Winding up

When we were growing up in the 60s and 70s we didn't have the proverbial hill of beans when it came to cash.

This morning I was preoccupied with money from my late parents.

At 8.45 I'm rummaging through the remnant of my mother's (who died in 2001) purse for the correct change for the bus. She lived long enough to see the Euro coming in, but not to remember the meaning of coins. I silently thank her each day for the copper plunder that makes up that elusive five cent for the busman. The hoard is growing thin and I know one morning I'll zip back the cheap nylon zipper and find only the two hair clips and the nail file that lie there in their own little sections.

My sister concluded her duties as executress yesterday when she handed me the last quarter of the proceeds from the sale of our father's house. She worked tirelessly to conclude all the practical and legal work involved. I'm very proud of her as I don't think I would have been able for it.

So I started my day with my mother's few pence, or cent, or whatever we're calling it these days in my fist on the way to the bus, and a bankers draft for tens of thousands wrapped up tightly in a ball in the back of my wallet in my trouser pocket. It reminded me of shopping expeditions from the house at Doyle's Farm after school, when Ma would put a bundle of coins wrapped in a shopping list written in pencil on a piece of copybook paper into my hand and order me to hold on tight as I went to Ballyboden's supermarket and bought up some bread or ham or maybe a few pork chops for the father's tea.

It's far from pork chops he is now. Or shoppng lists either. Or she either.

Dropping the lodgement envelope into the machine in the bank felt like the last nail in their collective coffins. The deed is done. The task is over. We can move on to whatever come next.

What comes next, then?

Somehow, though, it all feels like a very big relieving sigh.

Fathers' Day

So, what shall we do today, Old Man?

We could dig worms from the bank and put them in a jam jar and hold old half-broken fishing rods by the deep pools of the river. I could tell stories of how I used to catch fish by hand as a young fella, and how one day an eel caught me by the finger instead.

And what if it's too cold for standing by a river?

We could lift hay bales and feel the coarse, hard twine before it snaps at the touch of a sharp knife. I could throw the hay into the feeder and you could loosen it for the curious muzzles of the bullocks, nosing through the feed with their snaking tongues. I could tramp through the mud of the yard and grumble about landlords, kick the worst of the muck off at the lone tree. We could peer into the hollow in its side together at the robin's nest, empty now, but not long ago filled with hungry beaks that opened like inside-out umbrellas begging for food.

And what if the lone tree has fallen?

We could tug and pull at the cross-cut saw, sweating in flurries of sawdust. You could push too hard and bend the blade and I could worry and swear and we could go to the lane where the coal is left loosely. I'll shovel and you'll drop the bag or hold it open the wrong way looking at birds instead of concentrating.

And what if there's coal and timber enough in the house?

We could sit by the hearth and watch red-hot horsemen dance through the soot of the fireback, twist wire coat hangers into toasting forks and hang bread in front of the cinders. You'll scrape off the worst of the black where it's burned and I'll reach down the jam pot from the cupboard.

And what if the house has fallen?

You'll help me dig rows for potatoes in my new garden and pick colours for the walls of the new house. We'll plant a hedge and hang an iron gate and railings and paint a house number on a plaque and do a thousand other things.

And what if you tire of the new house?

We'll sit on bar stools and drink beers and speak in low voices about things between us. You'll look at me and notice the laughter lines and the roguish glint in my eye and we'll wonder where the time has all gone.

And what if the time has all gone?

You'll look at children and cats and dogs and green hills and purple mountains and all the things seen from your window and you'll remember how I loved them. And in the evening, you'll listen to the birds singing until nightime comes on and you're called to close the door.

Our Dad

I read out the following at Dad's funeral Mass today:

Our Dad, Tom, was 81 years old this June. People who met him often remarked that he seemed a lot younger. This, perhaps, was due to his great spirit and love of life. He felt at his best when he was working on some project, or examining a new gadget he had made or seen in a shop window. He was a believer in the idea of “early to bed and early to rise.” Anyone who heard his grass mower working at seven o’clock on a Saturday morning can testify to that!

Tom loved to collect things and to share his latest discovery with his friends and neighbours. If someone was working on a blocked drain, or having trouble with a garden shrub, he delighted in producing some strange invention or unusual advice to solve the problem.

He loved dressing up in a favourite suit and making an entrance. In recent years he added some fancy waistcoats and a number of hats and caps to his collection and knowing how much he liked them, we, his family, often aided and abetted him by giving him presents of new ones.

We will miss him in his Sunday hat.

To many people, Tom was larger than life. To us, his children, he was that and more. He cared deeply about what was happening in our lives. He was full of pride in our times of joy. He had a quiet wisdom when we shared our woes. A word from Dad would add to our happiness or help solve the problems we found ourselves within.

Tom’s cheerful outlook is the more remarkable in the face of the setbacks that life threw at him over the years. In 2001 he lost his wife, Maureen, after 50 years of marriage, a terrible blow. His own health could sometimes be poorly and he was all-too familiar with clinics and with hospitals both as an in- and out-patient. He bore too the losses of dear brothers and a beloved sister.

In all these times, he took comfort from his religion and his faith in God which gave him the strength to not only survive but overcome his ills. He returned, each time, with renewed optimism to tinkering on some machine, hanging some shelf, fixing some door. Often these were done for other people who remarked on his resilience and (once more) were astonished by his age.

Our Dad was usually wise in his choice of friends and extremely lucky in his wonderful neighbours who looked out for him in his latter years. He joked that if he chose to have a rare lie-in it wouldn’t work out because someone would come knocking on the door to check if he was okay!

Tom’s independent lifestyle always left time for his grandchildren and great-grandchildren, whom he loved dearly. He met his newest great-grandchild, brought on a visit from England, only a few weeks ago. We know that each of them will sadly miss their “Grandad Tom.”

Dad would have been touched by the support and sympathy offered to us over the past days by everybody. You are too many to mention individually, but we are pleased to use this opportunity to thank you, his extended family, colleagues, clergy, musicians, friends and neighbours at this difficult time.

The family would like to welcome you to attend the crematorium at Newlands following this morning’s Mass. And there shall be refreshments served in the Cuckoo’s Nest afterwards if you would like to come along.

Tom will always be remembered, whether as “Thomas”, “Tommy”, “Tom”, “Big Tom,” “Big Dad”, “Da Walsh”, “Uncle Tom”, “Grandad Tom”, or, simply, “Dad”.

The world already feels a lot emptier without him.

Thank you.

Thomas Walsh 1927-2008

It's with great sadness that I report the sudden death of my dad, Thomas Walsh, at his home in Tallaght, on 12th July, 2008. Funeral arrangements will be posted in the Irish Independent and Evening Herald newspapers, shortly.

Edit: Arrangements as follows: Removal from Tallaght Hospital Mortuary on Thursday 17th July, arriving at St. Aengus's Church, Balrothery, at 5.30pm. Cremation at Newlands Cemetery following 10.00am Mass on Friday 18th July. Visitors and well-wishers welcome at both the church and the crematorium.

Post Christmas Colours not all Blue

There are few things as colourful, post Christmas, than the local cemetery. That's where Herself and I ended up this afternoon to lay some Carnations in the vicinity of the Mammy's memorial and also to drop a few sneaky sweeties (no doubt she has a packet down the side of her celestial armchair).

There are rows of bright ribbons, green garlanded wreaths, bows, Santa Clauses, windmills, wind chimes, toys and flowers all over Newlands cemetery today as visitors remember their loved ones this Christmas season.

My mother's cremated remains are in a compartment in an eight-foot high wall part way into the cemetery. The lettering has weathered and I spoke with my father this evening about having it renewed, maybe with gold paint. I'll phone the cemetery people next week to ask how it can be arranged.

It brought a lump to the throat, visiting her again. I miss her, especially at this time of the year, which she enjoyed.

We then went on the hunt for some tiles for the new porch. I fancy something rust coloured or reddish, but the prevailing fashion appears to be for non-threatening biscuit. I can see the point.

We came across some dark brown tiles which might have done the trick. But the assistant (I wouldn't call him a "Salesman") pointed under the display to perhaps twenty individual tiles lying on a wooden pallet:

"Those are all there are of that pattern."

"And you have no more in stock?"

"No."

To be fair, he did show us some other tiles on display, none of which were to our tastes. As we left and went back to the car I said to Herself:

"A real Salesman would have persuaded me to buy the display and recycle the tiles on it..."

I suppose there wouldn't have been enough to finish the job anyway. I must look up some other tile outlets this evening before our next sortie into the retail world tomorrow.

Funnily enough, B&Q had no black masonry paint in stock. There were lots of bizarre colours: the types that youngsters in first-time mortgage apartments might paint their walls. There were a couple in their 20s going about the paint aisles arguing over whether or not they were going to repaint at all this season. He was saying that he'd pay for it himself. She was not impressed with the offer, so I guess whatever it was that needed painting she had chosen the original colour.

We looked at CCTV options. There are ones which look like ordinary spyholes in the front door but which are really cameras. Ditto ones which look like ornamental outdoor lamps. The spyhole options start from around €20, which seems cheap and possibly unreliable. But in true B&Q style, it seems that the cheap bit is followed by the also cheap bit cable, connected with the slightly-more-expensive black box bit, connected with the slightly more expensive other black box, and so on and so on until the debit card is slightly melted.

Off to Woodies tomorrow to buy black masonry paint. And an extendable pole to hang Christmas lights which I am going to adapt to window cleaning.

Home baking

"Have you ever eaten one of my sponge cakes?" Herself asks me, the other evening, as we are watching television.
"Nope," I say, swigging my beer.
"Didn't you know me when I used to bake sponge cakes and butterfly buns and flans and maringues?"
"Er... no."
"I shall make us a sponge cake at the weekend."

Come the weekend there was a crisis of ounces verses grams. I was entertaining my father in the other room and so I couldn't help much.

"Look it up on the Internet," I said.

An hour later I was eating.... something.... sponge-like....

"Do you like it?"
"Er... yes...."

I chewed at the lump of fruit-topped, cream-filled yellowish stuff. Having to chew or gnaw at a sponge cake is probably an indication that it hasn't come out right.

"I think I didn't get the measurements right," she said. "And I think there was something about folding the mixture rather than beating it."

I seprated my upper teeth from my lower ones with an effort, long enough to say:

"No, babe. It's fine, really."

There was a definite clunk when a piece of leftover spong hit the bottom of the kitchen bin. I could feel strange protestations starting up in my gut.

Herself Googled for sponge cake recipes.

"I know what went wrong!" she shouted in to the other room. "I'll make you a proper one tomorrow!"

So, today, I'm eating a wafer-thin sponge-cake that hasn't turned out either. But it is lighter than yesterday's.

"I know where I went wrong. I'll make another one tomorrow that will be right this time. I promise."

My gut is thanking Heaven that we're back at work on Tuesday. It might not have survived an extra day of sponge making.

"You can write about it," Herself said. "On condition you write a sequel when it turns out...."

Watch this space.

When "You're seriously ill" is the good news

My father, Tom, is 79 years of age and apart from diabetes (which hardly bears a mention given his present situation) has had variously a burst appendix, hepatitis, cataracts, bruised ribs, colon cancer and prostate cancer. The colon cancer arose in the past eight years and the prostate cancer in the past five. He has undergone operations to help cure or manage both these conditions. He also received chemotherapy for the colon cancer. The treatments all appear to have been successful until recently when he lost his appetite and complained of pain in the abdomen. The thoughts of his GP immediately turned to a recurrance of cancer of some kind and so he has spent the past couple of weeks in hospital undergoing treatment and a battery of tests.

The family has been fearing the worst, especially since our minds have been concentrated on the matter of death given the recent loss of our Aunt Nelly from colonic cancer and our most recent loss of her (and my father's) brother, Jim, from lung cancer.

In 2006, Tom was diagnosed with an aneurism in an artery. He is usually compliant when it comes to keeping hospital appointments but in February an administration error in the hospital to which he was to go as an outpatient gave him the perfect excuse to walk away and refuse to go back.

Wikipedia says: "An aneurysm (or aneurism) is a localized dilation or ballooning of a blood vessel by more than 50% of the diameter of the vessel and can lead to instant death. Aneurysms most commonly occur in arteries at the base of the brain (the circle of Willis) and in the aorta (the main artery coming out of the heart) - this is an aortic aneurysm. This bulge in a blood vessel, much like a bulge on an over-inflated innertube, can lead to death at any time. The larger an aneurysm becomes, the more likely it is to burst."

On Friday my sisters and I met Tom and the professor heading the team of doctors handling his case. It transpired that the abdominal pain was caused by a stomach ulcer whose initial tests came back clear of cancerous cells. They plan to do further examinations in this area, but he is being treated for a stomach ulcer and is responding well to treatment. Tom is anemic from blood loss, probably from the ulcer, and they plan to treat him for iron deficiency. Finally, a vascular surgeon is going to examine whether or not it would be feasible to treat the now four anurisms in the arteries of his body.

We were so happy to hear the words "You are still seriously ill" because the conference with the professor appeared to rule out more cancer as a cause. In fact, we were positively beaming afterwards. Tom's morale is much improved and he was planning to change out of his pyjamas and into his everyday clothes for the day.

If you had the choice between a potential catastrophic failure with a quick death and a long, lingering suffering, which news would you be happier to hear?

Nelly Redmond, R.I.P.

My wonderfully witty, wickedly mischievious, wise Aunt Nell was buried today. I have nothing inspired to write, so I'll just publish two items here: the death notice from the Irish Independent newspaper and the lyrics to the song sung as the family carried her coffin from the church to the waiting hearse.

"Saddest funeral I was ever at, " Herself said.

I'm still blubbing here as I type. Anyway, the final song broke me up and even looking at the lyrics again is effecting me. So I'll wish you a good journey Nell. We'll see you again with that glint in your eye.

REDMOND (nee Walsh) (Tallaght) July 15, 2006, (peacefully), at her home, surrounded by her family, Ellen (Nell), beloved wife of the late Mick (late of St Maelruans Park); sadly missed by her loving family, children Bernard, Liam, Gerard, Dermot, Michael, Martina, Elaine, Thomas, Michelle, Simon, Edel and James, grandchildren, great grandchildren, sons-in-law, daughters-in-law, brothers, brothers-in-law, sisters-in-law, nephews, nieces, relatives, neighbours and a large circle of friends. Rest in peace. Removal today (Monday) from her home to St. Dominic's Church for 11 o'c. funeral Mass. Burial afterwards to Bohernabreena Cemetery.

ANNIE HASLAM - Going Home
Going home, going home
I'm just going home
Quiet light, some still day
I'm just going home

It's not far, just close by
Through an open door
Work all done, care laid by
Going to fear no more

Mother's there expecting me
Father's waiting, too
Lots of folk gathered there
All the friends I knew

All the friends I knew

I'm going home

Nothing's lost, all's gain
No more fret nor pain
No more stumbling on the way
No more longing for the day
Going to roam no more

Morning star lights the way
Restless dream all done
Shadows gone, break of day
Real life begun

There's no break, there's no end
Just a living on
Wide awake with a smile
Going on and on

Going home, going home
I'm just going home
It's not far, just close by
Through an open door
I am going home
I'm just going home

Going home, going home

The Carer's Allowance

My mother, Maureen Walsh, died of complications of an Alzheimer's-like illness on 27th October, 2001. She was 77 years of age.

Maureen (my mother) was in Respite Care towards the end of September, 2001, in Bellevista House on South Circular Road, Dublin. When I left her there for two weeks she was distressed, confused, not remembering her earlier stay in February after which she didn’t want to come home. She shared a room with five others, right in front of the Nurse’s Station in the Primrose Ward. The walls were painted that colour; the other ward was the Lilac.

I’d resisted applying for the Carer’s Allowance because of work I did on the computer. Teaching people how to use it brought in more money than was allowed under the means test, and so I was stuck between trying to make enough to keep up the car repayments and the rest and trying to provide a proper tuition service while keeping one ear cocked for Maureen in the other room. This fortnight “off” was something to look forward to and I was NOT going to feel guilty like I’d done in February.

How I’d wept when I came home that first time. I just hoped she wasn’t lonely because she’d never been away from my father and from me before.

But September was promising more. I had the Allowance, and under the new rules I could keep up the computer work and use a free travel card on the buses. King for a day, every day! I took her empty suitcase home with me on the number 65 to Tallaght and stopped off in the Penny Black to buy my dinner.

Then my father’s brother died on a weekend trip to Wales. John had had heart trouble before, but he’d kept himself active. His main interest throughout his life was in cars, car engines, vintage cars especially. He, his son Damien and another brother, Jim, went to a car show and on the way back he fell ill and died.

The day of his funeral I was sick with a heavy cold. It was raining, and I decided not to go. But that afternoon I got a call from the Nursing Home to go see my mother, who’d taken a fall.

Maureen had banged her head and though it looked bad (the nurse said) she hadn't fractured anything. I had the pleasure of Mom’s company for a number of hours in the X-Ray Department of the nearby Saint James's Hospital, in Dublin while we waited for the offical all-clear. Ten minutes in, I wanted to strangle the woman. She didn't have a doorkey, she complained, over and over and over again. The fact that we wouldn't be going home afterwards hadn't dawned on her, but her levels of suspicion were high. Finally, I walked her from the taxi to the Lilac Ward again. "Don't you leave me here" she wailed in anger and in grief as I parked her back into the care of the nurses. In a few minutes time, she'd believe she'd always lived there, but for me it was a heartbreak. You wouldn't leave a dog at the vet's without a bit of guilt. Leaving your mother in the care of strangers felt so much worse. So much for resolutions.

Anyway, the two weeks went by quickly, as they had on the previous time, and she was in bed and refusing to stir when I called back for her. "It's nice that you came to visit," she said. "But I'm going to die here." She closed her eyes. The nurses struggled with her to get her up and dressed. She didn't understand she was going home, cursed them, fought with then, but home we went. She was distracted by the traffic, wondering where we were going.

It was obvious that her health gone downhill in the fortnight away. She needed to be led, and she resented being led. She struck out, kicking, slapping, pinching. She became incontinent and had difficulty eating. I thought she might have had another small stroke while she was away.

I wasn’t worried. Somehow when you’re caring for someone who’s taken all the pills, seen all the doctors and who still is on the slippery slope, you switch off all the conscious worries and bury your daily grief. When she came home I almost felt the big switch trip in my head. There was a job to do on this and every day and I was the one doing it.

My father also had to make adjustments, which for him, I think were harder. No matter how I spent my day, washing her, feeding her, trying to get her moving, bringing her on fruitless journeys to the toilet, I at least walked out that door at 7:30 pm. Then it was the “night-shift”, and Tom had to lie half awake, to listen for her. At night, despite the sleeping pills, she’d get out of the bed and wander. Dad hung an iron gate at the top of the stairs to fence her in on the landing. But he didn’t sleep. He couldn’t. Even so, he had to leap from the bed sometimes in the small hours to pick her up from off her bedroom floor. Sometimes she could stand, but she couldn’t always walk at night.

The family gathered for my parents’ 50th Wedding Anniversary at the end of September 2001, none of us telling her, of course, that there was going to be a party, as she would have flatly refused to go. In the event it went very well indeed. Maureen didn't know where she was or much about who she was with but she was good-humoured, if baffled. We had a good meal in good company in the Black Forge Inn and the party resumed at the house. One of the last photos I have of her was taken then. Her grand-daughter, Elaine, who’ll be married herself in September 2002, sat beside her smiling. My mother peered suspiciously at the camera lens.

Next day, we siblings had the long-planned chat about her immediate future. Naturally, those who hadn't seen her on a daily basis expressed shock at her deterioration. I estimated that she had about a month to live. (In the end, she didn't quite have that). But even so we said that it was time that we looked for a permanent solution in the form of a nursing home.

Maureen beat us to the punch. Towards the end of October I couldn’t feed her any more and I sent for the doctor to ask his advice about hospital care. He phoned for an ambulance. I washed and dressed her through the blows and the curses. Two burly Dublin Fire Brigade men wrapped her in a green blanket and my father kissed her goodbye. He’d never see her alive again. We went through the motions in the Outpatients Department of Tallaght Hospital. “This is Willie’s way of getting rid of his mother,” she said to me, lying on a trolley in the corridor. I think it was the only thing she ever said in her life to me that cut me through and through. I could only flip a few more switches in my head, ones I didn’t know were there. Nurses came and went. She was moved to an examination cubicle where she slept fitfully all day. At times, she tried to struggle off the bed, or remove the drip from her arm. She beat the nurses and a young, black woman doctor. I was perversely amused that they couldn’t handle her. Sometimes I helped them examine her; other times surveyed their technique critically. It felt good that someone else was on the receiving end for a while.

I couldn’t fault the hospital staff, who did everything they could. It was a Friday and we arrived about 1:30 in the afternoon. They took tests all day. Brig arrived after work in the evening. It was 9:30 pm when a doctor other than the A&E junior had time to see her. She was young and confident, but unable for my mother, who slapped her as soon as she came near. I was tired, but I crooned something soothing into my mother’s ear until she calmed a little. Finally, they agreed to hospitalise her. My last words to her were: “Well, Mother… I’m off now. Remember, if you have to hit somebody, make sure and ball your hand into a fist beforehand!” The young doctor said a wry “Thanks a lot,” and I left. It was about 10:00 pm.

I stayed away all week, with the exception of telephone calls. She was very ill, unable to swallow food, drink, or medication. She beat the hospital staff and refused treatment. They were able to rehydrate her, but things were not looking good, they said. Dad and I would see her on Saturday. On Friday night, I went to bed and was awoken in the early hours of Saturday by a telephone call. Would I come to the hospital? Maureen had suffered a heart attack and had had to have the resuscitation team. I asked was she still on the ward. The moment’s hesitation in the nurse’s voice before she said yes told me she had died.

I’d never seen Tallaght Hospital at night before. Like a small city within its walls, it bustles with people coming and going. It has its own shops, even a bank, in the lobby. Tonight, only the porter was about. He let me in and watched as I walked over to the lifts. The John Osbourne Ward was near the back of the hospital along a curving corridor. “You’ll remember this walk for a while,” I said to myself as I passed by closed and darkened storerooms, offices, following the arrows on the hanging signs. I was met by a young nurse, wringing her hands. She was trying to find words to tell me the worst possible news. I told her it was okay, and not unexpected. She kept telling me how sorry she was. Would I like tea? To talk to the Hospital Chaplain? There was a nun of some kind hovering about. She offered me condolences. Unsure of Mom’s religion, the Catholic Chaplain had given her the Last Rites. They hoped I wasn’t offended. I told them she wouldn’t have minded. Finally, I got to see her.

She lay peacefully in bed near the door of the ward, her hands folded outside the bedsheet. “Well, Mom,” I said. “You’ve gone on ahead then.” I touched her face. It was still warm. I sighed, and went back out. Prayers were never my thing.

The night wore on as it had to. My sister and brother-in-law arrived and we contacted those in England who needed to hear; broke the news to my father and faced into a new day. Saturday. Eva, my sister, hugged me. “We’ve done this before,” she said. “This will be your first time.”

Firhouse, February 13th, 2006

There were silent lines of Garda tape strung along the Firhouse Road today. It hugged the line of the hedgerow, tied off at intervals on telegraph poles. A young guard stood watch on the edge of the cordon at the Shopping Centre, shuffling about in his blue uniform and hat, waiting for orders.

The scene flew by at forty miles an hour as the taxi passed and I looked out, like the bystanders, on whatever might be glimpsed. Human nature, I suppose, wondering, fearful, sympathetic, shocked. The news came through in rumour in my busy day, almost forgotten later in my Valentine's Day card hunt, joining the small crowd of mostly men looking bemusedly at red hearts on Easons display stands, handing them mutely to the checkout girls to ring up and paper bag.

Tonight as the news reader reported again the deaths of a mother and her two children, the sky, overcast since morning, slowly shed great wet tears. I felt them fall on my back and on my brow as I put a chain though the bars of our gate and closed the padlock tight. I think that Jesus wept this evening. I said a small prayer in the dark and went inside.

Tomorrow, February 14th, we will think about love.