Death on the internet

We were chatting in the office about how people react and deal with death. One said they knew a bunch of 10 guys who lost one of their number to cancer a few ago. The guys still book 10 seats on their meals and nights out , five years on. Another group lost a friend in a car accident and they continue to include him in their Facebook postings. The guy was a fanatical Liverpool FC supporter and his account is peppered with comments after each of the clubs matches. It’s touching and shows the softer side of the modern man.

However keeping Facebook accounts of deceased people does cause issues that you wouldn’t expect. A college class of girls, who were on a three year maternity nurse course, lost one of their number during the summer vacation. When they got the results of their finals last August many, not knowing of her death, posted excited messages to their deceased colleague asking how she had done.

Facebook has recently developed a program that re-presents users with images & postings from the past timeline, unrequested. Often the images feature friends and family members who are now deceased. However not everyone is comfortable having dead people in their list of friends. About a year after my mother died I was contacted by a friend who asked if I could remove my Mums Facebook page as they felt uncomfortable being friended with a dead person. I thought about it and deleted Mum’s page but I should really have just told my friend to unfriend herself.

One person in my office saves all her Christmas and birthday cards for each and every year and retrieves and rehangs the cards, from those that have left this world, alongside the new cards from the current year. I, for my part dig out my Christmas card from my mother and hang it each year. Indeed I still carry her mobile phone number on my contacts  list in my phone.

I now have a new pocket diary for 2017 and have already entered the birthdays for the coming year. In that diary my parents live on. Dad and Mum will celebrate their 88^th birthdays and their 63^rd wedding anniversary.  In reality he just failed by a few months to reach their golden (50^th) wedding anniversary. She illuminated our lives for a further 8 years.

So I suppose I have chosen to rewrite reality and create the future I wanted for them.   For them it won’t be a meal out in a fancy restaurant, a family gathering in their one and only home or a cruise round the world. But it will mean that on each of those days I will think of them lovingly and say a prayer that they are out there somewhere, united and happy. Their spirit lives on as long as there is a breath in my body.

Being a bit of a writer and fulfilling my own needs I can create stories involving them. I can bring them alive at any time with a stroke of the pen. They deserved a longer innings, they lived modest unassuming lives but deserved a wider audience. They were exceptional people.  Maybe now they will get the recognition they deserved.

Day Sixteen: Sifting through a forgotten past

Finally the day came, the last day, the day that wiped the final traces of my parent’s existence off the face of the planet. The day, we their sons had to clear the house before the sale legally completed and the new owners moved in and with builders made the house their dream home.

It had been their dream home 60 years. Mum had left her parent’s house upon marrying in 1954 and moved into this newly built bungalow. She and my father were so happy together in  “Madonna” no. 34 Merville Road that they never moved again, except to the graveyard.

So today it was a case of keep or chuck and my youngest brother had made a head start on the job.

Walking up the short driveway I saw an object that once a year had pride of place in the house and now lay cast and unloved on the wet driveway. The Christmas tree and decorations, that until that morning stood for months each year in their sitting room. I knew it straight away from it’s old fashioned wirey green branches and plastic leaves. Lying next to the dissembled tree parts were the plastic multicoloured lights and kitsch decorations, bought in the 60’s that look pretty ordinary now.

I picked up the small plastic reindeer with the Disney “Bambi” appearance, her short pert tail covered in gold sparkle.

How many happy years had she hung in that front room, surrounded by sparkling lights, presents at her feet and the warmth from the real coal fire that burned furiously in the open fireplace opposite?

How many Christmas’s had she watched over as we opened our presents, watching as we grew from tiny kids to huge adults?

When we reappeared along with our children?

How did she feel the first Christmas he wasn’t there, 2004?

When she died in 2012 the tree remained packed in its box unopened. A year when Christmas bypassed the house left unoccupied and up for sale. How did it feel to be unwanted after 60 years of bringing joy and happiness?

As I crouched over the tree and Christmas past I saw the wood from the shelving and cabinet unit he lovingly built for her. When in situ it ran the length of the wall, a good 20 feet and 15 feet tall, with a dark brown mahogany finish, gold handles and glass. He was so good with his hands. As a child he used to get a copy of “Hobbies Weekly” in the 1940’s, a practical journal on how to make model planes, boats and even a radio, using the basic materials available in those post war years. He was great with the fretsaw and many was the black and white photograph that appeared in newspapers of the day of a young unnamed lad proudly holding a large model plane he’d just completed. The pictures would appear in newspapers because his dad was a professional photographer and on slow news days he filed them to fill the space.

Further along the driveway lay bags and bags of old letters and bills but one bag contained a box of colour slides. It set me on a hunt for the rest of the slides and before long I had gathered several boxes of family pictures taken by Dad through the 1960s and 1970’s and saved as slides. I found the slide projector too. I loaded all into the back of my car. Colour slides projected onto plain walls bring people in them alive so much more than photographs ever can. Don’t you agree?

Walking round the emptied house and garden for the last time ever is an unforgettable experience. By the time they died we were all over 40 and had our own partners and homes. Where could we put my parent’s furniture?

It wasn’t easy to make space for an eight seat dining room table & chairs, a leather couch set of 3 and a sideboard but I have a loving wife who had adopted my parents as her own and so readily accommodated me.

Two years on I still have a room of memories in my house that has yet to be emptied.

The day will come.

Death on the Net

She was distraught. Helen heard her own name being spoken when she took the call but the rest of what was said was lost to her. She could hear the caller trying so hard to convey her message but being hit by waves of grief that reduced what she was trying to say to just one more gut wrenching sob. Helen redoubled her efforts and focused harder on what she was hearing and thought she recognised the caller.

“Jean? Is that you? What’s happened?”

Jean finally managed to draw a breath and in one sentence blurted out her news.

“Brian’s dead” …before being struck by another tsunami sized wave of emotion that threatened to drown her completely.

“On dear God, Jean, I’m so sorry! What a shock. How did you find out?”

“Look I’m coming over – I’ll be with you by 7.30pm OK?”

When we arrived that evening we found Jean in the company of her older sister but still far from well. In deep shock she sat crying and mopping her eyes with a paper handkerchief. Over time she relayed her story and it appeared that evening as if her very survival overnight was in doubt. She could not see a future in this world without him.

We sat quietly in her sitting room where the warm glow of her fire’s yellow flames flickering over logs created an intimate but sombre mood. Three friends tried to pluck positive strands out of a car crash of a disaster. Words seemed inadequate in times like these and long periods of silence passed between them.

As Jean hadn’t heard from Brian for over a week she had left him a text message on Friday which, unusually, he had not responded to. It made her uneasy but alarm bells hadn’t started ringing at that point. She checked his emails and his account last showed activity that Friday night. Still no biggie! Being 69 years of age he was a late comer to modern technology and this absence from the internet was again not unusual.

She got on with her life, comforted by the knowledge that they were to meet for lunch on Wednesday and a plan was already agreed for a holiday together in France in April. This would be their first time together since last Summer when they snatched four weeks in his apartment in Bodram, Turkey. How she enjoyed his company. Over 35 years she and he had been an item, meeting infrequently but keeping in contact as they lives took different courses. They’d met when she was 23 and he was 34. The attraction had been instant and he lit up her life like no other man. There had of course been others, even marriage proposals but they always paled in comparison to him. He was a very charming, intelligent, beguiling man, with blue eyes and blonde hair. The phrase “he could charm the birds out of the trees” was probably invented after the author had met Brian. He looked 10 years younger than he actually was, dressed smartly and was a good listener. Naturally he was a salesman by trade and was on the road around the whole of Ireland for most of the time she knew him. Occasionally she travelled with him and they enjoyed hotel liaisons in far flung parts of the country. She’d sit in the car when he visited clients and then the rest of the day was theirs to do with as they pleased.

She always harboured a hope that when his kids had grown up he’d live with her. In the early years it seemed a real possibility but then, with the children in their twenties his wife became ill and he could n’t leave her in that state. The years ticked past. She had n’t any children herself but that was OK because she had Brian and that was enough. Finally about 10 years ago he confided to her that his marriage was on the rocks and he was on the verge of moving out. He’d been sleeping in his own room for some time in the family home but now he wanted out. Her heart was fit to burst as she digested the news after he’d left. Before long she had cleared out the visitor’s room and the wardrobe and prepared space for him and his belonging. It had been a long wait but she knew it had been worth it. Some weeks passed and no further contact was made by Brian but she just let him get on with sorting out his life. He knew she loved him and he’d make contact in his own good time. The weeks rolled into months.

It was a cruel shock to find out, through another friend, that Brian had moved out of the family home alright but had moved in with another woman in Tipperary called Shirley. It was as though somebody had punched her hard in the guts. She felt physically ill. She drove home from work in a daze and sat there alone trying to slot this unexpected piece of news into her life plan. For several weeks Jean wrestled with what she was to do. She gathered information on this Shirley person and determined that she would expose Brian for the louse he was, by visiting Shirley and outing him to her. She drove the two hours down to Tipperary and rang the doorbell. Brian answered as she thought he would, his car sitting in the driveway. He was taken aback but recovered swiftly to introduce Jean as a work friend to Shirley. Jean for her part, not seeking to lose Brian for ever, held back playing her ace card and went along with the “work friends together”charade and the evening passed smoothly. Jean left the happy couple and drove home, replaying the night in her mind, again and again.

Many months, nay even years later Brian was in touch and contact was resumed. His children now had children of their own and he was enjoying playing the role of dotting grandfather. It provided another reason to return to the family home and Shirley disappeared from the picture, as far as Jean knew.

Then came the Christmas he moved in with her. She gave him a key and he came and went as he wished. Jean knew better than to seek commitment from him and it was a delicate balance of being there and hoping he would be too. We met up with them one Christmas Eve and we four had a merry time till late. We stayed overnight in Jean’s. The next morning, on Christmas Day after a generous breakfast we parted as friends and assumed our family duties for the rest of the day. Brian showered and prepared to visit his family and  met Jean in the hall. Though he was just visiting for an hour Jean did n’t fail to notice the large holdall he held behind his back. He left for a few hours and did n’t return for 3 months.

Their relationship survived that blip, as it had similar incidents in the past. They meet up infrequently but you know I think that played a part in keeping the magic alive.

However now, after 35 years the affair had reached its sudden and shocking end. If Jean had n’t had a sixth sense and visited www.rip.ie and found his name and funeral details listed she would have missed his death and funeral entirely. She was not known to his family or most of his friends.

Nobody would have made contact.

“Maher, Brian (Foxrock, Dublin 2) Jan. 20th 2014 (suddenly but peacefully) at home:  beloved husband of Paula and loving father of Sian and Andrew:  he will be sadly missed by his loving family, brothers-in-law, sister-in-law, grandchildren Alan and Ana, nieces, nephews, relatives and friends.

May he rest in peace

 

Reposing at Fanagan’s Funeral Home, 10 Axel Street, Dublin 2 on Wednesday from 9.00o/c until 6.00 o/c with the family Gathering at the Funeral Home from 4.00 o/c until 6.00 o/c. Removal on Thursday morning Kilmacud Catholic Church, Blackrock arriving for 11am Funeral Mass with Cremation afterwards in Shanganah Crematorium. Family flowers only please.”

She had searched the web while at work and really had not expected to find anything. OK he’d missed a call and a text but that was nothing that unusual. However, when she saw this posting she went into shock. She screamed and broke down in tears which surprised her fellow workers. They rushed to her aid but she actually vomited as her body convulsed and went into an involuntary and uncontrollable spasm. They organised a taxi to take her home and there she sat shaking and crying in equal measure.

Jean rang the only friend of Brian’s she knew and he was only able to say that Brian had eaten with his wife on Saturday night and then, as normal, he had gone to his room and she to hers. In what sounded a loveless relationship where two people lived parallel lives in one house, he went to bed alone and died alone overnight. His wife  left it till mid-morning before seeking him out and discovering his body.

What haunted Jean was the knowledge that he died alone. “Did he know I loved him” she kept asking. “He would have had no doubt” I reassured her, wrapping my arms around her in a bear hug.

Two days later she gathered what composure she had left and painting on her best war paint and respectful clothing she visited Brian, lying in an open coffin in the undertaker’s parlour. She chose a time she felt certain the family would not be in attendance and they weren’t. She stood lingering next to his coffin, longing to touch him one last time. “He looked as if he’d just fallen asleep” she recalled later.

A day later she attended the funeral and sat towards the back of the church away from his family. His coffin had a guard of honour made up of the young boys from the football club he had devoted his later years to. The attendance was smaller than she had expected and his wife shed not a tear throughout the ceremony, though his grieving daughter did. The words spoken, Jean felt, gave a very incomplete picture of the Brian she knew and loved. As in common with funerals these days the picture painted of Brian was a “warts and all” bibliography with the emphasis on warts. Partly one could n’t help feeling because his serial infidelity had made life long enemies of his wife’s family.

His son recounted his memories of his father and many of the stories matched those Brian had told her himself. She was pleased and surprised to find how honest he had been with her. She kept her thoughts to herself throughout the service but ached to have the opportunity to paint for all present, the complete picture of the Brian she knew.

And his cremation was, she knew, not the way he had wanted to go. It showed how little his family knew about the man called Brian, Dad, or Grandad that had moved amongst them over 69 years.

We met up with Jean the day after the funeral and she was markedly better in herself. The grief was still there. Jean had lost the love of her life and their future together.

Whatever had happened in the past she was always able to comfort herself with the knowledge that he’d be with her in the future. In retirement, in old age, in their fading years, if nothing else occurred he’d finally lose the energy to wander and would settle with his true love, his Jean.

Sadly the hole in the centre of her being was still there and that would hurt for a long time to come.