This morning, another family has lost their mother, a husband has lost his wife; my friend has lost her friend. This morning, I know that another woman, still in her forties, has died from breast cancer.
Earlier this week, I learned that my sister-in-law and brother attended the funeral of another woman, also in her forties, also a mother and a wife, also dead from breast cancer.
In September, P attended the funeral of his cousin’s wife. She too died from cancer. She too left behind children. She was also in her forties.
In August, I hear that a school friend, one who used to attend my birthday parties, died from cancer. She is the second ‘girl’ from my primary school class (I am in my mid-forties) to have died from cancer. Both leave behind children, spouse, siblings and, in one case, a parent.
In August, another friend lost a friend to cancer. She too was a mother and a wife.
Like many of you, I have stood at a graveside while a close friend buried his mother. She too died from cancer. I know there are times he still misses her.
I could go on …
I think of Mairéad practically every day. I know that I don’t miss her like my Dad does, like her Mam does, like her sisters do, probably not even like her friends do. But I feel sad and I have a sense of loss or absence that can be so keen at times, it surprises me.
When I think of Mairéad, my school friends, and now my friend’s friend I feel sad, but not just because of the people they left behind. You all know the conversations around these events; people often talk about the children or husband and how tragic it is for them. Mairéad herself used to say that in those last ten days: “I’ll be fine. I’ll just slip away. It’s your Dad, my family, my friends who will be lonely.” I feel sad because she didn’t get to stay on a bit longer. I feel sad because I really do think that 40 going on 50 is too young to die. Surely, there is so much more to come. I’ve tried to describe this to P. I think of it a bit like being asked to leave the party early. Have you ever been in the midst of a good evening, good music, good dancing, good company and then, for whatever reason, you have to go home a bit earlier than everyone else? It’s hard not to feel a tiny bit cheated.
That’s what I think about when I think of Mairéad and all these other friends, mothers, wives. They should have been allowed to stay at the party longer.
Forget about the running this evening. (It’s done. I did 32 miles or 50km this week.) This evening, let us pause, light a candle, play some soft music or their favourite song, and remember the women who have left the party early, whether through cancer or some other disease or accident. Let us give thanks for the joy and friendship, the particularity of their lives, brief though they were. Let’s not try to fix or do something. Let’s just be quiet for a moment and honour their one-time presence in our midst.
Ar dheis Dé go raibh siad go léir.
niamhpattwellgoingfor3 