“Thanks for thinking of me.” That’s what Vicky Phelan said when I asked if she’d do an interview with me for a new series I was writing for The Irish Times.
“Thanks for thinking of me,” as if the honour wasn’t all mine when she agreed.
And it was an honour, and such a privilege, because Vicky wasn’t just inspirational: she was also engaging, funny and wise. She could make you laugh while speaking about the darkest of subjects. And I always looked forward to speaking with her, because, whenever you came off the phone with Vicky, you viewed things differently. It felt like you had the chats and even the craic in spite of the seriousness of her illness and the topics.
[ Cervical cancer campaigner Vicky Phelan dies aged 48Opens in new window ]
You were upbeat and you had perspective not because you’d been speaking to someone who had terminal cancer but because Vicky had a way of grounding you and appreciating the simple pleasures in life that we sometimes missed when caught up in the chaos of everything.
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She had gratitude for pain-free days and time with her family, a full night’s sleep, and the kindness of friends and strangers. And that gratitude drowned out the talk of side effects and fears in our conversations. She always expressed amazement about the kindness she encountered as if she never quite realised what an inspiration she was to so many people and how much the people of Ireland adored her.
We would message sometimes, chatting about life. I’ve looked back at those messages today and listened to the voicenotes she sent me – grateful to have known her, even a little.
There’s one particular one that stayed with me. I was asked once on social media who my favourite person ever to interview was. I didn’t have to think about it. “Vicky Phelan,” I said without hesitation. Vicky saw my reply and messaged me immediately. “Thank you so much for saying that about me,” she said, and again I wondered if she’d ever truly realise how much she meant to Irish people. Or how much I truly enjoyed our chats.
When I phoned her in the United States, while she was undergoing experimental treatment, it was clear how much she was missing home and how hard it was for her to be away from her loved ones. And all in the middle of a global pandemic.
But still, in her usual style, she kept her eye firmly on the hoped-for prize, letting me in on the dates that would reveal all about how her treatment was going and the harsh realities of having to go through it alone. She also spoke of the friendships she had made and the strangers who had sought her out to help. Vicky looked for the helpers in life and wanted them to know how much she appreciated them.
As a woman and as a journalist, Vicky was a hero of mine. She was as fabulous in the personal as she was in the professional.
But even heroes need to rest.
Rest in peace, Vicky, and thank you for everything.