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.
Anne O’Donnell, who was a pillar of strength for my mother during her illness, and for all of us after she died. Your work throughout the period covered in this book helped keep us going, and I’ve never thanked you enough.
Patricia Donnelly, for being a source of love and laughter across my entire life, and a truly priceless ambassador for my mother’s memory since I was old enough to barrage you with questions. (And barrage you I certainly did.) In preserving my mother’s letters, you kept more of her alive for us than you could ever imagine. But even that is secondary to the life you breathe into her memory every time you speak of her.
My auntie Aileen McGullion, whose unwavering support and love has been a constant in our lives, not to mention hosting all of us for weeks in the events described in Jeremy. Thank you for giving your time to be quizzed by me on everything about that time and about Mammy, and for doing so with such joy that I don’t think we stopped laughing for more than a few seconds throughout. I would like to formally apologise for bouncing on the bed as I told you the bad news, but am glad you saw the bleak humour in it too.
My siblings (presented in age order and all in one breath) Sinead, Dara, Shane, Orla, Maeve, Mairead, Dearbhaile, Caoimhe, Fionnuala and Conall. Telling this story meant, to some extent, telling your story but leaving you out of large parts of it. Thank you for tolerating this imposition into your own childhoods, and sorry if you feel I didn’t give you enough mentions, or too many mentions by half. Thank you for being kind and patient with me as I peppered you with questions for this book, which I took as a wonderful excuse to find out things about Mammy, yourselves, and myself, that I never would otherwise have asked. The nuggets of family lore that filled our now famous Best Face Forward WhatsApp group is one of the most treasured archives a writer, or a brother, could ever dream of. I love you all.