I stood sentinel outside the Navan church that had hosted so many of my family’s milestones over the decades: christenings, communions, confirmations. And now funerals. The sun, which had delighted Irish people throughout the summer of 2021, was temporarily hidden behind a canopy of clouds. Even still, my body overheated in my ill-fitting suit, a spontaneous purchase from earlier in the week.
I observed my mother beside me; that morning, her renowned fortitude had abandoned her entirely. My father, unable to remain still, paced the grounds, chatting with friends and neighbours as if it were half-time during a football match and not the funeral of his only daughter. His denial of our family’s tragedy was understandable because Deirdre’s death following an accident in Liverpool four weeks earlier had occurred during the most surreal period in a generation: the pandemic.
“You can pay your respects to the family, but please don’t shake their hands – and definitely do not hug anyone,” our kind but firm undertaker instructed the congregation, most of whom couldn’t attend the service inside the church because of restrictions.
And so, from a distance, condolences in English and Irish arrived one after the other.
“I can only imagine what you’re going through.”
“Ní mhaith liom do thrioblóid.”
“It was a beautiful ceremony – Deirdre would have been proud.”
A group of my sister’s former schoolfriends arrived. One quipped, “The last time I saw you, Domhnall, you wanted to be She-Ra.”
I forced a laugh. “And I still do.”
As hundreds shared sympathies and memories, I could sense my mother’s form falter despite her best intentions to present a strong front.
“Is this really happening?” she whispered to me.
At that moment, Mam didn’t need compassionate words but a warm embrace, even a rudimentary handshake – gestures ubiquitous at Irish funerals before the pandemic ravaged the world. Probably sensing as much, her former colleague stepped forward to hug her. One friend to another. One mother to another.
“I’m sorry, Rita,” I cried, immediately creating a barrier between them, “but we have to keep our distance.”
That moment will haunt me forever: preventing my mother from accepting a much-needed hug from a friend in her darkest hour because her insubordinate lungs made her a prime target of the virus.
It was then my turn to ask: “Is this really happening?”
Over the following months, the reality of my sister’s death settled. However, even when the restrictions lifted, I maintained my own distance from others – ill-prepared to oppress them with my grief or uninterested in engaging in vacuous conversations about the latest television series, sporting event or culinary craze.
Instead, I resumed my work as a travel writer, soon becoming obsessed with historical figures. I desperately wanted to learn about their lives and contributions to the world, hoping to answer questions such as, “What is our purpose in life?”
After visiting the Patrick Kavanagh Centre in Inniskeen, Co Monaghan, I repeatedly read the masterpiece In Memory of My Father. This tribute to the poet’s late parent deftly articulated the oppressive reality of loss: no matter where you turn, you’re constantly greeted by memories of loved ones.
Further north in the Seamus Heaney Homeplace, I reconnected with a poem my sister and I regularly recited in speech and drama class: Mid-Term Break – an ode to the Derry poet’s young brother, killed in a car crash, with that devastating final line: “A four-foot box, a foot for every year.”
Almost obsessively, I engaged with works from masters across every art discipline, like Death in a Sickroom by Norwegian painter Edvard Munch, depicting his sister’s death from TB. Or the harrowing paintings by Francis Bacon in response to the suicide of his former lover. Or Amelia Stein’s photographic series about her deceased father, Spare Parts: Old Boxes. Or the writing of JM Barrie, whose brother’s tragic death in an ice-skating accident prompted him to create a character of a boy who’d live forever, Peter Pan.
Inspired by these luminaries of the art world, I eventually decided to also channel the chaos in my head and heart into my fourth book.
The Wonderful Life of Connie Maguire tells the story of a 40-year-old special needs assistant from a village in my home county of Meath. She has battled low self-esteem since childhood and sacrificed her own wellbeing to support her son, Ireland’s newest rugby star. On the day of her milestone birthday, with Liam’s career about to soar, Connie finally believes she might achieve some happiness. Then tragedy strikes in the dark of night, changing everything.
While the story of Connie is unrelated to my family’s circumstances, it tackles some of the overwhelming emotions that emerged during our grieving process: anger, confusion, guilt, regret and loneliness.
[ Seán Moncrieff: Funeral sandwiches are part of the Irish grieving processOpens in new window ]
My frustrations at the church – which forbade “personal touches” during Deirdre’s funeral like eulogies or contemporary music – emerged on the page. As did the decisions my mother and I had to make ahead of the cremation in Liverpool, including selecting the colour of the robe my sister wore. And, of course, those existential questions such as, “What happens after we die?”
In the book, I also recognised the power of nature in the grieving process. Whether it’s the ocean, mountain or forest, nature asks nothing of us and accepts us for who we are. After living in museums and galleries in the wake of my sister’s death, I eventually found nature to be a better outlet for my thoughts, which encouraged me to draw my attention outwards, allowing my tortured mind a chance to breathe.
Four years ago, my existence was bleak, painful and oppressive. But nature, always surprising and renewing, helped bring wonder and hope back into my life.
The Wonderful Life of Connie Maguire is published by Mercier Press
