I honestly don’t know where to start when writing about this extraordinary gentleman. Part of me doesn’t want to write anything at all, preferring instead to stay in a bubble of soft denial, but experience tells me that this approach will not serve me.

The irreplaceable Emmet Grogan has left this world, and it hurts like hell contemplating a future without him.

I met Emmet when I was seven years old. We were both doing a “summer camp” in Clochan House. At that age. I had no concept of myself as being any way different, and I was suspicious of his wheelchair. What struck me about him when I met him first was his confidence. He knew that he deserved to participate in the world around him, a belief no doubt reinforced by his loving parents, Tommy and Mary. He loved showing off his piano skills, leading many a singsong when we stayed in Clochan House.

I remember the first proper conversation we had. I was ten years old and we were in the Harriers cycling around the track, me on my red tricycle, he on his handcycle. We started chatting about school and how we hated being told what we could and couldn’t do. From that evening, we always sidestepped the awkwardness, and a friendship developed that I too often took for granted.

Emmet became what I refer to as a “core friend”. He was among the first people I invited to my twenty-first, to our wedding, Ali’s christening and any other events we held. We didn’t speak every day, but he held such an important place in my and JP’s life.

We worked together for a year in Offaly CIL, and I was delighted to have a friend around to make the day go quicker. He designed the OCIL website and took great pride in his work. He was constantly asking for feedback, being eager to please and wanting to push himself professionally. He was a good laugh to work with, and I really missed him when he left.

As we grew older, I understood more about how pain affected him. Emmet had quite a severe form of Spina Bifida, and sometimes he was in so much pain, he couldn’t even speak. He’d had so many operations, and had been plagued by kidney infections for as long as I could remember. When I was sick, it was surmountable, but whenever Emm was sick, it really wiped him out. What struck me as we grew older together was how easily we could discuss these realities of our impairments. He never complained, but neither did he pretend his ailments didn’t exist; he wasn’t a supercrip, he was human. It was this humanity and authenticity that led me and so many others to gravitate towards him. But he wasn’t a misery guts either; he had a wicked sense of humour that was often unexpected. Understanding where he was coming from and trying to meet each other where we were at allowed us to share a friendship based on honesty, respect and love.

Emmet loved life. I slagged him many times over his love of going for coffees or a pint, either on his own or with friends. And why not? What he really loved (I hope) was catching up with friends. He also loved his annual family holiday to their mobile home in France every year, and usually came home either bronzed or as red as a tomato. 

Emmet loved his family, who meant everything to him, not only because of the assistance they offered, but because they truly encouraged him to be independent. They were his safe space, never stopping in their mission to ensure he had the highest possible quality of life. And I know how much he appreciated this. He was very much his own man, but his family always had his back. It’s very rare that such a balance is found when a family member has such a severe impairment. The line between empowerment and overprotection is a fine one, but his loving parents managed it perfectly. I know this because he only ever had good and positive things to say about them. And they had such a gorgeous relationship. Emmet was never a burden – he was a son, a brother, a cousin, an uncle. His family needed him just as much as he needed them.

I have cried so much in the last few days, yet I don’t think the reality has hit me. I’ve lost so many friends, but this is somebody who I never thought I’d have to contemplate living without. Rest easy Emmet. God knows you deserve it. X