Martin Bridgeman

This was written in response to a beautifully written piece by Ronán Johnston. I had it written before I thought it might be inappropriate to jump in on the post, but he graciously accepted and understood my impulse.

One phrase that he used set me on the road. It’s from a gorgeous album of his music called “Songs Of Consolation”. One track was called “Waves (Lying In Your Arms)” and has these lines:

“Waves will come and waves will go and waves will bring you low,

Waves will take the ones you love and never let them go”

Here’s my hastily written response to what was a heartfelt post on the nature of grief and memory. I’ve edited some errors of grammar and explanation. It kinda fell out of me in the moment, so E&OE.

Those waves can catch you for sure, but with a great love comes a great grief and waves are as good a metaphor as any, a lovely lyric.

It’ll be 30 years on October 9th since my mother, Maisie, took her leave of us, passing away in the Meath Hospital, having said her goodbyes in the week before leading up to that final dawn on Sunday. Not that we realised it at the time….

We’d had ‘the call’ and had travelled up from Kilkenny late on Saturday night. The in laws dropped everything and came over to mind our children, leaving us to head out, hoping we’d be in time.

When we got there, the ward sister said that Maisie was essentially in a coma but had ‘held on’ till I got to her bedside. They were worried she would pass before we got there. I’m sure that’s what she said but at the time I didn’t take it in. Maisie’s breathing was shallow, but there was a slight flicker in her eyelids when I held her hand. We stayed for a while until the ward sister came back and suggested that we head out. There was talk of moving Maisie to a private room, but that it could still be some time and, realising this, suggested we head out. Later I realised that there would be some time and that the ward was due to wake up and be busy.

We went back to my old house and waited. The second call came just as I had managed to doze and so we headed back, but missed her final moment by minutes.

Again, the ward sister took us in her capable hands and tried to talk us through what she felt we could comprehend at that moment. I nodded and listened and nodded, but felt the meanings slipping away with every careful word she uttered. I have no doubt she had experience of this many times, and I do remember her care and empathy, even if what she said exactly fell on my grief-deafened ears.

We headed out for an attempt at breakfast, free of trying to figure out what had to be done, but then the first wave hit me as we sat down in the café. Bewley’s had been our occasional spot for coffee and buns, a little bit of Grafton Street style, and now Noel Purcell’s famous tune dropped into my head as the tears landed. I wrestled with the moment, happy Sunday morning customers bustling about while my world was spinning…and yes, it was about eleven.

We had said our whispered goodbyes to Maisie in the ward, but it hadn’t seemed ‘right’, too public, but something else was bubbling under. We had been to see Maisie with our kids earlier in the week, their little adventure in the car and the excitement of seeing Granny again. She’d said her goodbyes as usual, waving from the bed, but there it was : “Goodbye”. I didn’t notice it on the night.

Everyone remarked on it at the funeral: we all realised that she had been deliberately saying “goodbye”, not her usual “I’ll see you” all through that final week.

She was as prepared as could be, holding her wee grandchildren tight to her on the Tuesday evening. We weren’t aware, but both our kids will swear they remember her, even though they were toddlers. She knew, but we hadn’t figured it. All in retrospect.

Later on that day, the rounds of calls continued. Her cousin asked me to call in and handed me an envelope. All the paperwork was there: the will, the receipt for the deposit on the grave, the number for Massey’s in the Coombe and cash for the ‘expenses’. She also sorted out the weather, an unseasonbly sunny few days meant we could stand around and chat, smiles and tears in the bright sunshine.

The funeral directors were as kind and courteous, knew awhat she wanted: no fuss, no drama. The solicitor got things sorted, the occasional letter advising as the first few months passed.

More waves at unexpected times, tears and smiles as we looked at photos that fell out of drawers while we sorted and tidied. She even had a baby Power in the cupboard which I helped mysef to on one evening, after a day of bagging and moving, neighbours stopping by the gate while we went in and out. More smiles than tears, thankfully.

A year later, a letter arrived from the credit union with a cheque: a small amount of savings and interest when the will was sorted was accounted for. I looked at the bills and realised that Maisie had balanced the books with a little over. It paid for a coffee and a bun in Bewleys. Almost to the penny and a few more tears for good measure.