On the night my mother died, I drove past the Mater hospital in Dublin twice, unaware she was on an operating table inside and that my siblings were frantically trying to contact me.
It was February 1st, 2000, before mobile phones were ubiquitous. I didn’t have one. I had been at a music gig and afterwards drove some friends home to Cabra, which brought me past the Mater, before returning the same way to my north Dublin home. The house phone was ringing when I opened the door. I knew it was bad news even before I heard my younger sister’s voice.
I went immediately to the hospital where my father, six siblings and other family members had gathered. Two siblings were unable to be there. A sister – heavily pregnant, with her baby due that night – was in the west of Ireland and a brother was in Australia. It was after midnight and a medical team was still operating on Mammy, who had been rushed to Dublin from the Lourdes Hospital in Drogheda by ambulance earlier. Kind nurses assured us they were doing all they could but there was something in their tone that left us in no doubt this was serious.
Much of that night remains a blur. In the early hours, a nun told us Mammy had died. We had no opportunity to see her before that. After being told of her death, I asked several times to see her. I could not comprehend she was dead and actually seeing her was of immense importance. When eventually permitted to do so, I hugged her. She was still warm with no visible signs of injury apart from bruising on her forehead. The serious injuries were all internal.
By 8am, we were all back in the family home in Co Louth, where some neighbours had already gathered. I didn’t know until later that the driver of the car that had collided with Mammy’s was among those to knock at our door. He asked for my father, who went out to see him and listened quietly as the man wept and said he was sorry. I believe the driver, who was convicted later of dangerous driving causing death, was genuinely remorseful. His apology mattered to us.
Home was already different; there was no warm scent of baking. A bowl sat on the kitchen table with some ingredients for a batch of scones Mammy had planned to make when she got home. My sister tells me I threw it out but I have no recollection of it. Looking back, we all remember, and forget, different things. I remember the heartbreak of watching the upset of my very pregnant sister when she arrived, and of my brother when he eventually made it home from Australia. I remember a bouquet of snowdrops placed by a kind neighbour in Mammy’s hands, heralds of a spring she would never see. I cannot forget the sight of another brother weeping inconsolably as the coffin was sealed. Another brother told me, when driving to the undertaker with some of Mammy’s personal things, he had to pull in because he could not see the road through his tears.
The wake, over four days, was both exhausting and consoling. It seemed the entire village had come to a standstill, suspending normal life to rally around us. An army of neighbours made tea and sandwiches, leaving us free to make arrangements and talk to the many people who came to sympathise. Mammy was involved in almost everything locally but, over those few days, I learned she had touched many more lives than I was aware of. I devoured accounts of how much she was appreciated, and loved, how her many kindnesses had such an impact.
Our community and friends could not, sadly, permanently shield us from grief. After the funeral, everyday life had to resume, work had to be done and children had to be looked after. Everyone grieves in their own way. We found our individual distractions and ways of coping but we all struggled. The grief was exacerbated when Daddy died in September 2002 just a few months after being diagnosed with cancer. Short as it was, we had some notice of his death. There was none of Mammy’s and that haunts us.
No time for goodbyes, to say how much she was loved, how much we appreciated all she had done for us. Because she did everything. Rearing nine children on a low income was hard work. Housework without the modern appliances we all take for granted was drudgery. Growing up, I remember Mammy worrying constantly about making ends meet. She managed, I still don’t know how, but I do remember her saying: “No one ever tells you life is such a struggle.” She valued education as the escape route out of that struggle and never distinguished between her sons and daughters when it came to educational opportunity, or in any other respect.
When she died, aged 64, Mammy was at a stage where the financial struggles had eased. Her children were all adults and employed. She had more time to pursue her own interests, was more involved than ever in local community and political activity, and was on her way to an environmental meeting when the collision happened. She had seen some grandchildren arrive and clearly adored them but had no intention of being a childminder, pointing out she had done more than enough of that. She had many plans for a life of her own, including art lessons, but was deprived of the chance to implement them.
Twenty-two years after her death, the grief is less raw but the loss remains hard to bear. There is an acute sadness about being deprived of Mammy’s wisdom and support when confronted with the challenges and tragedies life throws up. We have also missed celebrating many happy occasions and achievements with her. It is a source of sorrow she was not there for some of her children’s weddings and missed the arrival of several grandchildren and great-grandchildren. She would have delighted in seeing her grandchildren flourish into the wonderful human beings they are. A native of Dublin and a fervent GAA supporter, she would have exulted in her beloved Dubs winning six All-Irelands in a row and in seeing several grandsons and granddaughters excel with the local GAA club. We have no opportunity to have deeper conversations about her youth and life experiences, including the impact of the death of her own mother when Mammy was just in her 20s. So many questions unasked, so many experiences unshared.
There are no words to describe the impact of the sudden cutting-off of a mother’s unconditional and lasting love and support. As a teenager, one of my favourite poems was TS Eliot’s The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock. It is preoccupied with time and ageing but I have learned that it takes time to properly appreciate how finite and precious time is. ‘There will be time,’ Eliot wrote. Not for our mother, whose time was ended on a dark country road. There will never be time to fill the void that has left in our lives.
World Day of Remembrance for Road Traffic Victims is on Sunday November 20th
