Tag Archives: nostalgia

A Letter to my Sixteen Year Old Self – Tuesday Thoughts 5

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Dear sixteen-year-old Sarah,

You don’t know me, but I am you, writing this from the year 2023 (no, you have not died alone at the age of 25, as you thought you would!) In fact, you’re due to turn the big four-oh next year, and life is even better than you could ever imagine, though I know it’s hard to see it now.

Right now, Sarah, you’re the “swot”, the misfit, and you don’t have that many friends. You’re lanky, clumsy and awkward, and no matter what you do, you just can’t seem to blend in. Maybe you don’t realise it now, but it’s not your destiny to fit in, and that’s not a bad thing. My dear, you’re not a stick of foundation, existing only to cover over the cracks. You were born to stand out, and as cringeworthy as it may seem now, in time you will embrace it. You will be a rock of support for so many of your peers, disabled people who, like you, yearn to live independently. You know that you’re good at looking out for other people.

Unfortunately, you’ll always be stubborn and you’ll never really take your mother’s advice, and learn to truly look after yourself. This will always leave your mental health a little fragile, something you will struggle with over the years. However, your future is so much brighter than you could ever imagine, and contrary to what you believe, you will find someone to share your life with. In fact, you will meet the love of your life on the first of November this year, the year 2000. Where? Clochan bloody House. I swear to God, this isn’t a word of a lie. You are going to be so glad your mother forced you into respite, at the ripe auld age of sixteen?! His name’s John Paul and he’s perfect (okay, not exactly; he’s from Laois, but sadly some things cannot be helped). You think you don’t believe in love? Well, this guy is going to shatter all your illusions.

You two need each other it’ll be you and JP against the world. Against the advice of well-wishers, JP and yourself become will rather close and in fact, he will be the only partner you’ll ever need. You’ll attend your grad with your boyfriend, and he will come up to Trinity College to visit you at weekends. Yes, you read right – you’re going to university. You’re a hard worker, and you’ll study English in Trinity with the intention of pursuing a career in writer (and God bless, you’re still trying). You will live independently from your parents and after burning a few pizzas, you’ll learn that you’re actually a proficient cook, able to whisk up meals out of the measliest tins. You’ll meet Brendan Kennelly and exchange pleasantries with him in Front Square, sit in lectures given by Seamus Heaney, and write essays about Shakespearean plays, all while feeling like the biggest imposter to walk through through that wooden Front Gate. I promise you that your classmates all feel like imposters too, and how I wish I could go back and whack your heads together!

Anyway, back to JP. I know you’re baulking at the idea of marrying a disabled person for the sake of it, but that’s not what’s going on here. This guy is super supportive of your dreams, as you are of his. You want what’s best for each other, you constantly encourage each other to embrace your individuality and each other’s interests. It will surprise you, as a skeptic of the institution of marriage, that you’re going to walk down the aisle in Tullamore Church in August 2010. 

You will also have a family, even though I know you’re dubious about whether you would make a good mother. Only one person on this earth could be the judge of that. Her name is Alison, who you’ve named after your mum’s favourite bluegrass singer, Alison Krauss. She will be perfect in every way. Of course, motherhood will not be an easy path and yet again, you will find yourself having to prove your ability to everyone. If I could lend you one piece of advice at this stage, it would be not to listen to the doubts of others. There is no reason why you’re any less capable than those so-called “able-bodied” mothers who can carry their children on their hips. It’s a tired cliché, I know, but love is really all that you’ll need. And her love will carry you through, and make you a better person.

You’re afraid of what the future holds right now. Many of your disabled friends have been relegated to the modern-day equivalent of sheltered workshops, but you shouldn’t be discouraged by this; there are often different routes to our destinations of choice. Besides, just because you will be lucky enough to go to university doesn’t make you better than anyone else. If you ever become privileged enough to pursue writing as a career, then you must learn to cast those prejudices aside and truly listen to those stories around you. You’ll learn so much more than you think.

Right now, you’re contemplating writing a play for the summer, in order to secure your place in TY. Just follow your heart. It will be huge. You and your friends will become so much closer. However, one mistake you’ll make for years is taking yourself and your writing too seriously. Writing is something that you’ve done forever, but you’ll hate it for a while. You’ll jack it in to try something more mainstream: office work. Yes, you’ll abandon your dreams for a while but you’ll always be led back to writing – where you’ll belong. Just to warn you – it will never make you rich. But you’ll come to accept that money is no substitute for good mental health.

And one last thing – your biggest fear will come true in just nine short years. I’m afraid that your mum will be struck down in her prime, at the tender age of fifty-one. You will be devastated, naturally, but don’t you dare wallow in self-pity. You owe her a lifetime debt of her steadfast belief in you, for her refusal to allow you to sit around and wait for opportunities to drop into your lap, for never mollycoddling you. Only when you get older will you truly appreciate the struggle that both mum and dad faced in proving your true worth to those who advised them to dump you into a home, why they insisted that you went for extra physiotherapy sessions, and why they pushed you out into the world. Right now, it seems unfair that you have to cook every weekend, or do a mountain of chores, or cycle to school every single day, even in lashing rain. But life isn’t fair, and by the time you leave college and go on to work and starting your family, you’ll realise that. And you will be filled with an irrepressible sense of right and wrong, and the strength to fight for your rightful place in the world.

So, my child, keep pushing forward in the knowledge that although things look bleak now, they will get better. Your work ethic and charming personality will win through in the end. Just be patient and keep the faith.

All my love,

39 year old me.

Mother’s Day Hunger

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Tomorrow is Mother’s Day. Normally I’d anticipate it coming but this year it just hit me out of the blue. ‘Happy Mother’s Day!’ shrieked Alison on the way out of school on Friday afternoon, waving yet another piece of brilliant artwork. And it is brilliant; you can see the improvements in the detail of the people she draws. They’re no longer stick people, they have trousers and dresses, eyelashes and even bracelets. She’s growing up every day, because of me, or in spite of me – I’m never sure which.

We spent the whole day in town together, and after the two hours in the park decided to pick out something for her two nanas’ graves. We eventually found something vaguely acceptable, but as I surveyed them, something sank in my stomach. It’s not only the feeling of loss that comes with every Mother’s Day when your mum passes away. This was a very real but unreasonable sensation. I’ll try to explain.

Every Saturday if the weather’s good, Ali and I will go for lunch, a kind of mother/daughter bonding activity. It’s become a habit, a ritual, one I used to look forward to (I love cooking  but hate the clean-up after). Now, however, the novelty has worn off and I’ve started making dinner at home more. My cooking is nice, but also there’s nowhere in the world that will ever serve food the way mum used to make it. Sausage stew, roast pork, ‘twice-baked’ spuds filled with ham, onion and cheese, cheesy veg, lasagne (I’m salivating here and it has nothing to do with my Cerebral Palsy). I know it sounds ridiculous but even if I followed recipes the thought of never eating her food as she cooked it hurts. I’m hungry for the nice food.

And as with every Mother’s Day, I’m hungry for her.

I’m hungry for the ridiculous fights we had on countless Mother’s Days when she used to insist  on cooking dinner (probably for the same reasons that I can’t seem to find a nice restaurant these days – she liked her own food) after which she would moan incessantly about how nobody helped her even though she liked doing things her own way and she had previously insisted on cooking alone.

I’m hungry for the ridiculous squeals of appreciation at presents we got in the Pound Shop that she’d probably given us money to buy (wow, just what I need! A stuffed penguin!) and the feeling that no matter what you got her it would never compensate for the job she did as a mother. And her smiles as she opened the cards and cooed over our artwork.

I’m hungry for who she could’ve been, whether that might’ve been a famous interior designer, a ‘hip’ nana or a grumpy curmudgeon and I often wonder what she would have made of JP and I having Ali, and whether she would’ve insisted that she wasn’t an on-call babysitter with one breath and threatened to adopt my daughter with another. I wonder if she would approve of my choice to leave a paid job and enter the murky world of freelancing, or if she’d be embarrassed by my seeming laziness. She certainly wouldn’t approve of the wheelchair, but I also know that she kind of, sort of, trusted my ability to make sensible decisions.

I’ll never know what she did and didn’t approve of. I only have one regret, and that is how hard I was on her, how much I expected of her. Being a mother is hard work and scary sometimes, and sometimes she had bad days like us all, which she tried to hide from us. When I was small, I thought my mum was invincible, and even when I was told at the age of twenty-five that she had passed away, I said ‘no, sure try waking her again, she’s just a very heavy sleeper(!!!) (She slept through a bomb which demolished some of her house in Cookstown at the age of fourteen).  I, like all of us, took her death hard, and when my own daughter was born three years later, I panicked. How was I going to do this without the support of the woman who had such a major role in who I am today? And yet, I did, sort of. Call me crazy but during that time I had to believe she was close by otherwise I would have crumbled altogether.

Now, my grief is more reserved, but it won’t stop the tears on a day like tomorrow. Yet tomorrow too will come and go, feelings of happiness and sadness intertwined with begrudging acceptance. I think one of Mum’s favourite country and western singers, Kathy Mattea, puts it more eloquently than I ever could:

‘We’ll never know what could have been, but looking back we see
What could have been, and never was, was never meant to be.’

Now there you go mum, your own Mother’s Day blog! No ‘I wish heaven had a phone’ memes for you! xxx