9,99 €
Mehr erfahren.
- Herausgeber: The O'Brien Press
- Kategorie: Ratgeber
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
When Moire O'Sullivan's husband, Pete, took his own life, she was left with a stark choice: to weep forever over the glass of milk that had just spilt or get on with the quarter that was still remaining. As Moire charts the first harrowing year after Pete's death – the shock, the loneliness and the difficulties of single parenting two young children – she also experiences glimpses of hope and acceptance as she trains to become a mountain leader. The people she meets through the mountains, as well as the peace and wild beauty of the Mournes, help Moire discover her inner strength and prove she is not alone in her struggles. A year on from Pete's death, Moire takes on a circuit of the Mournes: a winter run that reflects the dark struggles her husband went through, but which also shows the power of nature, and the healing support of community. A raw and insightful story of grief and renewal.
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Ähnliche
1
3
Dedication
To Leona and Julie
For always being there for me and my boys
Contents
Chapter 1
Last Year
‘I meant to get in touch last year,’ he said. ‘It’s just, I didn’t know what to say.’
I froze, people pushing past us on either side. The mere mention of last year pinned me to the ground.
I hadn’t seen Eoin in years, even though we had been friends back in the day. I wasn’t surprised to see him, however. It was inevitable we were going bump into each other at a gathering such as that evening’s.
It was the night of the premiere of Coming Home, a film about emigrant and mountain runner Paddy O’Leary returning to Ireland to attempt the Wicklow Round. I too had completed this gruelling challenge. I was the first person to successfully summit the Wicklow Mountains’ twenty-six peaks within twenty-four hours. There was no way I was missing the screening of this feat of endurance that had been such an integral part of my own life.
Eoin, too, was a mountain runner, one who had cruised the Wicklow Round on the day of his own attempt. For him it was just one more thing to add to his phenomenal list of athletic achievements.
Over a decade had passed since both Eoin and I had completed our Wicklow Rounds. So much had happened in the intervening years. But 8‘last year’, the time that Eoin spoke of now, well that was different.
‘It’s okay, don’t worry about it,’ I replied quickly, swiftly brushing his comment away. Eoin wasn’t the only person who had no idea what to say to me. It was kind of him though to bring it up, to acknowledge my terrible loss. I had encountered others who were well aware of what had happened, yet jovially asked whether I was still racing in the mountains when that was the furthest thing from my mind. Eoin was brave enough not to ignore what was foremost in my life.
‘It’s just that,’ Eoin continued, ‘I wanted to let you know, my Dad died when I was five.’ He then looked me square in the eye and said, ‘Your kids will be okay.’
My throat choked hard as he said those final words. Now it was I, not Eoin, who did not know what to say. Here was Eoin, not telling that he was sorry for my loss, or telling me how hard it was going to be. Instead here was Eoin, who had excelled at so much, in a few simple words offering me hope. My boys and I would be okay.
Chapter 2
That Day
I looked at the clock. It read 9.45 am. He was late. My husband Pete was never late.
We had planned to visit Pete’s sister, two days after Christmas. He had gotten up early that morning, a surprising yet welcome move. We had a long drive ahead of us, at least six hours, so I was looking forward to making the most of the winter’s daylight. Even better was the fact that Pete was dressed for a morning run.
‘We need to leave at 10 am at the latest,’ I told him. ‘So if you could be back by 9.30, that would be great.’ He nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on the bowl of steaming porridge that I had given him, which he now cradled in one hand. It was still dark outside, but he had his fluorescent vest on, so would be visible on the road.
A run would be good. He had not been well of late, and running was meant to help.
‘Why don’t you bring Tom?’ I asked; our dog instantly jolted his head upright at the mention of his name. Tom was going to be cooped up in the car with us for the long journey, so an early-morning run with his master would do both the world of good.
‘No!’ Pete replied. I was taken aback. His abrupt reaction didn’t make 10sense. I didn’t want to push it, however. The fact that Pete was up, dressed, eating and about to exercise already made it a good day.
I knew Pete’s route off by heart. He was a remarkable creature of habit. Turning out of our front drive, he would run down the road for a kilometre before turning left into Kilbroney forest. He would then run up the hill, following the Mourne Way trail until he reached the car park at Yellow River. From there he would run back home via the road to complete his ten-kilometre circuit. It took him an hour, always one hour.
By 9.45 am, an hour fifteen had passed. I was starting to get worried.
Leaving our house, I walked towards the road to see if there were any signs of Pete. As I stood at our gateway, scanning the road to my left and right through the dim December light, my landlord Michael appeared on the other side of the road.
‘Have you seen Pete?’ I asked, dispensing with pleasantries while trying to maintain a sense of calm. My head was muddled with what could have happened my partner. As he shook his head, I remembered that Michael had a four-wheel drive and keys to the gate that allowed vehicles to enter the forest. ‘It’s just that, he’s late. Could you maybe go see if he’s had an accident?’ I said. ‘He could be injured somewhere on the forest road. It’s just…not like him.’
As he returned to his home to gather his keys, I ran back to our house. I knew Pete would kill me for what I’d do next, but I had no other option. Only a few days beforehand, Pete had been discharged from hospital. He had been treated there for depression, before being handed over to a home-based care team. The team had given me their contacts in case of anything. I dialled the number on their card.
‘He’s gone missing,’ I said to the man who answered the phone. ‘I know 11it’s probably nothing, but I just thought you should know.’ I had convinced myself that Pete had probably gone for a wander up one of the surrounding hills, above the forest tree line. Knowing him, Pete had worked out that if he delayed us by just enough we would be too late to leave that day, and the trip would eventually get called off. Pete didn’t like travelling much of late.
I explained that my landlord was currently checking the trail to see if Pete was lying there, injured. ‘If he comes back saying there’s no sign, call the police,’ the man said.
I baulked at the suggestion. If Pete hobbled home only to see police cars parked on our drive, I knew he would lose the plot. Pete had managed thus far to keep news of his illness within close confines. Informing the police was akin to broadcasting it publically on social media.
When Michael returned without Pete in tow, I knew I had little choice. Maybe it would be better if the police got involved and the community came to know that he was not well. Maybe it would be a silver lining.
My 999 call was answered quickly, setting the train in motion. The policeman’s questions came thick and fast. What was he wearing? Where was he going? When was he meant to return? Did he have any friends he could be visiting locally? Did he bring his wallet or phone?
I stood outside the house in the winter air as I took the call, hoping I would catch sight of Pete returning from his run. Once I saw him, I planned to hang up as if nothing had happened, so that we could go back to how things were.
The policeman told me that he’d send out a team to help coordinate a search. I’d agreed to whatever was suggested if it meant Pete could come home safely. In the meantime the policeman told me to phone anyone who I thought Pete could have gone and visited. I quickly realised there was no 12one Pete knew well enough to engage in a social call. We had lived in the village of Rostrevor for over three years, and yet Pete hadn’t made friends in the same way I had. He hadn’t done the school pick-ups and mingled with parents, or joined the local running groups.
The only person I could think of was John, a former neighbour of ours, but John now lived a thirty-minute drive away over narrow rural roads. There was no way Pete could have run there. Regardless, I dialled John’s number and apologised for disturbing him in the midst of the Christmas holidays.
‘I know this is a long shot,’ I said. ‘But is Pete there? It’s just that…he’s gone missing.’
I still don’t recall our conversation, a consequence, I now realise, of my mind drawing a veil across that day. What happened in those next few hours was probably so traumatic that memory failure is the only way to protect me.
A call was then made to Pete’s sister who we were meant to visit, to tell her we were delayed. I didn’t want to alarm her, as I knew Pete would be home soon, but I just wanted to let her know that our anticipated arrival time of 4 pm was no longer feasible.
A police team soon arrived at the door, two officers, both looking so young. There was part of me that didn’t want to distress these millennials with my troubles, when they had surely more pressing things to do. They asked the same questions as the ones I had answered on the phone, and I tried to be consistent and clear. I also gave them a photo of Pete to show to locals during their enquiries in case it helped track him down. My emotions were in check throughout, knowing there was no point in hysterics, because Pete would be home soon. 13
It was only when John and his wife Nina arrived at my door as the officers were leaving that I realised something was maybe wrong. I hadn’t asked them to come. John’s eyes were raw and red. What did he know that I didn’t?
I had allowed John and Nina into our inner circle many months before. I had told them Pete was unwell, that he needed a bit of help. I had let John know that Pete wasn’t answering his phone and had stopped working. John and Nina immediately invited us over for drinks and dinner. They hadn’t seen Pete in a couple of weeks, a consequence of his self-enforced isolation. It was obvious that Pete had lost weight, one of the many apparent symptoms of his growing illness.
‘Are you on a new diet?’ John joked as Pete played around with the chunks of chicken on his plate. Pete would normally wolf down John’s excellent cooking. ‘Are you going to let us in on your secret?’
This I knew was Pete’s chance to say, ‘Yeah, I’m not doing too well these days.’ Instead Pete nodded quietly. ‘Diet…Yeah, that’s it,’ he mumbled back, avoiding all eye contact.
Before I could say to John that he shouldn’t have come, that there was no need for any fuss, John said, ‘Hope for the best…but expect the worst.’ I was stunned, too shocked to provide a counter argument. John then turned to the police team who were now outside, to help them with their enquiries. Nina slipped into our house, volunteering to stay with me while we waited.
The daughter and wife of my landlord, Didi and Marie, soon came to the house and asked my boys, Aran and Cahal, if they’d like to visit their resident chickens. I hadn’t noticed that their childish noises had already faded deep into the background, so distracted had I become. They needed to be looked after by someone who was fully functioning. The chance of feeding 14chickens seemed to them the opportunity of a lifetime. As they donned their wellies and jackets, Didi suggested she stay behind with Nina and I to help coordinate the search.
Didi, with her extensive contacts throughout the community, was already way ahead of me. She had messaged local mountain bikers and asked them to keep an eye out for Pete if they happened to be out for a spin. Though I knew Pete wouldn’t have purposely gone on the forest’s mountain bike trails, if he had had a bad fall he could potentially be lying on one, calling out for help.
Didi continued to flick through her long list of friends, trying to think of anyone else who could help.
‘Would it be okay if I called Marty, from the Mourne Mountain Rescue Team?’ Didi then said. I hesitated, not wanting to bother them. I knew the Mountain Rescue Team is made up purely of volunteers. These men and women were probably looking forward to some downtime after the Christmas rush. The last thing I wanted was for them to abandon their festive plans to trawl the forests and mountains for my missing husband.
It was just that, if Pete was hurt, he needed to get home fast. I was deeply worried that he was cold, tired, hungry, afraid. If someone, anyone could help locate him, I was more than willing to accept their help. I would suffer the consequences later when Pete berated me for overreacting to his absence.
So, Didi called Marty, who immediately agreed to assemble the Mountain Rescue Team. I felt embarrassed yet extremely grateful. She then slipped away to check on my kids and to make sure they were still distracted.
Without my husband or children around, the house was strangely quiet. 15Nina and I stood like statues beside the window that overlooked the road, hoping to catch a glimpse of Pete running back up the tarmac.
‘Do you want a cup of tea or something?’ she asked, trying to break the silence. I shook my head. Drinking tea would sidetrack me from my mission of willing Pete home safely.
‘You know, Pete wouldn’t hurt himself on purpose,’ I said. ‘He just wouldn’t.’ Nina stared blankly back at me. ‘I remember talking with Pete once, a long time ago, about suicide. And I remember him telling me how he just couldn’t understand why anyone would ever want to do such a thing.’
What I wasn’t taking into account was that Pete had been suffering from depression for a while. It meant that the Pete I knew, the one with whom I had had this conversation, that Pete was no longer present.
‘And anyhow, he loves the boys too much,’ I said. It was like I was trying to convince Nina that her husband John had got it all wrong. I told her of how Pete had recently visited Tim, a good friend of his, whose wife had suddenly passed away at the age of forty-nine. There had been no warning. Medics suggested that it had been a brain aneurism that had taken her peacefully while she slept. I explained to Nina how upset Pete had been when he visited his friend, when he saw how Tim had to bring up three children who were now without their amazing mother. ‘Pete would never leave our boys without a father,’ I said, not doubting my words for a second. I knew my Pete too well.
My monologue was soon cut short by the sound of a helicopter. Its blades sliced through the air as it raced over our heads towards the adjacent forest.
‘It’s a heat-seeking helicopter,’ Nina quickly explained as we stared at it through the window. I didn’t know whether I wanted it to scan the forest, then move quickly away, or for it to hover and zone in on an area. Helicopters 16 only really turned up in these parts when badly injured people were being airlifted to hospital. The idea of Pete being hurt scared me. I watched the helicopter’s erratic movements before it finally flew away. I still wasn’t sure what was happening.
Soon enough the police team arrived back, asking the same questions as before. ‘Did he bring his wallet? Did he leave his phone? Can you describe again what he was wearing?’ I poked around in Pete’s drawers, pulling out similar items of clothing to give them anything that matched what I had seen him leave in. During my search, I located his wallet, but couldn’t trace his mobile. He must have brought it with him.
‘Did the helicopter find any sign of Pete?’ I asked them when I got a chance, knowing full well that if it had, this would have been the first thing the police would have told me.
‘No,’ they replied, ‘but the Mountain Rescue Team are searching the Mourne Way again, where you think he may have been running. We’ll let you know if there are any updates.’ Nina told me that John had joined the team, helping them in their efforts. We knew that if there were any updates, he’d quickly let us know.
Just as the police team was leaving, a second police car pulled into the top drive, stopping outside our front gates, blocking our team’s exit. ‘That’s our sergeant,’ they informed us. ‘If there’s any news, he’ll have it.’
The sergeant stepped out of his car, looked towards us and tapped his cap firmly twice. I knew it meant something, possibly good news that they’d found him. The two police officers quickly walked towards him, as Nina and I stood back and watched them conversing from afar.
I assumed that they had indeed found Pete, but that he didn’t want to come back home. He was probably furious with me that I’d called the 17police and a helicopter and mountain rescue out, and ruined his tranquil run. Knowing Pete, he would want me to promise to leave him alone until he was feeling better.
So when the sergeant walked towards me and asked me to step into the house, I just wondered what Pete had told him to make him act so officious. Bringing the sergeant into our living room, I sat myself down on the sofa’s armrest, ready for him to relay Pete’s requests. The sergeant remained standing, close, too close to me. His police officers flanked him on either side. Nina hovered on my left.
‘We’ve found a body.’ The words pierced through me, cutting me deep within. The next thing I heard was my desperate primordial scream. There was no way this could be happening.
Chapter 3
That Night
All I remember is Nina holding me in a vice-like grip as I screamed and screamed and screamed, until I had no more screams left to give. ‘We need to formally identify the body,’ the sergeant told me once I had quietened down, before quickly informing me that it was most likely Pete. In one fell swoop, the sergeant dispelled any hope I may have had that they had stumbled upon a different casualty.
‘Do you want me to… Do you need me to…’ I said, trying to step up and do my perceived spousal duty to identify the body.
‘No need,’ he said. ‘John is on site and has offered. We should hear within the hour.’ Then he uttered the words that I was to hear ad nauseam, ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
I was still in deep denial about Pete’s intentions. It must have been an accident, a terrible accident. ‘Was it a bad fall?’ I asked. I imagined that it was just a moment of thoughtlessness, a last-minute action where Pete had tumbled off one of the river’s bridges, killing himself on the jagged boulders that I knew lay beneath.
Finding out that he had hung himself caused my brain to shut down. I couldn’t believe Pete had left home with such a deliberate plan. Shock numbed my senses. Suddenly there were people everywhere, standing close, 19so close. Word had somehow reached the village that a body had been found, and friends had come to help. Only, when they spoke to me, their mouths moved, but their words made no sense. Their hands wiped swiftly beneath bloodshot eyes. They were sorry for my loss. In the blur of people, Pete’s brother and his wife arrived at the house to the tragic news.
Fortunately someone thought of my kids, who I had forgotten. I assumed they were still feeding chickens. They told me they would take my children away for the night for a sleepover and bring them back in the morning. It gave me a chance to deal with other more pressing issues like the police and the coroner and a funeral. It also gave me a chance to prepare how I would tell them that Daddy was never coming home again.
Soon enough, the police relayed back to me that the body was indeed Pete’s. There was no more hiding from the truth. With the news came John’s arrival, looking like a shell of the man that I once knew. I hugged him, knowing what he had done would scar him forever. Pete would never have wanted to cause him such hurt.
Before slipping back to his home with Nina, John issued me with a warning. ‘A friend of mine died when I was young,’ John told me, trying to remain composed. ‘I saw his body lying in his coffin.’ He looked straight at me with weary eyes. ‘I’ve always lived to regret it.’ I stared back at John, unsure. ‘If you see Pete now, remember you’ll never un-see him’, he said. ‘Think carefully about how you want to remember him.’ Looking back, I see that John’s words were a mere rumble before the avalanche of advice I’d receive after Pete’s demise, a landslide that I’d at times feel snowed under. John’s suggestion rang true for me right at that moment, though such advice might not have worked for others.
A voice asked me if I wanted the local doctor, Henry, to call up to the 20house. I agreed, because it seemed the right thing to do. I had spoken to Henry before about Pete, when he was admitted to hospital the previous month. Henry had been honest then. He was known to be pragmatic. Maybe he would tell me what the hell I was meant to do now.
The living room was cleared to let Henry and me sit down in isolation. Condolences were quickly dispensed with.
‘Pete could have been ill for years and then done this,’ Henry said. ‘You mightn’t be able to see it now, but Pete wanted the best for you and the boys.’ My brow furrowed in disbelief, wondering if this was how you put a positive spin on suicide. The passage of time has since revealed that Henry was indeed correct. Pete’s depression had only lasted half a year, so short when compared to those who suffer from it for a lifetime. His brief six months’ spell of sickness had already broken me. If Pete had suffered for additional years, then decided to die, I’m not sure how we would have coped.
‘But what am I meant to do now?’ I said. ‘Should I move house so I’ve no more memories of Pete? Or am I meant to stay here, close to where he’s died?’ I could feel tears welling up as the thought of Pete’s demise started filtering through.
‘Stop right there,’ Henry said, shifting forward in his chair. ‘I’d advise you to make no major decisions for at least a year.’ I wasn’t sure how I was going to do that. My mind was so muddled that, as far as I could see, I had two main decisions to make right there and then. The first was what I should have for dinner that night, because I was supposed to eat, and the second was whether I should move back to Africa and take up the work I used to do there. As far as my brain was concerned, these decisions were on a level par. ‘Your sole priority is to look after yourself and your boys,’ Henry said. ‘That’s all you should worry about right now.’21
‘But what do I tell them?’ I knew that whatever was said, no matter how it was said, would leave a permanent scar. How do you explain to a three- and five-year-old the stark choice their father had just made?
‘Whatever you do, don’t lie to them,’ Henry said, a warning in his tone. ‘If you lie, they won’t trust you later if you decide to tell them what really happened. Just be conservative with what truth you give them. Spoon feed them a little at a time.’
I nodded without thinking, trying hard to listen to Henry’s cautionary words, to remember them all. All I could think was, if only Pete was here, he’d help me get through all this. He’d be the one giving me advice on how to handle this disaster.
Henry didn’t try and predict my future, to forewarn me how hard things would be; neither did he try and convince me that everything would be okay. I appreciated his honesty. He left with some valuable parting advice. ‘Say yes to everything,’ he said. ‘If someone asks you to go for coffee, say yes. If someone offers to mind the kids, say yes. You’ll not want to bother people; at times you’ll not feel like seeing people, but in my experience, saying yes will help you get through this time.’
It was getting dark, around 4 pm, when the police arrived back at my door. I hadn’t even noticed that they had left, such were the comings and goings. I realise now that we were lucky that they had found Pete’s body so quickly, the same day that he disappeared. With darkness falling, we could have been left wondering, waiting anxiously the whole night before the search could resume come morning. The police brought Pete’s phone with them, which they had found in his possession. I needed to access it now, to note down numbers of friends who had to be informed. With his death, there was a funeral to organise. I assumed most would wish to come.22
I made call after call, all in the same tone. ‘I’m really sorry to be phoning like this, but Pete passed away today.’ With Pete’s friends having no prior warning of any illness, the silence on the other side was deafening. I filled the void with the detail they were looking for, ‘He went for a run this morning and didn’t come home. I’m sorry, but he took his own life.’ There was nothing more I could say. Numbness on my part rendered the job bearable. It wasn’t that I had come to terms with what had happened. My apparent calmness came from being in such a deep state of shock that I was operating on autopilot.
When I could make no more calls, I turned to social media. Pete had friends all over the world, having worked throughout the UK and Ireland, the United States, Asia and Africa. It was the quickest way to inform everyone that Pete was no longer with us. I picked out a photo of Pete to post online, at a time when he was happy. We had just returned to Ireland, back in 2012, full of hopes of settling and starting a family. I wondered what would have happened if I had told him right then that he only had six more years to live.
The messages of condolence came thick and fast on my screen. Disbelief resonated. They were so sorry for my loss. It was such terribly sad news. Their thoughts and prayers were with the boys and me at this difficult time. No one knew he had been ill.
With the children away, and Pete’s brother and wife staying with me, I slipped away to my bedroom when the clock told me it was time to sleep. I lay there, acutely aware of Pete’s absence on his side of the bed. There was a part of me still in deep denial; feeling like Pete was just away on another business trip, that he’d be back home once the assignment was complete.
Despite knowing that I should rest, my thoughts went into overdrive. 23Tiredness evaded me. Instead my mind went round and round in circles, trying to make sense, replaying conversations, reliving moments, wondering what had just happened.
Eventually I had had enough. I got out of bed and slipped away to the living room to communicate with the outside world. So many around the planet were reaching out to me. Friends were devastated, in shock, so sorry to hear my news. They were thinking of me, praying for us, asking for strength on our behalf. I replied to them all, explaining that it had been depression, that he’d not slept in months, that it was suicide.
I was surprised when one person in particular reached out. I didn’t know her that well. We had squared up against each other in many races, fought against each other for podium places, and cordially congratulated each other once we had both crossed various finish lines. I didn’t know Fiona Meade that well outside of these race scenarios, and yet here she was messaging me at 5 am, trying so hard to find the right words.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said in her message when I told her it was depression that had pushed Pete over the edge. ‘It’s terrible to think someone so loved can feel so desperately alone in life.’ It was calming, yet surprising, to hear that she totally understood what I was going through.
I had known my mountain-running friend and fellow Wicklow Round completer, Eoin, for many years. I had run with him, biked with him, had pints with him, but never knew, until I bumped into him that day at the film screening that he lived in the shadow of his father’s death. Now Fiona revealed to me why she could empathise so well; because her own brother Brian had taken his own life at the age of twenty-eight.
Little do we know what is really happening in people’s private lives.
I reached out to Fiona. ‘Tell me how to survive this,’ I messaged. 24
‘The only thing that helped me was thinking that finally his mind was at peace, that he could rest,’ she wrote. ‘He was no longer a tortured soul.’
Rest in Peace. RIP. I had seen these words for years, yet only now did they really make sense. Pete had been so tormented by his incessant thoughts, his sleepless nights, his anxiety and all-encompassing hopelessness, how could I not wish him to have some peace at last, to finally rest?
Fiona and I continued to message back and forth in those early hours, as I tried to make sense of what had just happened, while she revealed how the passing of years had helped her to come to terms.
‘I know a lot of people say suicide is selfish, but I really disagree,’ Fiona said. She explained how her brother had reached a point where he was convinced he was a waste of space, a burden on those he loved. His sense of self-worth had been completely decimated. She told me Brian ended up believing that the world would be better off without him. Only with time had Fiona understood Brian’s rationale, borne from his mental illness. From his place of darkness, Brian decided he would make things easier for everyone.
I re-read Fiona’s message again and again, wondering how she knew that that was how Pete had told me he felt. How did she know that one of the final conversations I had with Pete ended with him saying, ‘I’m such a bad husband and father’? It was like depression had reprogrammed Pete’s brain, making him say and do exactly what Fiona’s brother Brian had said and done. Pete also truly believed we’d be better off without him, even though nothing could have been further from the truth.
Much later I found out why Fiona was even up at the ungodly hour of 5 am and able to reach out to me at that time. I didn’t know it then, but she had recently given birth, and was awake to feed her hungry newborn son. 25In remembrance of her brother, whose life had been cut short far too soon, she had named her child Brian.
In my silence, Fiona reached out with a prayer that had helped her, before signing off. ‘God called your name so softly that only you could hear; no one heard the footsteps of angels drawing near. His golden gates stood open, God saw you needed rest. His garden must be beautiful, because he only takes the best.’
Dawn slowly leaked into the house with me barely registering its presence. Despite having no sleep, I felt wide awake. I knew I could no longer put off telling my children. I called my friend, who brought them back to me.
They were full of sleepover excitement when they bounded back into the house. They wanted to tell me about the ice-cream they ate, about watching Power Rangers on TV late into the night, how they slept in bunk-beds and fought over who got the top one.
‘Come to me, my little ones. Can we sit down for a while?’ I said, guiding them into the living room and towards the couch. I sat my eldest, Aran, on my knee, whilst Cahal continued to do somersaults on the rug. Hard as I tried, I couldn’t make my three-year old sit still. My friend signalled that she’d be in the hall if I needed her, and softly closed the door.
I took a deep breath and began.
‘Do you remember how Daddy was sick?’ I asked them, a little relieved that they at least knew this part of the story. Pete didn’t want them visiting him in hospital while he was there for treatment, but I had brought them on the hour-long round trip twice a week regardless.
‘Was that when he was in hop-stipal?’ Aran asked.
‘Yes, you remember the doctors in hospital?’ I said. ‘Well, I’m so sorry 26Aran, Cahal, but the doctors weren’t able to make Daddy better.’ I held Aran close, trying to protect him from what I would say next. ‘Daddy died yesterday.’
With those words, Aran understood. His body curled up tight, so tight into a ball, as if defending himself from this onslaught of hurt.
‘Daddy died?’ he said, his voice small and sore. ‘So is he in heaven?’
‘Yes, of course he is, my dear,’ I replied, trying to go along with whatever helped him process what I was telling him. I didn’t need to explain how and why Daddy died. Just the fact that Pete was no longer with us was the nugget I would give them to process at this time.
‘Cahal, Cahal,’ Aran shouted. ‘Daddy died and is in heaven.’
Cahal stopped his manic moves for a moment to come closer to us. ‘Daddy’s… Daddy’s…’ he managed, before letting out a gut-wrenching, soul-destroying cry. ‘But who is going to give me horsey?’ he wailed, before throwing himself on the ground. If there was one thing Cahal loved, it was being hoisted on to Pete’s sturdy shoulders and carried around at a height. He would squeal with delight, as Pete would clip-clop through the house with added horse-like sound effects. There would be no replacing that.
I went quickly to gather Cahal up off the floor, though it was I who needed gathering now. I called for my friend, who swiftly swung open the door and ran to my rescue. No one had warned me that this was the likely question a three-year-old would ask when they learned their Daddy was gone.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said, as Aran and Cahal snapped back into their childhood and ran off to play with their toys. ‘Cahal will be like this for a few months, but he’s so young, he’ll probably soon forget. Just keep an eye on Aran though, maybe get some help with counselling if you think 27he needs it.’
I looked on in bewilderment. I hadn’t really figured out that it was not just my grief, but also that of my children, that I had to navigate as well.
If I was going to be able to process any of this, I had to get some sleep. Years of training for mountain races had taught me the importance of rest. My coach had made me keep a sleep diary, something he reviewed regularly, detailing how many hours I got and what the quality was like. Anytime I had slept less than eight hours, he had cautioned me. If medication was going to make me rest, then I knew I had to get some. I called the doctor’s office and explained my situation. Within the hour, a prescription was produced to sedate me.
While I tried to do as Henry told me, to look after myself and my boys, Pete’s brother and wife left to see the body at the mortuary. I had decided not to make the trip, John’s advice still ringing in my ears. There was still plenty of time for me to see Pete later if I changed my mind.
They were both visibly shaken on their return.
‘He looked well,’ they said, as I made them some tea. I could see they were thinking carefully through their words. ‘There’s no…well, sign of how he died.’ I didn’t want to cut them off, yet couldn’t bear the detail. I wasn’t ready for an image of Pete’s lifeless body to form in my mind. I nodded as I sat down opposite them. ‘So we brought back…’ they said, before handing me Pete’s wedding ring.
And that was it. That was the moment when I knew Pete was really gone. I had given him that ring nine years before, committing to be with him in sickness and in health, until death did us part. The ring lay heavy in my hand, coming back to me full circle having fulfilled the promise we had made each other. 28
I could hold it in no longer. I broke down, sobbing uncontrollably. I could deny Pete’s death no more.
Chapter 4
Mountain Training
We will never truly know why Pete got sick. We can only guess the reasons why he wanted to die. But what I really want an answer to is, what happened to our plan?
I thought we had a plan.
Pete had always felt the pressure of being the main breadwinner in our family. It wasn’t something I was entirely comfortable with either. We had made a joint decision though that, when the kids were born, I would stay home and care for them. At the time, it made sense for me to be a full-time mother.
As the babies became young boys, and as I emerged from a sleep-deprived post-natal haze, I soon found that I needed to do something more strenuous with my brain than just be a mum. ‘You’ll be bored when the kids go to school full-time,’ Pete used to remind me as the children grew.
I agreed that I needed to do something with all the time I would eventually have on my hands once they both hit school-going age. So I enrolled to do a Masters in Environmental Engineering at Belfast’s Queens University, starting in September 2018. I had always wanted to go back to developing countries, working there like I did in my twenties and thirties, but this time with the hope of focusing in the area of water and sanitation. 30
