Open Writing

Easter was early that year. instead of blue skies and warm sunshine that I craved, a north-easterly blew scuds of rain and sleet. Everything was cold, grey and damp. Who on earth wanted to go to the wilds of Donegal in such weather? A lazy weekend, curled up in bed with a good book seemed highly preferable. But a promise is a promise. The bookings made, the fishing tackle prepared, cases packed. The break was for the whole family, not just for me. We all needed a respite from work, school and responsibilities. The trout streams called.

What a year it had been. Life going along relatively smoothly until that phone call. Dad was in hospital for major surgery. One’s biggest fear realised, cancer of the bowel. What would Mum do? For years Dad had been the strong one, coping with Mum’s ill health. It was he who did the shopping and cooking, the cleaning and other chores -- in fact, ran the show.

Decisions had to be made. emergency arrangements at home and office and then off to the Isle of Wight, where they still lived in the family home. A journey always undertaken with joy, now with dread.

The thin, drawn figure in the hospital bed bore little resemblance to the man who had always been in charge of life and himself. He might have dwindled physically, but the spirit and determination were just as always. At 82 years of age, he rallied and conquered, an example that will be with me always.

Mum was in a daze. Her prop and stay for so long now required care and attention himself. No way could they cope on their own.

With great reluctance they agreed to come to Ireland and live with us. The house that had been their home for 50 years would have to go. The most precious bits of furniture would come with them so that they could be surrounded by some items that were familiar and loved. Fortunately our house was big enough to give them a ‘nest’ of their own, a bedsit where they would have privacy, but would be part of the family.

We had just a month all together. Mum slipped in the hall and broke her hip and was taken to the local hospital. She lived a week. The death certificate said pneumonia. In reality it was a broken heart as her world crumbled. At 80 it is hard to leave not only your home where you have lived all your married life, but the very street in the small town where you were born and grew up. Even harder to see the person who has been your strength, your support and your life become weak and dependent on others himself.

Dad was marvellous, accepting as always what fate threw at him and making the best of things. For a further eleven months he lived as full a life as possible with colostomy, a square inch of liver, and a frame weakened by age.
He chopped kindling for the fires, weeded the garden, washed dishes and liked to play his part in running the home.

We took a holiday house by the sea, and he had sausages cooked on a fire on the beach for breakfast. But inevitably and eventually the disease won, his strength gave out, he died peacefully at home.

Now we were picking up the pieces, enriched by the example we had witnessed, on our way to this restful break. Why couldn’t the weather play its part? The windscreen wipers kept up their steady note, no sign of a break in the clouds. What would our accommodation be like? Doubts and fears began to grow. The advert promised a self-contained flat in a small farm.

The roads got narrower and narrower, the clouds lower and lower, the mud deeper. My heart sank. We found the narrow twisting lane which ran up to the farm, skirting a lake as it climbed steeply. There at last was the farmhouse.

The sound of the car had been heard, the door opened. There stood our hostess with the warmest possible smile, welcoming us to her home. In the sitting room allocated to us a huge peat fire burned in the grate, bowls of early daffodils brightened every corner, the table laid for a meal, in the centre of which was a steaming loaf of homemade BREAD. In the bedrooms more daffodils and peat fires. A home from home. We were treated as members of this family. We were welcome.

So each time that Easter and March coincide, the winds blow and there is snow on the wind I know that the sun will shine, the daffodils and primroses will bloom, and somewhere a stranger’s smile will banish gloom on a dreary day.

The strength and fortitude shown by an old man when the worst had happened, when life had thrown its hardest blows at him, yet he could still have hope. What better example could there be? He taught me that there is always light at the end of the tunnel. No matter how small. There is always hope.