What’s obviously around three and a half decades ago now, ‘The Conversation’ was had pertaining to traditions which abide towards the end of the year. To the effect that, when it came to delivered around that time of year, one of them was labelled “Whoever you want it to be from”.
In a similar, if long winded sort of way, a rush to categorise things isn’t always the wisest course of action. Nor is speedy judgement. For example, I would be vehementally of the view that there doesn’t have to a blood connection for somebody – or a group of somebodies – to be considered your family.
No doubt high horses will be mounted in places. Stupifly so. It goes without saying that your own next of kin are on a plinth at a different level to all comers, but, believe me, it is possible, helpful and sometimes downright necessary that you end up closer to ‘others’ than some of your own.
Where other peoples’ company in other places becomes a central tenet of the negotiation of the journey of life. The RehabCare Resource Centre in Dunboyne should be the gold plated, showhouse example of the concept.
At this point, it must be admitted that the stubborn, entrenched part of the engine on my shoulders took an elongated spell of time to be persuaded as to the merits of dropping into such a spot. In fact, were it not for the gentle persuasion of my former Occupational Therapist Megan McCormack – whom I miss terribly – I might never have taken the plunge.
More fool me then. My protestations that I’d either (a) know nobody or (b) be the youngest one there by decades dissolved within seconds of rolling in the door.
The query had been made as to whether there was anybody actually from Dunboyne attending the service. “Well, there is one local man there, Donal Fitzpatrick”. My face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Ah, fu****g Donie?” says I. To say Donie and I went back a long way would be an understatement of gargantuan proportions. From the fact that the family he married into were neighbours of ours across the fields, to myself and himself becoming drinking buddies and on to when he was working on the County Council road crew.
So I knew, when, within ten seconds of being in the door, he fired a plate with a full fry on it at me and declared “Shut up and eat that!” I knew it was going to feel just like home. Though the extent to which that that would turn out to be the case could never have been envisaged.
It truly was the beginning of initiation into another family, but there may not be sufficient words to convey how special, nay, crucial, it has become to the mere process of keeping the wheels in propulsion.
Aside from Donie, it turned out there were a few of the other ‘customers’ I knew too. Like Betty Cannon and Tom Dunne and Sam Conroy and Tommy Morgan. But as with any bit of newness in life, it’s the people who come along with it that make it what it is.
Thus, after a few weeks with folk such as Bernie Dowd, Frank Barry, Frank Bolton, Anthony Farrell, Mark Nolan, Glenn Turner and Julie Mumford, it was as if we’d been together for decades. To be fair, most of the others had been by the time I latched onto their merry band.
However, the one sobering thing about the whole new experience was, on my very first day in the place, the supervisor at the time says to me “Just to let you know, people don’t usually come here to get better, it’s just to give them the best quality of life they can until… “.
She didn’t finish the sentence, but Stevie Wonder would’ve spotted what was beiNg implied. And to our utmost collective heartache, the prophecy has turned out to be devastatingly true.
The wonderful and unique Frank Barry was the flrst to dance his way through the pearly gates and in the Fairy Doors to a meeting with his beloved Mr Mercury after my arrival.
Before, in a blow that – to me personally and our entire Rehab family – was like falling into a trench and then getting a belt of the shovel that’s supposed to be digging you out – Donie, our great survivor, who God had tried to reel in on several occasions but had got the two-fingered salute, eventually hooked onto a fish too strong and ended up being taken under.
Then both John Purcell and John McCormack could give no more after beating insurmountable odds for so long that would’ve broken most mortels in the blink of an eye.
As much as there is no bullet proof way to be ready for a death, it’s the ones you don’t see coming the completely bury you. Like that of a youmg person like Aoibheann Norman or Damien O’Reilly or tragic jockey Mikey O’Sullivan.
Yet, 24 hours before the latter was led around the parade ring far away before heading out to God’s gallops, our Rehab family were trying to – I won’t say understand because that could take forever – process the reality of losing two of our team within 24 hours of one another.
Firstly Julie Mumford and then, 24 hours later in far away Portugal, one of the former captains of our old bus crew, Tom Carr. In the most Irish methodology ever – let’s take the second one first!
I cannot begin to imagine what Tom’s wife Mary, daughters Niamh and Aoife and extended family are presently going through. Because even though our paths only crossed for a short enough period of time, Tom left an impression that was an instant and lasting one.
Always jovial, always helpful. Help and support that went well above and beyond the remit of the bus driver. Whether it was rooting around in the garden or filling in on the Boccia team. May you rest in peace Big Tom.
One of the many emotion-stirring photos dotted around our beloved centre stopped these wheels dead in their tracks and inserted an enormous lump in the throat. Reason being, each of those therein have now been called to the Boccia hall far away. Tom, Donie and John Purcell.
Yet even the emotional earthquake that caused was only like crying cutting onions compared to the volcanic erruption upon seeing the photo, the candles and the teddy bear. Another memorial table. Another one of our ‘family’ called ashore long, long before their time.
Julie Mumford. A glowing example of the special warmth and understanding that oozes from the place. Partly generated by ourselves and the rest, well, I will eternally be convinced, the spirits of of those who have gone before us.
Like those lines from Hotel California by The Eagles – “You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave”. Except in this case they don’t want to leave, and we don’t want them to either.
To be honest, I was never quite sure what Julie’s ailment (One of us, who shall remain nameless, refers to it as ‘Qualifying Criteria) was. Though I know we shared a mutual pest in hand tremors.
Still, she always seemed to be there. Whether conveyance was via the bus or some of the staff or her family. Until one day she wasn’t. Which, ironically enough, wasn’t taken as that big of a deal, because, the tremors or migranes might have necessitated a phone call to dad, Gordon, before the bus was due back.
Then, suddenly, it did become a very big deal when it dawned on some of us just how long it had been since she was with us. Prior to Christmas, in fact. Very quickly, sadly, the sense of foreboding which enveloped the environment proved to be heartbreakingly accurate. Though the rapidity with which the gravity of the situation escalated to a point nobody wanted it to go would throw a Sat-Nav and Usain Bolt off course.
To the extent that, here we were at another memorial table. The unmistakable, immovable pink cap, visible now only in a picture frame, our Spotify DJ, baker-in-chief and puzzle professional has fallen silent. Sail on my gentle friend, you are now pain free. With all the music playlists and jigsaw puzzles in the world within arm’s reach. Sleep well.
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