Four years after my beautiful mum was diagnosed with the very rare, progressive, neurological disorder MSA, she passed away, released at last from the unimaginable struggles that had been her daily life, particularly during her final months. Trapped in a body that no longer served her in any way, her warmth, wit, sense of humour and divilment, her kindness and concern for everyone else around her, remained perfectly intact – her spirit was unchanged. Her beauty inside and out was as vibrant and remarkable as it had ever been. She touched the lives of all those who cared for her, teaching them and teaching us, lessons of bravery, resilience, kindness and hope.
In the years since her devastating diagnosis, my sister Shar, brother Der and I had dedicated ourselves to Mum, adapting her home so that we could care for her there for many years, before she finally moved to the hospice for the final part of her journey. Covid restrictions were starting to lift and the hospice visiting team granted us almost unlimited access to mum as her condition changed and the end of her life drew near. Together we sat at her bedside, talked, laughed, cried, sang, looked at old photos, remembered times past . We were grateful for each day, then each hour and finally each breath as we accompanied this remarkable woman who had given us life, shaped us, loved us and then had to leave us – her faith reassuring her that it was only for now, that one day we’d meet again.
For Shar, Der and I life would never be the same again. The central point in our lives, our focus, our north star was gone. Granted there was enormous comfort in waking each morning to the immediate thought that there’d be no struggle breathing today, no desperate efforts to communicate, no pain. But that thought was quickly chased away by the next one, the one that said “she’s gone”, the one that brought the reality crashing in that there was, and always would be a huge mum-shaped gap in all our lives.
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Early on in mum’s illness, a wonderful thing happened in my life. I met Fabrizio. Italian, living in Dublin, an intriguing profile and very cute photo on Match.com – we met for dinner and by dessert had both realised this was something extraordinary and full of promise. Three weeks later Fabri met me at the hospital so that he could meet mum for the first time. Earlier she’d sent me a text saying –“Busy learning italiano before I meet Fabreequio (his name was achallenge for quite a while!!). Can’t wait to meet my FSIL” Totally puzzled by the acronym at the end of her message I quizzed mum at length but she was giving nothing away, not even a hint. Fabri got it though and with a shared conspiratorial glance he deciphered the code and mum acknowledged he was right – FSIL – Future Son In Law!
As it happens mum was absolutely spot on! We married, the simplest of weddings with the most heartfelt of vows. Leaving the registry office we jumped in the car and headed straight to the hospice, to share the moment with the most beautiful mother-of-the-bride imaginable. We honeymooned in Donegal where my poor Italian husband was bewildered by the need for not one, but two coats, to cope with the August weather of the northernmost tip of Ireland! “Honestly, on a clear day the view from here would be amazing!” was my most used phrase of the week!
We arrived back less than a week later to find a dramatic change in mum. The honeymoon was over as the roles of daughter, but also son-in-law kicked in at full force. I watched my new husband hold my mum’s hand, tell her he loved her, reassure her that she had no need to worry about me because his sole mission in life was to make me happy. Perhaps the most poignant moment was when he told her that he was giving her a new title. From that moment on she was no longer his mother-in-law but his mum-in-love. I fell deeper in love with Fabrizio with every interaction I watched between him and my mum. No wonder she loved him too.
Just eight weeks after the wedding that she had predicted more than three years earlier, Peggy, mum, nana, quietly took her leave. Life was forever changed and the sadness that a child (of any age) feels at losing their mother was real and at times completely overwhelming. But almost immediately, I realised there was another emotion present, one I never would have expected, one that came as a complete surprise. I felt a sense of peace and calm that I had never before associated with grief. It was the peace of seeing someone so deeply loved, suffer no more. It was the sense of calm from knowing that we had done everything we possibly could have done for mum. We loved her fiercely, cared for her gently and advocated for her loudly.
My aunt called the day after the funeral…. “It’s time to live your own life now”, she said. “It’s time to go ahead with your beautiful husband and live your dreams. You were wonderful children, you did so much. You will receive an abundance of good things in your lives now, just you wait and see.” The phone call resonated with me deeply. She was right. It was time to be a wife, a partner-in-crime, a fellow adventurer.
As life ended in one way, I gained wings to fly away in another…
Earlier this same summer, in fact a month before the wedding, I had retired after 36 years teaching. Filled with the joy of this new freedom I jumped straight into launching a new little business. Covid lockdowns had led me to discovering a new passion – for embroidery of all things. Sewing had become my happy place, my therapy, my failsafe way to escape worry, stress or anxiety over all that was going on. I realised I wasn’t bad at all at creating pieces that people genuinely seemed to like. And so Evie in Stitches was born. “Let me tell your story or express your wishes in thread” I told my Instagram followers and slowly, slowly, a wonderful thing started to happen. Commissions began to come in. A piece for an engagement was first, then a christening present, then one for a newborn baby boy. A former colleague contacted me. A close friend had been diagnosed with breast cancer, the very same breast cancer she herself had been diagnosed with some years earlier. She wanted a hoop to bring a message of hope to her friend for when her chemo was over. She wanted the same message that I had gifted her back when I was only beginning to stitch. I was delighted to be able to do it.
So on the very week that mum passed away and with all the emotions I’ve described, swirling around my very being, this is the hoop I was working on. This is the message the universe chose for me. This is the signpost I’m choosing to follow. To Sicily as it happens….
Listen to “Love is like a Butterfly” here.
