How Cancer Got Rita

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How Cancer Got Rita

Rita Walsh was an adventurer.  She was a world traveler and an avid explorer of the wilds of West Cork and Kerry.  Even at 82, she was wildly independent; living alone and tending her half acre garden a few miles outside of Blackpool.  Prior to a Walsh family reunion in the summer of 2013, family traits were being discussed.  Someone offered optimism as a potential.  “Optimism?  I should think so,” said Rita, “I just planted three trees”.  We laughed till we cried.  Rita was going nowhere anytime soon; another Walsh trait is longevity.  Never having had children of her own, Rita was a deeply embedded and adored feature of each of her brothers’ families.  We felt certain we would have the pleasure of Rita’s company for many more years to come.

Shortly after the reunion, Rita was involved in a car accident. She was pretty badly beaten up, and her shoulder and arm hurt.  She applied her usual positive outlook to it all, and we applied our Walsh optimism to her chances of a full recovery. She would be fine.

Rita did heal.  She had physical therapy, and the bruises disappeared.  About six months later, early in 2014, she began to experience low back pain.  She went to see her GP.  He attributed the pain to a remnant of the car accident.  Rita was happy to accept that diagnosis. Like many of her generation, much as she liked her GP, Rita wasn’t a big fan of going to the doctor.  There was always the fear that he’d find something wrong with her.  “I’ll be grand”, she would said.  She wasn’t a complainer.  The pain continued, and Rita didn’t say much about it to anyone.  Possibly, she thought it was just part of getting older. We could sense there was a discomfort though. She didn’t verbalize it, but she would, uncharacteristically, refuse invitations and outings.

By Christmas that year, she began to share more frequently that her back was hurting. We noticed that she wasn’t eating much.  When asked if she had talked to her doctor, and she said yes.   By the end of January she was losing weight, and low on energy.  My father insisted on driving her to the doctor.  “I suppose I’d better tell him everything this time”, she said on the drive in. This alarmed my father.  What hadn’t she been telling him?  What hadn’t she been telling us?

Whatever it was, was sufficiently concerning that her doctor had an appointment for her at Cork Maternity Hospital to have tests done just three days later.  That Thursday Rita went in, for what she expected to be an outpatient visit, but ended up being admitted.  We assume they broke the news to her that she had cancer the next day.  My father, brother and youngest sister were in London for my brother-in-law’s Masters’ graduation from Kings’ College.  My other sister, who lives close to me in Orlando, called Rita in the hospital. She sounded very down, and told her that it was bad, and she didn’t want to talk about it.  Never once, in the coming weeks, did Rita mention the word cancer.  A gamut of tests were run and it became apparent that not only did Rita have cancer, but it was ovarian cancer, and quite advanced.  When Dad, her health surrogate, returned to Cork on Monday, Dr. Matt Hewitt told him that there would be no cure; that it was just a matter of making her comfortable and extending life.

In Orlando, I sent my passport away for renewal, planning on bringing my children home to spend the summer with Rita, just in case it would be her last.  The family plan to all join us in Orlando the following Christmas was also being revised.  Instead we’d go to Cork to spend the season with Rita.

After a few days of tests, Rita was discharged.  Dad invited her to stay with him.  She was in a lot of pain.  She had to prop mounds of cushions behind her in an effort to get comfortable.  She couldn’t sleep well.  She wasn’t eating still, and when she did, whatever she got down, came right back up.  She still managed to smile, and to sound cheerful when I called her. A few days after she was released, some tests results came back showing a lot of fluid on her lungs.  Dr. Hewitt’s nurse called and asked Dad to bring her back into CMH so they could drain it.  She went back in on Thursday.  She began to sound brighter once the fluid was drained, and she was on stronger pain medication.  She had loads of visitors and the nursing staff was wonderful.  She told me all about the parade of handsome doctors.  She mused that being handsome was a job requirement at CMH. Knowing Rita, there was a lot of batting of eyelashes going on!

On Sunday she took a turn for the worse, and things began to devolve with a speed we couldn’t have imagined. Her kidneys were shutting down. They put her on morphine.  I shared this news on a private Facebook page I has started to share news of Rita’s condition with my many cousins who, like me, adored Rita. My brother in law called me from Ireland Sunday night.  He’s a doctor, and he told me that it was time for my sister and I took come home.  That she was being given morphine, he advised, was not a good indicator. Audrey and I were on a plane to Cork on Monday afternoon.

Sadly, disembarking our connecting flight in London, we got the call that Rita had passed.  It was Tuesday, February 17th.  Just over two weeks since Rita had been diagnosed with ovarian cancer.  There would be no long summer sitting in her garden with her, and no more Christmas memories. Rita’s adventures had come to an end.

The staff in CMH were amazing.  Dr. Hewitt and the nurses there had become very attached to Rita in her short stay.  They allowed her to remain in her bed until Audrey and I could get there to say goodbye to the woman we had loved so much our entire lives. I sat by her bed, tears flowing, as I read aloud the letters my three children had written to her, and given to me to deliver.

Two days later Rita was laid to rest; the number of people attending her funeral was testament to the lives that her own enthusiasm, energy and love had touched.

We wish she would have spoken up about her symptoms.  We wish she had paid better attention to herself. We wish we had known more. Maybe things could have been different, and my children would, right now, be looking forward to long summer days with Rita, going on picnics and jaunting car rides, instead of knowing that their last communications with her are buried with six feet down in St. Finbarr’s cemetery.

Rita was part of a generation who don’t like to talk about their health, other than in the vaguest of terms.  That is especially true when it comes to female problems.  I do wish that Rita had known the symptoms of ovarian cancer.  I do wish that we had.  Maybe we could have put two and two together a bit faster. Though not doubting the emphatics of her statements of well-being, we wish her doctor had pressed her a little harder about her back pain.  Having no children put her at a higher risk for ovarian cancer. There are a lot of would have, could haves.

If you have a “Rita” in your life, please be sure to familiarize yourself with the symptoms of ovarian cancer.  Don’t be shy when dealing with family members who might be uncomfortable visiting a doctor, or admitting to not feeling well.  If you are a “Rita”, and have concerns about symptoms you are experiencing, please spare your family the pain we are enduring, and go and talk to your doctor, openly and honestly.

Here are the most common symptoms of ovarian cancer, from http://www.SOCK.ie (Supporting Ovarian Cancer Knowledge website):

  • Bloated feeling
  • Persistent swollen abdomen
  • Trapped wind
  • Pain or dragging sensation in your lower abdomen or side
  • Vague indigestion or nausea
  • Poor appetite and feeling full quickly
  • Changes in your bowel or bladder habits. For example, constipation or needing to pass water urgently
  • Abnormal vaginal discharge or bleeding (rare)
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Dear Ireland – Let’s Talk

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Dear Ireland

Sometimes, while having pints here in Orlando with English friends, my husband will slap one of the lads on the shoulder and joke, “800 years of oppression – the next round’s yours!”  We have lots of wonderful English friends, who we don’t, of course, hold personally responsible for the 800 years of oppression that the Irish suffered, but that line gets a laugh, and occasionally even, a beer.

We grew up in Cork, at a point in history when most of the indignity and oppression was over with.  It was almost over because many brave souls (family members included) who came before us, stood up and spoke out, and fought hard for their rights. And their day (our day) did come.  Well, mostly; we didn’t get all of Ireland back, but we got 26 counties.

We had our (partial) victory over British rule where many other, much larger, countries failed.  We accomplished this because we couldn’t live under the tyranny of oppression and injustice.  As Irish people, we simply refused to accept that as a condition of our lives. We Irish are fighters for justice and equality. We work to make things even, no matter where we are. When we crossed the ocean to America, we were greeted with “No Irish Need Apply” signs.  Today we make up 10% of the American population.

So, Ireland, I have to ask; is it really a huge surprise that our Irish gay population are standing up and asking for equity in their lives? Is it a stretch to think that they feel they should have the same rights that the rest of their country enjoy, and are fighting for those rights? They are the subjugated now; they are the underdog when it comes to the legal recognition of their relationships. They are gay, but they are also Irish, and  It would be simply un-Irish of them not to stand up and fight for equal treatment.

The Irish, having suffered subjugation first hand, are world renowned champions of the underdog. We have provided the world with peace keeping forces in the Lebanon, Bob Geldof, Bono, and even Mother Teresa (totally inspired by her time in Ireland). We are the country of Concern, Trocaire, and Mary Robinson.  For a small country, we are pretty darn fabulous in our positive effect on the world. The World Giving Index (2014) ranks Ireland as number four in all the world for donating money to charitable causes. We are a generous bunch. So why is there even a thought of not voting yes in the marriage referendum in May? Can’t we be generous with our own?

Don’t tell me that gays and lesbians are different. Don’t tell me that they don’t deserve the same civil rights as the rest of us. Don’t tell me you don’t want to see marriage redefined (ahem, we’ve already redefined that rather seriously, by the way).  Don’t even begin to tell me that you are planning on voting against gay marriage because God isn’t keen on the gays.  In the Bible, God mentions his disapproval of shrimp far more than his disapproval of homosexuality, but should there be an Irish referendum on the sanctity of the prawn cocktail, I think we know what the outcome would be.

So what if the priests tell us gay marriage is wrong?  As a country we have evolved beyond the autocracy of the church – we do have free will, after all.  And even at that, this is a legal matter, not a religious one. But if you have to think religiously, I feel that God will not judge us for being loving, for being inclusive, for being accepting. Seriously, who do you think Jesus would want to be associated with – the people who shun and cast judgement on consenting, loving adults, or the people who say that everyone deserves to be treated equally?  Jesus was known for being a bit of an advocate for the underdog, if I remember correctly (I’m pretty sure he was bit Irish).

And so what if we don’t like the thought of two guys or two girls having sex?  You also probably don’t like the thought of the next door neighbors having sex –but that doesn’t exclude them from the right to the same civil liberties you enjoy.  And please don’t confuse the issue with that of having children. Being “straight married”, being “gay married”, or being unmarried – marriage is not actually a physical condition of parenthood one way or the other.

So let’s just say that 3% of the world’s population is attracted to the same gender.  Are we really happy, as a nation, to declare, by vote, that we don’t think those people should enjoy the same rights we do?  How would you feel if any 3% of the Irish population was told by another authority that they were not entitled to the same rights as the other 97%?  Sorry, no mass or class for you – go find a hedge, and be grateful.  Sorry, not your language – ours.  Does that get your back up?  How about, sorry, no marriage for you – take civil partnership, and be happy with it. Is that OK?   Could you be personally responsible for that?

Well, we are Irish.   Rebellion is practically genetic (especially if you are from Cork).  We are the country of the arts.  We are the country of writers, actors, film producers, singers and rabble rousers. We are the educated. We are the creative.  We are the inclusive. We have been the subjugated. We don’t stand for that anymore.  We stand for equality throughout the world.  We must certainly take a stand for it in our own country.

So my dear Ireland, let’s get it right the first time around here. Our gay brothers and sisters were given their 26 counties in 2010 in the form of civil partnership.  We understand too well the lingering hangover that comes from being granted almost what you want – given partially what you feel is your due.  In this instance, WE have the power.  Let’s get this done all the way for our countrymen – let’s make sure they get their other 6.  We do this by voting yes on gay marriage. Get out and mark your ballot. Equality is our thing. Now it’s our time. May 22nd – say yes.

Sincerely,

Cathy Tobin

Green-Fingered Belly Dancer Retires

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Rita had a special drawer.  She told my father about it when he took her home for a quick visit the day they let her out of hospital.  She pointed to it, almost apologetically, as though it was self-indulgent for her to bother him with it.  “Just in case”, she said, with feigned lightness.  Dad told her not to be ridiculous, and they watered the plants and collected the post and he took her back to his house in Waterfall.  She stayed there with him, out in the quiet countryside, soaking up the sun by the sliding glass doors in the living room during the day, and watching TV by the fire at night, her chair piled high with cushions to help alleviate the pain in her back.

It didn’t suit Rita to be sick.  Even at 82, she was doggedly independent.  She lived alone, maintained a half acre of garden, and often took off on solo jaunts around West Cork and Kerry.  When she did take a travelling companion with her, the stories were legendary.  Rita not only stopped to smell the roses, she cut slips off them, arranged them and brought them into the nearest pub for a drink.  My cousin Orla once recounted a drive to Ballinskelligs with Rita that took nine hours instead of the usual two; no place of interest along the way was left unvisited and a speed of 60 km per hour was never exceeded.

Rita was not only an adventurer, but she was a rascal.  She had a highly developed sense of fun.  She had the spirit of a child and this drew all my cousins and I to her when we were children. She never married, despite two reported proposals, but she engaged her nieces and nephews with a love at least as deep as a mother’s.  When other adults shoo’d us away, Rita sought us out. She lavished us with tales of the fairies, she conducted countryside tours that filled us with wonder, she sat with us, and listened. Visits to her house in Rathpeacon were magical.  She amassed a huge collection of records on her travels around the world.  Her preference was for jazz, Flamenco and belly dancing music. She had drawers full of scarves and hats and necklaces which we’d adapt into fanciful costumes and dance around her living room, falling over in fits of breathless laughter.

Rita was ageless, as she was timeless. We thought she was eternal. But Rita’s back pain was the result of ovarian cancer. She’d had the pain for a couple of years, but by the time her doctor realized that it wasn’t related to a past car accident, it was too late for Rita. She went into Cork University Hospital for tests at the beginning of February 2015, and they kept her there.  She walked out of her house that morning expecting to be back later that afternoon, and she only ever returned once more, with my father that day when she shyly pointed out “the drawer”.  Two weeks after diagnosis, Rita was dead. My sister and I rushed across the Atlantic to try to get to see her in time to say goodbye, but we were a few hours short.  We were devastated, but our cousins told us that the day before Rita told them that she didn’t want Audrey and I to see her in pain.  She made her exit, stage right, before we had to.  The wonderful staff at CUH, who had fallen in love with the never complaining, always smiling Rita Walsh, allowed her to lie in her hospital bed until we got there to say our good byes. I sat next to her bed and tearfully read aloud the letters my three children in Florida had given me for her. Her magic had seeped through and touched the next generation as surely as it had touched ours.

I’m not sure how we could have truly believed that it could have been contained, but in a way my brother, sisters, cousins and I always felt that Rita’s magic was reserved solely for us. Not only did it spill through the Walsh generations, but it clearly impacted everyone around her. So, as it played out, my father did have call to access the special drawer that Rita had reluctantly pointed to when they visited her house.  Inside were the memories of a lifetime.  Many of the countless documents demonstrated the impact of Rita, but one in particular stood out. When she retired after decades of service at Ernst and Young in Cork city, one of her co-workers composed an newspaper style announcement declaring her departure.  Dad found it in that drawer. Its headline shouted, “Green-fingered Belly Dancer to Quit”. The announcement cited Rita’s “excellent rendition of an Eastern Belly Dancer” at various work functions and also her Folies Bergeres quality performance of “Patricia the Stripper”.  Ah, Patricia the Stripper!  It was Rita’s party piece. While others of her generation might fall to a version of Danny Boy or The Banks, when called upon for a song, Rita would spring to her feet and launch into Patricia. If there was a long curtain in the vicinity, all the better.  She would utilize it as a dramatic prop, arm peeking out, leg extended, hips wiggling.  She gave it gusto and even in her late seventies, Rita’s version of Patricia brought everyone to their feet.

Rita’s funeral services were bound to be a celebration of her life more than a mourning of her death.  It was standing room only at her removal at O’Connors on Shandon Street. People who didn’t know her in life, but who had come out of respect for one relation or another, marveled how an unmarried and childless woman of 82 could pack a house like that.  My brother revealed that in one uncharacteristically fatalistic conversation with Rita during her initial stay at CUH, she had asked him to a favor.  He complied and opened her funeral services in Blackpool church with a soulful version of Abba’s, “I Believe in Angels”.  The priest, concerned about the secular nature of the song, had him sing it before the services officially began.  I had the honor of writing her eulogy, and delivering it, again before the religious part of the funeral began, because though it focused on Rita’s spirit it wasn’t specifically related to her soul.  It seems that separating the secular from the non-secular has become a bit of a thing.  But, in its entirety, the service was beautiful.  Well known Irish soprano, Cara O’Sullivan, soulfully and reverently sang through the mass, giving Rita a heart rendering final serenade.

Later, at St. Finbarr’s cemetery, on a cold, wet and gray Thursday afternoon, Rita was laid to rest with her mother and father. Her coffin was put in with her head where her feet should go, and though most of us noticed, in true Cork style, no one thought to question it. As the mourners started to drift away, my sister, brother and brother in law lingered at the grave, not anxious to speak that final goodbye.  It was a bleak and heavy moment. Suddenly, spontaneously these words slipped out of my mouth; Denis is a menace, with his, “Anyone for tennis?”.  My sister took up the tune and then my brother, and the three of us stood there, ankle deep in the same earth that our Rita had just been planted in, our voices gaining momentum. Hips shook, arms gestured, feet stomped.  We gave it gusto and when we were finished we looked at each other, smiled and knew that we had just stepped out of a moment that we would remember forever.  Though anyone passing by would have thought our performance extremely odd (and likely highly inappropriate), but we knew that the Green-fingered Belly Dancer had just been given the most fitting final tribute possible.

Fireside Perspectives

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It had been a very tough few days.  Don’t get me wrong now, we were in Cork, so even though it was the saddest of circumstances we still managed to have some fun.  But overwhelmingly, between the fact that one of my favorite people in the world had made an exit (untimely, even at 82), spouse and child abandonment, and a bunch of passport and school work issues, it was a tough week.

My sister Audrey and I, both over unexpectedly from the States, sat on the couch at my Dad’s house a few evenings ago, completely worn out.  “How are you?”, I asked her.  “Cranky” she replied.  “The dead Rita thing?”, I asked.  “Yup”, she nodded.  “I’m cranky too”, said I, “In fact I’m writing a detailed Facebook post about it this very minute”.  Here’s what I wrote:

Top 10 Reasons Why I’m Cranky:

1. Contacted US Embassy and told them that Dept of State has been useless when it came to helping me solve emergency travel dilemmas, but that the Irish government has been amazing. Fearing spell in Guantanamo.

2. Received warm and helpful phone call from US Embassy within three minutes of hitting send, because, it turns out, (we) Americans are a touch competitive. Problem not made better:

3. Learned that I can’t reenter the States on an Irish passport if I have an American passport and I will need to go to a Thursday appointment in Dublin (3 hours drive from where I currently am) to get an emergency travel document.

4. Heard from the Irish passport office that my Irish passport is ready for collection in Cork (where I am today) on Friday (when I will now be in Dublin).

5. Am concerned about the logistics of wrangling masses of luggage from Cork to Dublin City Center and out to Ballsbridge and then to Ranelagh.

6. I have turned in no graduate degree work this week, and course seems to have vanished.

7. Airlines apparently won’t take your word for it that people have died and need death certificates to change flights without charging astronomical fees, so my poor grieving father was marched into the Registrars office today to get Rita’s death certificate. This was not a fun outing. Rita being dead is beginning to seem like a permanent situation. We’re giving her one more week to pull up.

8. Have eaten too much Tayto and am possibly going to have to now buy two airline seats to get to the States, even if they do deign to allow me back in.

9. Penney’s made me buy clothes I can neither afford nor have any room in my suitcase for.

10. Bank of America sent me a warm and helpful email today to remind me of that point.

Mood clearly not improved.

I hit Post and off my complaints went into cyberspace.  Quite a few friends were indulgent enough to offer words of support  A few commented that I could still make them laugh, even when complaining. However, as I read the replies I realized that I was sitting in front of the fire, in my Dad’s house in Cork, having been given leave from family and work to be present for my lovely Rita’s funeral.  I shut down the cranky post and put this in its place:

Things I am grateful for:

  1. Rita Walsh as part of my whole life minus one week.
  2. A husband and children who didn’t complain once about me skipping the country with just hours notice, plus a husband who never even blinked when I put a ridiculously expensive air fare on the credit card.
  3. A principal and co-workers who said, “Just go. We’ve got it under control”.
  4. An amazing Cork family – people who laugh a lot and make great memories together.
  5. A sister who neither snores nor kicks in the night and who isn’t too bad in the day either.
  6. A father, a brother and brother in law who open their doors and hearts to us without hesitation or notice.
  7. My Irish friends who simply showed up.
  8. Tayto.
  9. Penneys.
  10. Cork people – their warmth, their lack of formality, their sense of irreverence, and their wit.
  11. Having two homes and two countries even if it sometimes complicates the paperwork!

We all know it theoretically; everything is perspective.  That night, given my high levels of “woe is me”, I was proud of a particularly quick and solid turnaround in thinking.  Sure, it was a rough few days, and we were tired and cranky and sad, but sitting by our father’s fire in Waterfall, there was also much to be thankful for.

Leaving Cork

My first piece ever, was published in The Irish Examiner.bus 3

Leaving Cork is something I’d expect to be getting used to at this point.  I’ve been doing it seriously for 21 years now. That first time was the worst.  Right before leaving for the airport my Dad and I took a walk down a country boreen by his house in Waterfall, and I waited for him to ask me not to go.  I would have changed my mind so easily then.  But he didn’t.  Instead he talked about the power of youth and opportunity, and the importance of being brave with your life.  That was all very inspiring of course, but what I really wanted him to say was, “Leave? Don’t be ridiculous.  Come back inside and we’ll have a cup of tea”. He didn’t though, and I sobbed and sighed all the way to Shannon, and then heaved my way, in a snotty, drippy mess through immigration.  How did they even let me on that plane?  It was the early 1990s though, the Irish economy was bad, and US immigration officers were probably well used to the sight of heartbroken Irish youngsters setting out to try to make a better fate for themselves in the new world.

It’s been twenty one years now since I left Cork to start my new life in Florida – I know, you suddenly don’t feel so sorry for me anymore, but leaving Cork has become only marginally easier over the years. As I write, I am sitting on the Aircoach from Cork to Dublin. This time I was home for a funeral.  Only the second funeral I’ve had to rush home for over the years, but a very hard loss. Leaving my father behind, knowing that he is now not only bereft of me (and my sister and brother, who both left Cork in time), but also his main partner in crime, his sister Rita, is just so difficult.  I am at that awkward age now where funerals in my parents generation are becoming increasingly common place, and I can’t help but think about how leaving Cork that very first time has taken so many days away from us already.

Whatever the reason for the visit, the rituals of leaving remain the same.  The day before I mentally check  to see if I have met up with everyone I intended to, and eaten everything I meant to. If not, action plans are put into place. The night before I start to gather the mass that began to flow out of my suitcase, like slow seeping lava, since the day of my arrival.  With every day that passes it has poured out in increasing volume.  For some reason, and without fail, I catch myself singing John Denver’s Leaving on a Jet Plane quietly to myself as I go through this process. Contents of suitcase have at least tripled in size, a fact I seem to never remember to plan for when doing the initial packing.  The expansion is fueled by too many trips to Penney’s and Dunnes (shoes that I absolutely did not need, but were only four euro – you’d have to), tons of Cadbury’s chocolate – Twirls, Crunchies, Flakes, boxes of Barry’s Tea Bags (the one Cork commodity that I have not been able to move on from in the past two decades), Sudocrem and the all important 20 pack of Tayto, destined to be reduced to crumbs within two seconds of being packed, as I inevitably sit on the suitcase in order to get it to close.  Zippers strain, and not just on my luggage. The fear of the weighing scale at the airport is totally trumped by the fear of the one in my bathroom in Orlando.  Not only has the luggage expanded but there has also been a personal expansion; the inevitable result of ten days of Seize the Day style indulgence in Clonakilty sausages and pudding, Tom Durcan spiced beef, crusty bread rolls, brown bread, trips to KC’s in Douglas, and an immodest amount of pints of Murphy’s. That other kind of excess baggage is going to take a more sustained and even less pleasant effort to deal with.

The ritual of packing is a good distraction from the reality of the departure.  Used to be my aunt Rita would come over the night before I left and give moral support as I engaged in the ritual. Not this time though; Rita’s in St. Finbarr’s now.  She was buried with her head where her feet should have gone, and though we all noticed it at the time, in good Cork fashion, no one thought to question it.  So I got the packing done on my own last night.  Dad likes to avoid that part of the proceedings so we can stay in the moment a while longer.  Packing complete we sit by the fire watching TV, as if nothing out of the ordinary is happening in the morning.

I did do better at hiding my tears from Dad as he drove me in to Patrick’s Quay to catch the bus this morning. I held it together, singing Neil Diamond loudly with him on the way into town. Because we were running late there was only time for a quick goodbye on the Quay,  “Thank you. I love you”, I said, grateful for the time crunch because I could not bear even the suggestion that he might have tears in his eyes.  Off he drove alone, and I swung my bags onto the bus.

If my father was a selfish man, I imagine that he might have felt more inclined to ask me to stay this morning than that first time I left him.  He might have suggested that we turn around and go home for a cup of Barry’s more readily.  But he’s not, and now I have a husband and children and a life on the other side of the Atlantic.  It’s a good life, and I am blessed to have it, but despite my 21 years away it becomes increasingly obvious that my spiritual home is the one by the Lee, and it looks as though leaving Cork is never going to get any easier.