How The Whimper Of A Sick Child Is Like The Rosary

As you know I am Catholic.

Recently a friend of mine asked me why I, and Catholics in general, say the rosary. It seems like such a boring prayer. I gave her a simple answer, simple and inadequate.  And then I said to her I'd think more about it and answer her again in a better way. 

So I have been thinking about this and a day or so ago, suddenly, like a curtain opening, I knew exactly what I was going to say. An insight I had from an angle I'd never even thought of before.  As usual, I'm going to tell you a story but first a little background. 

If you are Catholic I hope this rings true and if you are not Catholic, or not Christian, I invite you to read on for the next few minutes and maybe glean some understanding into this Catholic custom. 

I can fully understand how people think the rosary is a boring repetitive prayer, more suitable as a cure for insomnia than anything else. Hail Mary...Holy Mary...Hail Mary...over and over again, the same thing every day...

 It has always been there in my life. As a child it was a cue for giggling misbehaviour...just make sure you knelt out of swiping distance of the long arm of the parental law. As a teenager something to be more or less abandoned until exam time when out of desperation it would be resorted to in the hopes that Mary would put a good word in for us in the ear of her son that he would overlook our laziness and procrastination and all those TV shows that filled our study hours...Hail Mary...Holy Mary...Pray for us...I promise I'll be good forever...now and at the hour...

As a young couple we prayed more fervently, every day together, again and again, praying for help to overcome all the seemingly huge obstacles which stood between us and our longed for wedding day. Mother of God...Pray for us...

And then children come along and it's an ideal we so often fell far short of. A hit or miss in the hustle and bustle of nappies and laundry and copy books.  We'd fit in shortened versions, look out helpful tools for the children and try our best to make this prayer a part of our family life and all too often long-fingering it till bedtime and closing eyelids...Mum and Dad, Husband and Wife, Me and John praying in half sleep and promising that tomorrow we'd do better.

However I cannot say I ever really understood this repetitive prayer. I knew it, I loved it and could see the palpable differences it made to my young family whenever it was part of our family life.  But understand it? Not really. 

Now you know the story of our little girl and her diagnosis and all that went with it.  I'm not planning to drag the rear end out of that tale but it is a story that has so many facets to it, many of which are only unfolding with the passing of time.  This story is one of those things which completely passed me by when it was actually happening. 

So back we go to a few years ago. A little girl, not quite three, is in distress...my own little girl, back on the ward after her very big operation. Her ragged little heart has just been stopped and restarted, patched, shunted, stitched and changed. Her bones have been wired back together, she has three painful drains coming out of her little body, machines and monitors are attached to her small limbs and her chest.  Every vein has been exhausted from blood being drawn.  

I have a little camp bed set up beside her with a sleeping bag which is calling me because I am exhausted.  But I'm not as exhausted and worn out and wretched as the little girl beside me. I am her mother and that gives me all the energy I need to stay awake.

I am longing to do something for this suffering child who cannot sleep though she needs to.  All night she reaches for me to hold her hot little hand in mine. All night she whimpers 

"Mommiee"

"What, Baby?"

"I want you"

"I'm here, Baby"

"Mommiee"

"What, Baby?"

"I want you"

"I'm here, Baby"

"Mommiee"

"What, Baby?"

"I want you"

"I'm here, Baby"

All night long, over and over and over again...I want you...Mommy...I want you..I'm here Baby"

A hundred times, a thousand times and then the sun starts to rise and she wakes up from her fifteen minute sleep...

"Mommiee"

"What, Baby?"

"I want you"

"I'm here, Baby"

All day and all the next night.  What could I do but hold that little hand and stroke it and assure her I'm here...I'm here. That's all she wanted. She could say nothing else, a little child who clung to her Mommy in her time of distress. 

Was I bored of this little conversation repeated incessantly? What do you think? No I wasn't bored. I wasn't bored because it wasn't boring. Every time she uttered those sorrowful words 'I want you' my heart filled to overflowing, it's capacity increasing with every little whimper. Of course I wasn't bored and it was an honour to be able to say 'I'm here, Baby' to be the one who was able to give that longed for comfort. The assurance that her mother who loved her was watching her and was never going to let go that feverish little hand. 

And THAT my dear is why I will never not say the rosary till the day I die. Mary is not bored of our repetitive plea Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners.  She's not bored, because it's not boring. She has no intention of letting go of our worn out and wretched hand. She is awake because she is the mother who loves her child and loves us all the more when we turn to her and say over and over and over again

"Mommy...I want you".

Overwhelmed Or What?

You might have noticed (well I hope you did anyway, otherwise maybe my writings aren't as super amazing as I'd hoped!) that it's been a bit quiet on this blog of late. I posted one of the reasons a while ago. I was burnt by online nastiness.  Imagine a man, no doubt who would describe himself as a feminist, opened a blogger account for no other reason than to attack my views here...anonymously of course apart from a first name. I am ashamed to the core that for a single moment I suspected the only person I know with that name. If you know who you are I apologise profusely. 

That was one reason that sent me into my protective shell.  It's not the only one though.  I admit it...Supermom (hahahaha) is overwhelmed. I've been overwhelmed with new phases of parenting...try and guess...oh yes...teenage years, got it in one!! Now I hasten to add, as teens go they're not the worst. However, it's different to what I'm used to.  Ask me how to put a baby to sleep, I'm your woman. (Oh shoot...she's just soaked me with the hair washer spray!!) Ask me about cuddles and kisses and lullabys...I know all there is to be known.  Ask me how to make sure your teen masters school deadlines and how to curb Twitter... Sorry...I've no advice whatsoever to offer.   No doubt by the time number 6 reaches that age, just like my mother was,  I'll be master of knowing when a psychological sick day shopping with Mum is more important than theorems and the reunification of Italy.  Till that day I'll trundle on, poring over Dr Ray Guarendi and Dr Gregory Popcack to see me through. Overwhelmed with the fact that I have never mastered the word NO!! Overwhelmed with the expense both financial and emotional of back-to-school month. Overwhelmed at times with my workload.  And sad that so many days I've thought of great blog posts I could write if only I could get out of this damn car...even if it is my new golden chariot that I never dreamed would be mine!! 

Now, believe me, this isn't a whine whinge poor little me has it harder than everyone else post. Most of the time I struggle on through and am thankful for my busy life. Thank God for my busy life. How much better I have it than the lonely person I used to know who confided in me once that she hadn't seen a human being in a week...apart from those walking past her home, oblivious to the fact that there was someone inside who would have loved to spend a few moments chatting...to...someone...anyone. 

No, I'm definitely not lonely and I actually am grateful for my lot in life. But hey..no pain, no gain eh? We all have suffering and at the moment mine is literally barely a minute to look at myself in the mirror! Is that good? Is that bad? Who knows, it doesn't really matter. That's where I am just now so that's where God must want me to bloom. 

There are times when we all reach the point of wondering how we manage.    Days when we think of that comfy grave...throw me in a plump feather pillow and I'll be happy to repose there for all eternity. And then I remember the lovely lady I worked with so many years ago who had raised 11 children as a young widow.  I'm sure there were days she'd have given anything just to spend a few moments in the bathroom without a child knocking on the door.  When I knew her she lived in the huge farmhouse she had reared her children...alone. One of her children lived in the same country.  The rest had all emigrated.  Statistics in my country's glorious history.  

Tick...tock...tick...tock...silence. 

So I'm busy, I'm overwhelmed.  But as my mother would say "Well, nothing would do you." I'm living my dream. 

Well. I don't think I'm much different than any other woman.  Is it part of our make up? Like the pelican, the symbol of the Blood Transfusion Service, who gives her blood for the sake of the young.  And does it gladly? Believe it or not, I think that is part of the female psyche. I won't quote studies here, pretending to be an authority on what I'm not.  The only thing I'm an authority on is my own experience.  And to be authentic as I've promoted many times, I have to show the good along with the struggle.  Well anyway, I think it's very typical of mothers, and NOT rightly, to sacrifice our own rest and relaxation when things get busy. And THAT is why I haven't posted of late. You know in famine situations, a nursing mother will begin to use up her own calcium, muscle etc before her breast milk suffers.  Personally I would wish that for my child if I was in that situation.  Fathers too...I am 100% sure that when a doctor told us our baby wouldn't be eligible for a heart  and my husband said she could have his...he meant it without condition. 

But you know, sometimes our circle can be too insular.  I'm not running down the sincerity of my Buddhist and Hindu friends when I say that the aim of those is to become more and more self-aware to the point of perfect self-realisation.  That differs quite radically to the Christian view.  The Christian must aim to look OUTWARD...less and less ME and more and more the OTHER.  It's easy to become encased in the cocoon of our own concerns and our own small circle, our family.  But God wants more than that...spread out...expand...be more than you are.  

So when recently several people told me they missed my blog.  I realised that yet again I fell into the trap.  The trap of my cocoon.  Neglect that I need exercise, and prayer.  One thing I've learned as a mother is that neither of those are optional extras.  Forgot that it's NOT all about me and my family. My cosy and comfortable circle.  Busy...but comfortable.   So I've decided to blog again. (Actually I do lots of things outside my family so there's a bit of poetic licence here).

To get back into it I'm planning a post about books for Pre-teens/young teens.  Every Christmas Santa Claus goes into OCD mode when it comes to books.  He pores over book reviews for strong characters, gripping tales, role models and moral content.  Literally by Christmas, poor Santa's eyes are hanging out on stalks around his chin with online research.  But, call him boastful, he has found some true gems.  So I'll shortly be compiling a list of what OUR children have LOVED!! I'll leave out the mediocre and the highly marketed or the obvious classics.  You can find them for yourselves. I'll only post what has worked in our family.  I'm not saying your child will love them, I'm just saying our children do. And I don't think we're that unusual so you might find it useful. 

Till then:

Put The Shoe On The Other Wheel

While waiting in the check-in queue a few days ago I couldn't but overhear the conversation which took place at the desk adjacent to ours.

But first in case you haven't travelled with small children a while I'll put you in the picture re airport protocol. What generally happens is that you check in the luggage and the clerk puts a luggage tag onto the child's stroller.  You then hold onto the stroller until the last minute and deposit it at the point of boarding.  Strollers are loaded last and offloaded first to give parents greatest flexibility while handling babies, hand-luggage and often-times other small children. It's a small concession to families and I think at no real inconvenience to fellow travellers.  It suits us well because it also serves to relieve us of some of our burdens. I've often thought it'll be a pity when I have to forego the stroller that has long been part of my life.  They can bear great weight on the handles before the child is tipped ignominiously feet up.

(excuse me madam, I think you may have overloaded your child's buggy)

 I'll have to carry stuff myself...unless like an elderly neighbour of my father who, at the age of 80, could care less, I comfortably wheel the empty stroller uptown every day to carry my bag and baggage on the return journey.

This family was no different to any other.  Their older child, a little girl aged perhaps 5 or 6 was beautifully tanned like the other children boarding the flight.  She had the same sort of lovingly chosen princess backpack as the other children her age and she was wearing the same type of sweet summer sandals as the other children, including her siblings.  The only difference was that while the other children's sandals were worn out, battered and scuffed after a long and sunny summer (Ireland having just had a once in a generation glorious heatwave), this little girls sandals were pristine and new looking.  You see, those little feet hadn't splashed and danced in the tide.  They hadn't run with enthusiastic expectation at the sound of the ice-cream van. They hadn't used the toes of the shoes as brakes for speeding tricycles and scooters...

So as the clerk at our desk peeped and smiled at our able-bodied child as she tagged the stroller, the clerk at the adjacent desk curtly informed the parents that they had to check in their stroller.  It was too big.  Except this wasn't a stroller, it was one of those oversized buggies which mark halfway point between baby-pram and wheelchair.

"We can't check it in, she can't walk"

"Well it can't go in the cabin, we'll get you an airport wheelchair"

"She can't go in a wheelchair, she's too small and she can't hold herself up...she'll slide right off"

One glance at the little girl with her tilted back head and slumped little limbs, absently observing the roof with her azure eyes would confirm that this child needed to be safely strapped into her own chair, not dumped into a generic 'this'll do' wheelchair.

"Can't you carry her?"

"No we can't carry her, we have hand baggage, small children and Grandpa, can we speak to someone?"

Only after a protracted phonecall was the wheelchair/stroller tagged and the family allowed to continue on.

Now what struck me was that the mother carried out this conversation with the calmness as if she was buying a pound of tomatoes in a greengrocers.  This is her life.  And I know this to be true because ever since Louise I've been reading these incidents every day on Facebook.  This family spends their life fighting their corner in the simplest of things.  Advocating for their child to get the basic comforts the rest of us take for granted.  They are part of the 'set' who run race nights and golf classics to raise the price of a tricycle.  While the rest of us pop into Smyths or Toys R Us without a thought to dish out $50 for a tricycle, parents of disabled children trawl the internet for the best price on a special-needs tricycle such as this one which costs over $1,000.

Or how about this cute bell toy for a blind child which rings up a cool $332?

And they get so used to it that they don't even bat an eye at the hold up at the airport check in desk.  All part of the package of choosing life.  In fact, the Dad left the desk cracking a cheerful joke with the flustered clerk.  

A little side issue nothing to do with this story.  I love people watching and no better place than airports. Especially in France where I love looking at other women's make up and accessories for a few tips for myself.  In fact since our girls have been tweens I have been veering them toward the style and elegance of the young French women who know that a scarf simply tied or bag and jewellery or well groomed hairstyles exude that je ne sais quoi which is sadly lacking in the young dress sense of my own country which so often mistakes style with displaying as much pasty flesh as possible.  Well I spotted this man whose every item of clothing and accessories screamed 'trying too hard self-affected poser'.  My first impression was confirmed when he sat down and ostentatiously opened his novel clearly for all to notice his so cool choice of literature...

Oh PLEASE....

Well a final glimpse of the story of the little girl, when we arrived in Ireland the first thing we spotted on stepping off the plane was two airport stewards literally running to the door of the plane with the stroller folded up and overheard one say to the other he couldn't work out how to unfold it and the family would have to show him.  It struck me that though, thanks to my own little girl, I've had a glimpse into the difficulties which daily face special needs families, in the last three years I've also read testimony after testimony of the experiences of the small kindnesses which maybe are only seen by these families.  Little silver linings which time and again restore their faith in humanity with the realisation that a lot of people are good. 

My Friend The Fly

There's a tiny room in my house, it's a little downstairs lavatory. We've decorated it nicely with things that remind us of holidays and ancestors in the West of Ireland and it's really quite lovely.  All the same, it's still a toilet and not somewhere to linger too long.

It's a very hot day today. 30C degrees which is completely out of character for my country. Yes my country...my poor little once great country which had dignity even in oppression because we were steadfast. We were cast down many's the time but never defeated. We always had the dignity of our own mind not to jump off the precipice just because the lemmings were doing so.

Well anyway, it's a hot day and I'm in my little bathroom giving it a clean.  It's so hot I'm stifling even though the window is wide open because there's no cross breeze.  I'm hurrying to get back outside into the shade where it's cool and fresh.

I notice that a huge fly has managed to come indoors and is flying around my tiny, stifling room so I stop to watch him for a while. The window is wide open and he can fly out any time he likes but he instead keeps smashing himself into the wall in this stuffy stagnant place.  Outside there's the fresh peace of freedom.  Outside the air is cool and he can soar with the peace that only truth can give.

The greeny walls of this stifling bathroom are not true, it's fake...a painted effect which makes him feel like he's free and outdoors when really he's imprisoned.  Nobody is keeping him in that place, he's choosing to stay stifled and unhappy, smashing himself into the green wall convincing himself that he's free.  Convincing himself that he's master of the cess which is appropriate here. He flies near that wide open window towards release, towards the true joy of one free but he refuses to go out. I've tried to coax him out because I feel sorry for him in his voluntary prison watching the corpses of the other dead flies too proud or too stupid to fly out that window. Dead and lifeless. Because there is nothing so hopeless as one who refuses to be free.

But he won't go.

He's almost human-like in his obstinance.  So human I think he should have a human name.

Enda is a good name.  I think I'll name my fly friend Enda.

Nurturing Your Marriage

I was recently asked to give a talk to a group of young married women on nurturing marriage.  I jumped at the opportunity thinking I could talk all day and all night about the ways I've stumbled in my efforts at being the ideal wife.  I could talk about what I would have done differently, what I would have, could have and should have and what I was going to....

But then it dawned on me that a young wife doesn't want to hear about where I have gone wrong...what use is that?  We can all go wrong by ourselves, we have no need of anybody to tell us how to do it.  So I changed my track and decided to tell those young women, many of them in their 20s with small children, how to nourish their marriage in practical, bite sized and do-able ways.  A treatise on the value of marriage and how it is good for the spouses, for the children and for society is useless without some ideas of something I can do today and now.

Well anyway the talk went well and the girls were bursting with resolutions and plans and asked me to come back soon and speak again.  So I've decided to share here the gist of what gems I came up with which so enthused those young women.  Lots of the ideas I have gleaned myself and put to effective use in my own marriage from my two favourite sources.  Dr Ray Guarendi and Hallie Lord who blogs at Moxie Wife so I just want to acknowledge and thank both of them.  Others are just things I came up with myself which I found worked well. 

Now just note, this was a morning talk for young mothers/wives so my ideas in this are mainly aimed at women.  I'm considering asking a special guest blogger (my own husband) to write from the husband's point of view on the same topic.

So for your perusal, here's the gist of what I said...

First of all...and you can do this if you're reading too...just pause and close your eyes for 20 seconds...which is actually a long enough time...and think to yourself  about your own marriage and where you think the holes are.  Everybody has things that jump out as the most obvious flaws or shortcomings.

17...18...19...OK...20.

Now, thinking about those things I'm willing to bet most of them began with

'HE should...'

'I wish HE'd...'

'I'd love HIM to...'

When I said that every single one of the girls nodded and laughed guiltily.  This is exactly what I expected because it's exactly the way I think too.

So here is where we start..it's very very easy to see the faults of the other.  The more we know them, as in our spouse, the more obvious they are to us.  What's not so easy to see is where I am going wrong.  I bet not a single girl thought to herself...'if only I was more patient, less petty...or whatever it is'.

Not one of us can or ever will reach the point where we can say 'Ah yes, I'm perfect now!'  No human relationship ever reaches that point either.  We need to chip away, chip away all the time.  Struggle against our weaknesses, try to build up our qualities.  So too with marriage.  Whether we're hot off the press and rockin'...or whether we're floundering...or nice and comfortable but nothing to write home about...every one of our marriages can be better.  But as we've heard time and again, we can only improve ourselves.  And funnily enough, a change in ourselves often precipitates the desired change in the other.

So now, pause again for another 20 seconds and this time think what is the one thing I could most do better in.  Painful and all as it might be, it'll probably jump straight into mind.  Try it...

18...19...20..

So number one is start with myself.  And here's a few ideas.

Don't Presume Ill-Will

I worked in a place for several years that had such a horrible toxic atmosphere.  Everybody was suspicious of everybody else.  The problem was that ill will was the default presumption.  If someone parked in a particular spot the presumption was that the intent dad been to get at someone else rather than it happened to be just an available spot.  It made for such un-necessary suffering.

I know I've been guilty of this in my own marriage.  There have been days when my husband has gone off to work completely oblivious to some action or slight or omission he has committed.  Of course, as hour passes hour the misdemeanour blows out of all proportion.  By lunchtime I'm in a rage which has softened to a silent simmer by the time my poor innocent husband arrives home not realising that when he made his coffee that morning it was with the water I had earmarked for my coffee...and he did it on purpose...and if he loved me he would have put me first...so he doesn't love me...and so on and so on. And he has no idea why he's getting the silent treatment.

You don't need me to tell you it's babyish, unfair and wrong and just too typical.

Nip those negative presumptions in the bud!!! Resentment is poisonous to marriage.

Have Manners

So simple.  Please.  Thank you.

Surely if strangers are due our manners, how much more so should our spouse be treated with manners.

Yesterday in a busy moment and eager to catch my husband before he had passed the shops I sent him a single word text.

Milk

That was it. Milk...we needed it...get it.

He arrived home a bit later he put the milk on the fridge then slumped into the chair burning up with a fever.  He had turned his car around to go back for the milk I had asked for with such a lack of finesse.

So remember manners.  They really make a difference.

And sorry goes a long way too.

Be Complimentary

This is so obvious and yet so easily forgotten.  We notice the one thing that's undone and not the millions of things that are done.  As a mother I know it's a bit deflating whenever I go to a lot of effort to cook a meal and everybody eats it without so much as a simple 'this is nice'.  Husbands are people too and everybody appreciates being acknowledged.  If your husband does something nice, or good, or well...or if he looks good...tell him!!

Date Night

I have come to the conclusion that neglecting date-night is bordering on negligence.  Here's how I came to that conclusion.  Find a babysitter, maybe start a swap arrangement with another couple so both can get a night out from time to time.  Or maybe at least an at home date and pull out all the stops.  Which brings us nicely onto...

Intimacy

This is interesting, and sad.

I was looking for a picture to add to this piece in relation to marital intimacy.  I keyed in a few different words hoping to find a nice romantic picture depicting marriage.  Emm...looking up marriage, better make sure your children aren't looking over your shoulder if you are trying to bring them up with the thousands of years understanding of Christian sacramental marriage.  Try 'lovers' the last thing you'll see is a married couple depicted as lovers.  Romance...kiss...nuh! Look up married couple you'll find jokes about henpecked unhappy husbands and domineering nasty wives.

Ok..I'm exaggerating to make my point, but not that much.  How is it that married sexual love is understood in our culture to mean lack-lustre, non-existent or perfunctory.  Why is that?  Is it because it's true?  The most recent research tells us the opposite...married sex is more fulfilling, not less so.  But when babies are small and we're busy busy busy, intimacy and romance can be put to the bottom of the list or looked at as just one more 'task'.  This is a mistake because it is precisely through the physical relationship of the spouses the bond is most accurately expressed...and if you believe in the Christian understanding of marriage, a source of grace and blessing for both husband and wife and for the marriage itself.


So it's not something that should be put on the back burner due to lack of time or tiredness.  When we're busy and overwhelmed there is nothing wrong with earmarking time for this.  Spontaneity is all very well but did an amazing meal ever make itself without being planned for, thought about, ingredients bought?  Maybe in the castle of Beauty and the Beast that happened but in real life the best things are often pre-arranged.

First of all...tidy your bedroom (so you're not noticing the piles of newspapers, laundry and overflowing cupboards.)

Then...

Candles, music, thinking nice things during the day, some new massage oils, extra care with our make up, remembering why you married him...go for it.  It is not demeaning to make an effort to look nice for your husband.

And in one of my favourite tips from Moxie Wife, have a little peep into your undies drawer...what's in there?  Are they cotton, comfy, washed out...? How about your 'boudoir' attire?  Is it the t-shirt and shorts you've been wearing since you were 18?  Baggy?  shapeless? When I read this post by Hallie I had to admit that comfort was my priority.  Silky luxury didn't seem to match six children and a busy life and I realised that whenever I visited TKMaxx, the lingerie and sexy nightdress section were simply sections that it didn't even cross my mind that they might apply to me.  Well...why not me?  Why not you??

I have to say, this was the tip which most of my young wives liked the best and discussed the most afterwards.  I think there were a few unscheduled stop-offs at the lingerie shops on the way home.

Finally...my last tip (for now)

Generosity

I think it's fair to say that as wives we all love foot massages, back scratches, to be romanced and complimented.  We love our husbands to fulfill those lovely wishes.  How about us?  Men are not women.  Can we stretch ourselves a bit more in generosity?  Forget that 'headache'...you know you haven't got one.  Laziness is often a more correct term.  Send him a text telling him you're looking forward to time together instead of something he's almost afraid to suggest because we can make it so clear we're being 'put-upon'.  For a wife emotional intimacy is the preferred route to physical intimacy.  For a husband it is more often physical intimacy which reinforces the emotional bond. Be generous...it won't go un -noticed.

Well.  Good luck with those few ideas.  Our next door neighbour has two rose trees in his front garden.  I will never forget the day he planted them. It took him the whole day to dig the enormous holes he planted them in.  He had a trailer-load of fertiliser delivered and every last bit of it went into those rose roots.  He spent at least an hour watering the trees once he had dug them in.  To be honest I thought he was a bit over the top at the time.   I don't think that any more.  Those two rose trees are magnificent.  Marriage is like that you know.  It thanks us according to our effort.

Who knows where the road will lead us 

Only a fool would say 

But if you'll let me love you 

It's for sure I'm gonna love you all the way all the way 

(All The Way. Frank Sinatra)

We're Not Designed For Hate

It's been so long since my last post I hope you haven't forgotten me!  I've been overwhelmed by writing and listening and trying to do my bit here in my own little country which is sitting on the cusp of a wave and is either going to gently enter calm waters or crash down into a trough of destruction.  If you don't know already, I'm talking about the fact that the Irish Government is proposing to legalise abortion this summer in a law that all experts agree will sooner rather than later lead to abortion on demand up to birth. 

But that's not what my post is about, it's about something else, it could be life issues, it could be politics, culture or anything else where people have different viewpoints.  

Last night my husband told me I woke him up in the middle of the night to tell him how difficult the last few weeks have been for me.  I have zero memory of this incident but it doesn't surprise me.  Being midweek I'd had nothing stronger than a mug of camomile tea before bed so there was no vino induced veritas kicking in.  It would however seem that in half slumber veritas will also show it's face. 

I'll tell you what's been happening. Now I'm not telling this to bring the subject around to me, it could be, and is, anyone.  If you've been following this blog for any length of time you'll know that I have spoken about online nastiness  more than once.  It's spoken and warned about in schools, workplaces and so on and though everyone laments it, it's rampant. Of course, nobody ever admits to being the person behind those pseudonyms  from whose fingers flow toxic hostility that is sometimes chilling to witness.  I really really wonder what some people are like in real life. Can they hide the side of their personalities that are unleashed anonymously on Twitter and other forums? Does it seep into their interpersonal relationships? Their family lives?

A few weeks ago, maybe two weeks, I penned a letter to e-mail to the elected representatives of my country on the topic of this proposed legislation. 

This is what I wrote:

Dear Deputy,

From the perspective of someone who was advised to have an abortion by an Irish Obstetrician on the grounds of foetal anomaly and who every day is thankful she didn't take that advice, I am contacting you to convey my dismay at the upcoming proposed Irish abortion legislation, entitled 'Protection Of Life During Pregnancy Bill'.

Three and a half years ago at my routine ultrasound scan, my daughter, Louise, was diagnosed with a major life threatening congenital heart defect and a rare brain anomaly called Dandy-Walker Syndrome.  The very first thing our obstetrician suggested was to 'go to England'. We decided against that and to give our daughter a shot at life, however long or short that might be.

Throughout my pregnancy we felt judged and punished for deciding not to abort our child and were treated with great unkindness throughout the pregnancy.  To be honest it was a relief to transfer to the care of Our Lady's Children's Hospital Crumlin, where our baby was called her name from our first visit there long before she was born, in contrast to the refusal of our OB  to not only not call her Louise, but to not even refer to her as a baby.  To this day this has caused me profound pain.

I'd like to add that the suggestion to abort was made without the offer of an opinion of a cardiologist or a neurologist.

Because our daughter's condition is very rare, I am in contact with families across the English speaking world that are in the same situation.  I have yet to 'meet' a single family who were not encouraged, or more commonly, pressured, to abort their child.  In fact I came across a UK obstetric guideline that TOP should be recommended in EVERY CASE of Dandy-Walker.  On top of that, the same site cites an abortion rate of 50% for all babies with CHD, many of whom could have been given long lives with the help of surgery.

Had we taken the advice of our doctor, we would have thought we were 'saving' a child from a life of pain and disability.  We would never have known that Louise was about to defy all grim predictions, that she was about to defy her genes and that she would grow into a delightful little girl who has reached all her milestones with time to share.  She has had three major cardiac surgeries in her three years but her surgeon told us just this spring that he expects her to lead a long and normal life with just some restrictions such as she will never compete for Ireland in The Olympic Games.  He also told us that should she ever become pregnant, he and his colleagues will see and her half a heart through.  This is opposite to what we were told before she was born.

We also would never have known that this child was about to blow us away with a love we never could have imagined.  We would never have witnessed the effect she has had on people who will never meet her but whose lives she touched in profound ways...and this was long before she was born.  

As you know, there is already pressure and expectation to extend abortion legislation for foetal anomaly.  In my experience legality becomes expectation and quite quickly a 'duty'. The inclusion of a threat of suicide in the legislation is so wide open to misuse.  Nobody can disprove the validity of a threat of this nature and the widespread use of the mental health clause in UK abortion law rings alarm bells for Ireland.

 There is nothing in Irish human nature or psyche to suggest that we are different to every single other country in the world.

To take the life of an innocent person, sick or well, is such a terrible injustice and wrong to the core.  Surely the duty of society is to offer something better than this hopeless and terrible terrible act.

On behalf of babies like Louise, I implore people to stand for what is right and to do whatever is in your power to stop this legislation from passing.   

Yours sincerely,

etc.

All I did was tell my story and ask they take it into account. 

After I wrote it and read it over I thought it was pretty good (if I said so myself) and had the idea of sending it to the letters page of the country's newspapers, including the regional and local papers. 

About twenty minutes after I clicked 'send' I got an e-mail from a journalist with a national newspaper asking me could she ring me and could they get a photograph of Louise. Of course I was delighted that my letter would now be an article and maybe more people would read it.  So I spoke to the girl and she promised a story faithful to what I'd told her. 

I presumed the story would feature somewhere about page 16.

Nothing could have prepared me for what happened next!

I was preparing to go to bed a day or so later when my sister messaged me to say my face had just flashed up on the screen during a late night political programme which was having a look at the next day's front pages.

I was the headline article!! 

It also took up all of page two and three.

I felt the blood run from my face at the sudden realisation that 'they'll be out for my head now'. This is not a topic where a certain viewpoint is welcomed. I was so shocked! I couldn't sleep. Delighted and horrified at the same time.

Next day all hell broke loose. I got emails from other newspapers, radio, TV.  I figured that some news sources were weary of the shabby treatment and unveiled lack or balance and were happy to run with a life affirming story of hope.

Then I foolishly looked at Twitter.

When you find an assistant editor of a major national newspaper live tweeting anything he could find about you in his online research it's a bit un-nerving.  When that live tweet is joined by a staff writer of a different major online news site, adding links to comments (on the same topic as the article) I'd left on sites, links to my blog (both my blogs spiked that day with the pages being viewed the ones which looked like 'juicy' topics), trying to find out my Twitter handle, which luckily I'd changed about a year ago, links to a blogpost (about the sadness and beauty of miscarriage if they'd bothered to read it) that was published by a Catholic newspaper as an article last year...it moves into the realm of creepy. 

Next day online commentators were researching family links and any other links they could find, and it wasn't so they could praise my gorgeous little girl.  And then, the inevitable accusation that my story about Louise was fabricated by me and my husband for the purposes of agenda.

Now here's my point. I knew this was going to happen. My blog about Louise had from the start the hope that another family would glean enough courage to give their baby a shot at life.  I've never been ashamed or tried to hide that I stand for life, or my Christian, and more specifically Catholic, beliefs. Why should I be ashamed? 

I honestly really don't care about being the butt of this nastiness. Ultimately it's not personal, I'm just the vehicle for a message, it could be anyone who speaks an uncomfortable message. I'm happy to be in a position to say something.  When I was in Africa on a work camp I remember the battered sign that a lot of lorries and vans had which read 'Let Them Say' I've remembered that time and again over the years and if I was Carlsberg and I did mottos, that might well be it. 

Let them say.

Let them...

So why then can I not fall asleep these nights? Why have I had a two week low grade headache? Why did I wake up my husband during the night to admit to something my subconscious self can see but which my awake self denies? 

I have had far more lovely things said to me since I clicked 'send'. Today my green-grocer thanked me for saying what I said and gave me a free bag of spinach. Maybe he realises I probably need some of Popeye's power snack!!  The nasty witch hunters have been relatively minor.  

So why have they affected me? 

I think this is why:

We were made by God. Who is Love.  He made us out of Love. Our destination is Love. We're designed to be loved. 

We're not designed to be hated. Nobody is. When it's aimed our direction it's disconcerting. Peace does not come from hating and being hated. Peace comes from the freedom to love and be loved. That's our design. 

I normally have some (what I think is a) profound resolution at the end of my posts. Not this time. Maybe the words of St Francis...where there is hatred let me sow love. I don't know those people's baggage and it's not my business to. Maybe it's just a lesson to me to remember not to react with the same...although if my husband were to write here he'd tell you a few of the colourful mouthfuls that have come from me this past week...we're all a work in progress.

Well anyway, that's why there's been a gap in my blogging mojo.  I have some nice posts on my mind to write.  Unless they GET me, that is. 

A Bomb Through The Eyes Of A Child

I have had experience of two bombs in my life.  Both of the experiences have left a photographic if surreal imprint in my memory.  I have been listening today to interviews with those present or in the vicinity of the Boston Marathon Bombs and it has brought back those memories into the forefront of my mind, and the thoughts of what fear must have gone through the mind of my father that day.

It was 17th of May 1974.  My family had taken the trip to Dublin city centre to shop for errands.  In those days that's what shopping was.  It was an occasional occurrence, you had a list of essential items to purchase, often including material or yarn with which to make clothes for the children, and you bought them. Then you went home. The children didn't get treats in every shop...or in any shop for that matter, unless it had already been planned and budgeted for. Families in Ireland were short of money in the 1970s.

All of my family were there except for the eldest, my then 14 year old brother who had decided to stay at home to study for his state exams which were approaching a few weeks later. My father parked in the usual car park, a reasonably priced large park manned by a little pay-booth located to the back of Henry St, now the location of The Ilac Centre Shopping Centre.  I'll always remember the cobbled, roundy-stoned dusty surface of that car park, and I'm pretty sure my father does too...since he probably counted every stone in it a few hours later.

Our day seemed uneventful.  My mother needed some items in Arnotts, a slightly more up-market store which would be more fun from her point of view.  She discussed with Daddy whether she should go there first but they decided to get the more mundane items out of the way first, a decision which might possibly have saved all our lives. My mother was about the same age as I am now. My four sisters and I tramped around the necessary shops following my parents.  Men's trousers in Boyers.  Fabric for a dress for my sister in Hickeys.  We then went to the treasure trove for mothers of young families...Guineys on Talbot St., where you could buy children's vests and knickers, nylons,  tea-towels, bed-linen and all sorts of household essentials which were generally good quality at reasonable prices. As usual we spent quite some time there as my mother had quite a list.

Finally we went to Parnell St where there was a little shop which sold sheet music where my father bought some music books for piano and for teaching his pupils in the school where he was the principal.

 I remember this shop very well because my youngest sister, then 2, got momentarily lost and waited where she was as instructed until my parents retrieved her from outside the door of the shop, a little Georgian building with several steps up to the front door.  I may be wrong but I think the building may have been duck-egg blue with a navy door.

My parents remembered this shop very well too because they paused to buy an evening newspaper from the street-seller near the music shop.

With the essentials done my father said he'd take the little ones back to the car so that my mother and two older sisters could do the rest of the shopping without the fractious tiredness of the smaller children.  I was the eldest of those three.  This was a great occasion I remember because my father bought the three of us ice-cream cones, a very special treat.

After a while, when the two smallest sisters were either asleep or playing in the back of the car I was sitting beside my father in the passenger seat.  Time was ticking on and my mother and sisters should be back soon.

Then, out of the blue we heard a tremendous bang.  I thought it sounded like builders had dropped a huge steel girder from a height.  I clearly remember my father say in shock

"That's a bomb!"

Within seconds, from right behind the buildings near us I saw a huge mushroom cloud of smoke. I can't remember the immediate time frame but very soon after that people came running in panic to their cars and drove away from the vicinity as quickly as possible. I don't remember the second bang but my father does...the bomb which killed, among others, the newspaper seller.

My father told the three of us to lie face down in the back of the car and he covered us with his big anorak which he always kept in the car.  At this stage I could hear the three different sirens of police, fire engines and ambulances.

And we waited...

...and waited...

...the sound of cars speeding out of the car-park faded into the distance, leaving...us..the only car left in the car-park...

...silence and sirens...

....and we waited...

It's only now as an adult I can appreciate the terror my father must have felt waiting in that silent car-park for his young wife and two eldest daughters.  He couldn't risk leaving to look for them as he couldn't endanger his youngest children.  He must have been frozen in fear.

Finally, the three returned,  bags in hand, completely bewildered as to what was happening. They had been inside a large department store the whole time and had heard nothing until they made to return to the car.

So with his five little daughters lying face down in the car, my father left for home, not knowing whether he was driving to safety or into more bombs.  The quays, the route out of Dublin was choc-a-bloc with cars and ambulances trying to get through.  It must have been a singularly terrifying experience for my parents.

Meanwhile, my brother back home had the television on in the background while he was studying.  There was only one TV station at the time which was interrupted by the newsflash announcing multiple deaths and injuries at the very shop he knew my mother always went to, Guineys.

We had no telephone and neither did any of our neighbours so there was nothing he could do but stand on the step...for several hours...to find out whether his family were ever coming home.

This was my 1st Holy Communion taken one month later.

Other families weren't so lucky.

Here's a short little tribute to the 33 who died that day, including an entire young family, parents and their two baby girls.  A nine-month unborn baby was later acknowledged as the 34th victim.

I was in close proximity to another bomb as a young adult, along with my parents again and one of the sisters who had been 'missing' that day in 1974.  We were returning from visiting my Grandmother and aunt in Northern Ireland and I was availing of the opportunity for some driving experience.  We were passing the border military checkpoint with the patrol soldier examining my driving licence when a bomb went off a very short distance away, missing the target of the soldier.  We were in very real danger but I do not want to write about it.  I saw unbridled terror in that young boy's face that day, I would never like to see that again.

Thankfully nobody was hurt in that incident.

Please pray for victims of terrorism, no matter where they are in the world.  It is almost always innocent people and children who suffer from this terrible terrible blight on our planet.

May God forgive the people who carry out these acts.