.

If not then the fight will go on and on and our daughters will be forced to take our place on the front line.

I don’t want that for my daughter. I want her to grow up in a country that respects the decisions she makes over her own reproductive health. I also want her to grow up in a country that supports, protects and wraps its arms around her.

Ultimately I want her to grow up in a country where she is cared for by compassionate and kind professionals, unfettered by the ties of religion or restrictive laws, who can look into her beautiful blue eyes and honestly assure her that everything will be ok.

ENDS

What is a mother?

What is a mother?

The word “mother” conjures up a myriad of thoughts, words and feelings; each one as unique as mothers themselves.

For some it means “home”, “love”, “security”, “comfort”, “love”, for others is may mean “animosity”, “difficulty”, “loss, “heart break” or “isolation.”

On Mother’s Day women with children are rightly celebrated, they do a great job. But just because a woman isn’t a mother doesn’t mean that she is less worthy of celebrating or indeed less of a woman.

Women who don’t have children whether by choice or circumstances are seen by Irish society as somehow “less of a woman” and that is wrong.

Childfree women are more than likely the ones to care for older family members, other people’s children or an elderly neighbour or friend.

Women care. We nurture, we feed, we embrace and kiss it better, because that is what we do.

All women have mothers but not all women are mothers and that’s ok.

On Mother’s Day lets celebrate all women; those who are fortunate to have their own children, those who grieve the children they lost or were never meant to be, women who care for a loved one, nurture a child, wipe a nose or tend a bloody knee.

Happy Mother’s Day to all women who care because that is what we do.

 

ENDS

To my daughter on my first mother’s day

As I write this you are sleeping. I pause to watch the pink blanket raise and fall with your breath and I have to catch my own.

Your long eyelashes frame the pink curve of your cheeks and your tiny fingers curl around your thumbs. You are six months old and it feels like you have been here forever. I used to wonder how I filled my days in the years before you came and now I know the answer. I was waiting. Waiting to be a mother. Waiting for you.

It was a long hard wait, six years to be exact and at times it was extremely difficult.

Those six years included some of the most heartbreaking times of our lives. The miscarriage after our first IVF attempt that nearly broke us. The return of my depression and anxiety. The heartbreak of negative pregnancy tests after two more attempts, which left me sobbing on the bathroom floor. The phone call from the clinic the morning after my lovely mum died informing us that the embryos that were due to be transferred had failed overnight.

Each attempt also involved a battery of tests, daily injections; and horrible hormones that sapped my energy and made it feel as if I were walking through mud.

The financial cost was also huge. The stress of deciding which bill we could leave unpaid until next month so we could meet the loan repayments for the treatment. The worry that we would simply have to give up on our dreams of a family because we couldn’t afford another attempt.

The sorrow of each failed attempt was made even more difficult as friends and family announced their happy pregnancy news.

The wait was hard but oh so worth it.

Worth it for the beautiful wide smile that greets us every morning, for the deep throaty giggle when you find your toes, for your shrieks of delight when your daddy comes home, for the feel of your warm breath on my face and your pudgy arms in mine.

In the days and weeks after your birth I didn’t feel any pain from the C-Section scar, I didn’t feel the effects of exhaustion from sleepless nights and 4am feeds.

What I did feel was a sense of deep contentment. The raw ache of childlessness I had carried with me for years simply vanished the minute you were placed in my arms.

In writing this for Mother’s Day I am acutely aware that there are other women and men out there who are still waiting and my heart breaks for them. Infertility is a long and lonely road with no guarantee of a happy ending and those that travel it are heroes.

It saddens me too that there are people in this world that believe what we went through to have you was wrong. That by going down the donor egg route we have willfully denied you access to your biological mother. That despite carrying you for nine months, giving birth to you and loving you unconditionally, I am somehow not enough. I feel no ill towards people that think this, I just pray they or anyone they love is never affected by the deep heartache of infertility.

Unfortunately my love there are people in this world that don’t think like we do and while I can’t protect you from the unkindness of life I hope I can equip you to fight against it.

You are my wish come true and for you I wish nothing but happiness and good health. I also hope that you remember to be kind, always.

You kept us waiting young lady but you were worth the wait. And I would gladly do it all over again just for the chance to be your mum.

ENDS

Letter to my daughter not yet born

Dear gorgeous, wonderful, miraculous you,

It’s mum here. You have no idea how long I have waited to use that word to describe myself. Mum. Me, a mother. I still can’t quite believe it. After six years of heartache and disappointment, a devastating miscarriage and five rounds of IVF we have nearly reached our happy ever after.

There is so much I want to tell you and so much I want to protect you from. I also wish that come your due date in early September you will be born into a more equal Ireland.

This Friday the country will vote on something called the Marriage Referendum which, if passed, will allow gay and lesbian couples to marry. It would mean that couples of the same sex who love each other would have the same rights as your dad and I to get married and live happily ever after. It is right, it is fair and it is just.

What isn’t right, fair or just, is the way those opposed to the Marriage Referendum, those who do not believe gay couples have the right to live happily ever after, are using children like you to confuse the issue and push their own anti happiness agendas.

You see if you haven’t guessed already, you are extra special. Daddy and I tried really hard to have you,  but we couldn’t do it on our own. So a really kind lady who we will never know, gave us one of her eggs which when mixed with Daddy’s sperm, made you. You were then put in my tummy where thankfully you continue to thrive.

The joy and happiness your very existence brings to us every day is immeasurable. And it is not just your dad and I, your grandparents, aunts, uncles and small cousins are all counting the days to welcome you into the family. Your grandmother in heaven, without whose generosity we would never have been able to afford the round of treatment that made you, has been looking out for you before we even knew you were there.

I have heard the most hurtful things from the NO side over the past few months, which seem to be getting increasingly spiteful in recent weeks. In fact just the other day someone on the no side he would “like to stop anyone in the future conceiving children in a way that excludes their mum or dad from their life.”

They have said that those that use Assisted Human Reproduction with donor eggs or sperm like Daddy and I, set out to deny you a right to a mother or a father. That we planned all along to deliberately deny you the opportunity to be cared for your biological mother. We may not share a genetic link but I am nurturing you, protecting you and will ultimately give birth to you and nag you for the next 40 years, like it or not kid I am your mother.

They have also said that if passed the Marriage Referendum would give gay couples a constitutional right to have a child via assisted human reproduction. This is not true. Nobody has a constitutional right to access fertility treatments like IVF. In fact gay or straight, those that cannot afford it have no access at all and that too is inherently wrong.

So after years of heartache, failure and steely determination to keep going against all the odds just for the wonderful chance to be your mum, the naysayers tell me, your dad and the thousands of others struggling with the devastation of infertility that we are wrong.

In a desperate attempt to confuse the electorate and push their own agendas the No side are using red herrings like adoption, surrogacy and IVF all of which will not be affected in any way whatsoever by the result on Friday. However in doing so they are also telling millions of people who happen to be born into unconventional families and their parents that they do not belong.

Infertility is a long, hard and lonely road only really understood by those who have travelled it, fallen prey to its many potholes, dusted themselves off and got up again. We don’t need the No Side in this debate making it any harder.

If there is one thing that the last 6 years has taught me it is that people who chose to go down the road of IVF don’t do so easily. They know that despite the hopes of a happy ending there is also the real possibility that it will not work. They plough thousands of euro into treatments, undergo rigorous testing, take countless hormones and other grueling therapies for months on end and if that doesn’t work they do it all over again, just for the chance, not the right, to be a parent.

Like you, the children born as a result of IVF or donor assisted human reproduction be it to straight or gay couples are longed for, wanted and loved. Surely that is all that anyone needs to know.

So I am voting Yes on Friday because I want everyone to have his or her happy ever after. I am also voting yes so that when you grow up you too can get your happy ever after, whatever you wish that to be.

After all come September 04 when you are hopefully placed safely in our arms, your daddy and I will get ours.

Love mum x

Blue blankets

When a new baby is born some proud new parents take to social media to post photographs of their brand new offspring. Hours old, the beautiful tiny newborn is nearly always wrapped tightly in a hospital issue blue blanket.

That same blue blanket that swaddles us as we enter the world also covers us as we leave.

And it was that same blue blanket that covered my lovely mum as she prepared to leave us almost two years ago today.

My lovely mum died on the 22nd of November 2012 in hospital surrounded by her loving family and covered with a blue blanket. It was a heart breaking privilege to be with her as she took her final breaths, to hold her hand and tell her how much we all loved her, again and again and again, just in case she was ever in any doubt.

As I sat by her bed and the blue of that blanket swam in my tear filled eyes, I was flooded with fear and a sudden realization that I would never see her again. That terrified me, it still does.

Now two years later when that same fear visits and I desperately struggle to remember her voice, I think of her laughing and she immediately comes to mind.

She had a wonderful sense of humour and liked nothing more than a good laugh. Sometimes mum laughed so hard that tears streamed down her cheeks. It was impossible not to laugh with her. I don’t think I have laughed as hard as I used to laugh with mum and I am not sure I ever will again. I miss that.

I remember she came home from town one day at Christmas time looking very perplexed. When I asked her what was wrong she said she had gone into the record shop to get the album one of us had requested for Christmas but they didn’t have it. “In fact the girl in the shop said she had never heard of the Hot House Plants” she said, quite indignant. We all fell about laughing.There was also an incident involving the “Fine Young Savages”.

I miss her laugh; I also miss her beautiful smile. As a child I would love to watch her get dressed up for a night out. She always looked extra beautiful to me as she emerged from her bedroom and down the stairs dressed in her finery, her face and hair made up to perfection, smelling of exquisite perfume.

We would get that same delicious scent when she came home and tiptoed into our rooms to kiss us goodnight. Tucked up in my bed I would try to stay awake until she came home just to experience that wonderful ‘mum smell’ all over again.

Two years ago the very last thing I did for my lovely mum was to tuck her up in that universal blue blanket and kiss her goodnight.

It may have been just a plain hospital issue blue blanket but for us, just then, it swaddled our world.

Sleep well mum, we miss you.

The crushing pain of infertility

Following on from my blog post on Mother’s Day- just because I am not a mum, I was contacted by the Irish Independent to write a longer feature for the paper’s Health & Living Supplement. I was also interviewed on the John Murray Show on RTE.

Please see link below….

http://www.independent.ie/life/family/mothers-babies/the-crushing-pain-and-heartbreak-of-being-infertile-30262274.html

Thoughts on mother’s day- just because I am a not a mum…

 

So how are the cats June, have you decided to add to your litter?

 It was this seemingly innocuous question by a lovely mother of twins, at a recent birthday party for a friend’s little girl that stopped me in my tracks. I suddenly realized that not being a mother immediately made me a crazy cat lady in her mind.

Did all other women see me like this?

It also drove home the point that because I wasn’t a mother the only other thing women who are lucky enough to be mothers, could think to ask me about, was cats.

Don’t get me wrong as everyone who knows me will tell you I adore our cats. In fact I love all animals. I also love my wonderful siblings, my gorgeous nieces and nephews, my very handsome husband, my dad, and I miss my lovely mum every day.

I love my work, spending time with dear friends, writing, reading, going on long walks and sitting outside coffee shops watching the world go by.

What I am trying to say is that just because a woman isn’t a mother, doesn’t make her less of a woman.

It shouldn’t stop conversations with other women dead in their tracks when the response to how many children do you have? is “none”. But it does.

Some women have made a conscious decision not to have children. That is their choice; their right and I support them in that.

To be content in life without conforming to societal pressures to be a mum just because you are a woman of a certain age, must be hugely liberating. However I can imagine that having to explain that choice to those that cannot accept it, must be very wearing.

Then there are the women like me who ache everyday to be a mother.

It is estimated that one in six couples in Ireland are affected by infertility and my heart goes out to each and every one of them.

Infertility has been ranked as one of the great stressors in life, comparable to divorce or a death in the family.

However unlike bereavement where time can help, its passing can simply intensify the sorrow of infertility.

According to the 2005 Commission on Assisted Human Reproduction “Infertility is a medical and social condition that can cause considerable social, emotional and psychological distress.”

The Commission continued, “For those who want to have children, infertility can be an extremely traumatic experience, characterised by feelings of guilt, low self-esteem, depression, and sometimes consequent relationship difficulties and sexual dysfunction. These psychological effects have been compared to those following bereavement.

“The process of discovery and comprehension involved in the diagnosis and treatment of infertility can be a very isolating period for the individual or couple. There may be social consequences too, as extended families and local communities share bonds through child rearing from which childless individuals and couples feel isolated.”

Isolation is a very good word to explain how those affected by infertility feel every day. Loneliness also works.

In the past seven years my lovely husband and I have been living with unexplained infertility. We have had two full rounds of IVF and two cycles using frozen embryos. The first round resulted in a much longed for positive pregnancy result. Sadly however the joy was short lived as I miscarried at nine weeks. The other cycles were unsuccessful.

We have also been to numerous christenings, first, second, third, fourth, fifth and sixth birthday parties. While we feel privileged to be invited to these wonderfully joyous occasions, they are also always tinged with deep sadness.

I have learned to perfect my “how wonderful face” when women I know tell me they are expecting their second, third and fourth babies.

I ask all the right questions, “when are you due”, “how are you feeling?” “Are you going to the Rotunda again?” “Do you know if it is a boy or a girl?”

Then I go home and dissolve into tears, rally against the unfairness of it all and berate myself for not being able to do what it seems like every other woman I know can do, and my heart breaks all over again.

I then feel immediately feel guilty for being so selfish.

I was and continue to be genuinely delighted when my friends and my sisters announce their pregnancies.

I adore being “Aunty Juney” to all their gorgeous children and it is a huge privilege to be involved in their lives.

I just wish their wonderful news didn’t hurt so much.

I don’t think anyone who hasn’t been through the heartbreak of infertility can ever truly understand how devastating it is and continues to be. You are grieving for your future or what you imagined it would be.

And for the record well meaning as they may be, stories of how a neighbour’s wife had 2 children at the age of 47 after a trip to Lourdes don’t help. Neither does advice to “relax and it will happen.”

What does help however is a little bit of sensitivity and insight.

If you are friends with a woman like me all we ask is that you try to understand and be mindful of our grief.

Tell us your wonderful news and exciting plans. But please don’t go into every tiny detail of your pregnancy, your worry that you will put on weight and lose your figure. You have no idea how much we would give for that chance.

Share your genuine worries that all will be well; I am your friend and a good listener.

But please don’t show us the scan photos they hurt way too much, especially to those whose last scan was to confirm a miscarriage.

When we meet for coffee and your new arrivals are now a gorgeous boy of four and a chatty girl of three, tell me about them.

I want to know how they are, what they have been up to, the wonderful things they have said.

But please don’t spend the precious two hours we have together talking them about and nothing else.

You are a bright, intelligent and funny woman. I want to know how you are, what you have been doing and what you think.

And when you meet me at a children’s birthday party please don’t ask me about the cats in the mistaken belief I have nothing else to mind, to nurture, to care for. Ask me about my gorgeous nieces and nephews just as I have asked about your lovely family.

I know all the words to “Do you want to build a snowman” from the film Frozen and have seen the pride in a three year old’s face when she reaches the highest point of the playground slide. Indulge me in a “proud aunty Juney” moment.

We have not given up hope and plan to embark on the IVF rollercoaster again in the summer.

The possibility that this time too it could fail is never far from our minds, and we wonder if we will have the strength to go on if faced by more crushing disappointment.

However the thoughts that maybe, just maybe, this time it might work are also there, willing us to go on and give it one more go.

ENDS

In memory of Kevin the cat.

He was just a cat, a cat called Kevin.

He was just a cat…who came when we called and responded to a number of variations of his name. All we had to do was call out “Kevin” or “Kev” and seconds later he would appear with a familiar “parp” which seemed to say “here I am…what’s going on? Any news?”

He was just a cat…who despite being thrown out of a car as a kitten and cruelly discarded, did what many of us would never countenance. Kev gave humankind a second chance and learned to trust again.

He was just a cat…who would jump on the arm of a chair and with his familiar “parp” nod at the cushion on the floor instructing the person occupying the chair to put it on their lap so he could curl up in comfort.

He was just a cat …who every night just as we were falling asleep, would appear on the pillow and gently find our noses buried under the duvet. A gentle tap from a soft pink paw indicated that he wanted a head butt and a cuddle before anyone could get some sleep.

He was just a cat who, if you woke in the middle of the night, would always be curled up in the same position on the pillow. We knew of no known cure as effective for insomnia, than a purring Kev wrapped around your arm. Sleep was guaranteed in about three minutes flat.

He was just a cat..who when we rescued a second traumatised kitten “Loulou” (she spent the first six months under the spare bed) went to check on her a few times a day to see if she was ok. Kev persisted despite getting a whack on his nose every time for his trouble.

He was just a cat…who loved empty cardboard boxes, bottle tops, bags (my make-up bag in particular), cat treats, strawberry yogurt, vanilla ice cream, potted plants, flowers,a warm lap and cake he adored cake.

He was just a cat..who retrieved bottle caps when we thew them for him. Once the game was over he would hide his stash beneath the sofa, turning hoovering behind it into a voyage of discovery.

He was just a cat…a very handsome black and white tuxedo cat who always dressed for dinner.

He was just a cat… who unlike others of his kind never held a grudge. For example when we got back from holidays despite being well cared for by our cat loving neighbour, Loulou would perfect her “unimpressed face” while Kev would follow us around like a little shadow for a few days just to make sure we wouldn’t go away again too soon. He was a sensitive soul.

He was just a cat….with bright green yellow eyes and a serious/worried expression which belied a playful character.

He was just a cat…who put up with our two very small and extremely excited nieces despite the fact they moved quicker than him. A silent teacher, Kevin patiently taught them one of life’s most important lessons: to always be kind and gentle with animals and never, ever pull their tails.

He was just a cat…who when a crippling depression broke my spirit and anxiety robbed my voice, sat quietly with me every day never once leaving my side.

He was just a cat..who when I lost my lovely mum absorbed my tears in his warm, soft coat.

He was just a cat, a cat called Kevin and we loved him very much.

Sleep well Kev xxx
,

Kevin the cat

Kevin and smallest niece

Handsome boy

A Year without you.

How many times can a heart break before it is irreparably damaged, and each time it breaks does it, like a bad ankle remain weak more prone to accidents and pain, or does it have the power to heal stronger and better than ever?

The reason I ask is that mine has broken a number of times since you left and without you here it takes longer to heal.

A year without you is too long. I miss you.

Before you left I called you most days for a chat and to tell you my news. This is the longest I have gone in more than four decades without seeing or talking to you, and I am full of fear that I will forget what your voice sounds like.

You always knew from the moment I said hello how I was feeling just by the sound of my voice.

You knew if all was well, I had exciting news or if I was in a bad mood. You knew too if I was particularly stressed or feeling low. And you knew all this just by listening to my voice.

“Hi mum how are things?” I would say in my best put-on up beat voice.

“You are not the best today are you?” You would ask.

“No I’m fine,” I would respond, “well maybe a little tired.”

But you never bought it. You had an innate ability to know when there was something up and were always the first to spot it.

If I was annoyed because of someone else’s actions, you would listen and then rage against the person who in your opinion, had done me wrong or behaved badly, and then tell me they weren’t worth worrying about.

Or if I was giving out about lots of people at once, you would listen and quietly say: “In life if everyone else around you is wrong, it is time to look to yourself”, and, as always, you were right.

And when things got so bad that I couldn’t speak, you still listened.

You held my hand and stayed with me through the darkest days. When anxiety robbed my voice and fear gripped my throat, when my body was crippled with depression and I didn’t have the strength to continue, you gently propped me up and willed me on.

You were always there listening, watching, worrying, waiting, doing all you could to make things better.

When I recovered and thanked you for your unconditional support throughout those dark months you simply said: “I am your mother and I love you, it is what mothers do.”

When you were so ill in the last few months it was a real privilege to care for you . I remember you turned to me one day to thank me. I replied “I am your daughter and I love you, it is what daughters do.”

You gave me one of your beautiful smiles and typically sent me off to fetch you another cup of tea.

Tomorrow it will be a full year without you and somehow despite all the heartbreak, the tears, the deep cold ache of missing you, I have survived.

Maybe the heart does get stronger every time it breaks, or maybe it is because you are still there quietly listening and trying to make things better.

Miss you mum.

xxxx

Beannacht by John O Donohoe

On National Poetry Day I thought I would share with you one of my favourite poems. It was written by the Irish poet John O Donohoe in memory of his mother and we have chosen it for my lovely mum’s memorial card. I still miss her every day. 

Beannacht – For Josie

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 into 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.