Did Ye Hear Mammy Died? A Memoir(59)

In truth, the pain didn’t leave as well as I thought it had. I muddled through the shallow understanding of grief my five-year-old self could manage, and when the collective tears died down I told myself the job was done. I’d buried it, out of fear and shame and an inability to know how and when to grieve for myself. So, during sleepless nights, it stopped waiting for my permission and sought its own way out. Its price was not waived, but deferred, and the bill had finally arrived. I would have other breakdowns throughout my life, in churches, at roadsides, or standing beneath giant zoologically suspect arachnid sculptures, each born from further layers of unprocessed pain that had accumulated, like heaps of dead munitions, below the surface.

I don’t even know that I’d have it any other way. Convincing yourself that tragedy can be avoided may be unhealthy, but it’s a lot more enjoyable than the alternative. I never learned to process grief the right way, so maybe it was better to let it do its thing in the background and rely on some more serious part of myself to carry out the intermittent controlled explosions I needed.


My appendix never did explode, in the end. The doctors rushed me into an operating theatre and removed it. As I was being prepped for surgery, I felt calm and resolute, as if the appendix had itself been the pain I was suppressing, and its removal would be the end of my troubles. To some extent this was true, since my insomnia never returned, even if it wasn’t my last bout with grief itself.

Daddy wasn’t there when I woke up after surgery. It was early in the afternoon, and he was back in the house tearing the place apart to find The Witches by Roald Dahl, the one thing I’d mentioned when he asked if I needed anything from home. I awoke to three women sitting next to each other by my bed.

Five years after her death, they had each, independently, heard that I was Sheila’s boy. Despite clearly having been at the hospital on other business, they’d stopped by and were effectively queuing to speak with me. To speak with me about Mammy. Even at the time I noted that they must have pulled two chairs from elsewhere, since there had only been one beside my bed when I went under. From their demeanour, I gathered they’d been there a while, and at least one looked as though she’d been roused from sleep around the same time as I had.

‘She was a lady,’ the first of them said as she took my hand. She was blond and tired, and the hand that held mine sported a cannula, bandaged like a primary-school art project. She addressed me not merely as an adult but as though I was the prince of some fallen regent, squeezing my fingers for emphasis as she spoke. ‘Your mother was a real lady. God putting people like her on Earth was only spoiling us.’ The others agreed, and over the next while they took turns telling me how much she had touched them in their lives, either from her stint in hospital, teaching, Mass groups or other work she did for no reason other than kindness. I said little, and soon they were speaking among themselves, and laughing over this or that thing she’d said or done.

I fell into an easy sleep, scored by their soft, pleasing words. They spoke of my likeness to her, and of my father’s strength, and where they’d been when they heard that Mammy died.





Acknowledgements


My agent Matthew Hamilton, for agreeing to meet, and then represent me, at a time when I would likely have accepted a punnet of spuds from any literary type who spelled my name right. And for being the staunch ally and friend I needed in my corner every time it has subsequently been spelled wrong (among other crimes).

Ursula Doyle, who chanced upon a Twitter thread I wrote about meeting Mary McAleese while on ketamine (me that is, not her or Mary) and decided I was the right person to write a heartfelt childhood memoir. Thank you for being a relentless champion of my work, even when I was getting in the way of that work with a disgraceful overuse of adjectives and old-timey references. This book literally would not exist without her, and if it did it would be very, extremely, definitely not good.

Eva Wiseman, who read the same Twitter thread and offered me a parenting column in the Observer Magazine. It surely must have seemed an even less likely prospect given the source material, but it has been the joy of my life for the past three years. Thanks to you and to Harriet Green for taking that punt and for being such undying delights to work/chat with since.

Laurence Mackin, who seized on the potential of an incredibly silly Facebook post about fake podcasts to get me my first bylines in the Irish Times, and became my first friend and confidant in the chip-paper business. And for forgiving me that time I failed to record an interview with Laurie Anderson, rendering useless the bonhomie I’d established over the course of our hour-long conversation.

Hugh Linehan and Martin Doyle for continuing to publish me on a semi-regular basis, even as I insist on waging a one-man war to make everything about comics.

My Irish Times support crew: Jenn, Louise and Peter, who were rocks of support in the absence of water coolers or late-night bars we could loudly mingle around.

Tom Morris, who was the first person who ever grabbed me by the short hairs and got me to actually write something.

Roisin Agnew, of the mighty, much-missed GUTS magazine, who was the first person to grab me by the same and receive something publishable.

To my 12 Key Bros, Undesirable Guests and HFE Cru, you know who you are.

To Mary Agnew, who read the book before anyone else and even confirmed it was borderline readable, and to her, Neave, Manu and Rohan for being the best pals I could ever wish for.