My uncle, Sean Moore, died from suicide on June 29th, 2018, only a little more that a year after his daughter Ally died.
My first instinct on hearing the news of what happened was to go to him- he was still alive when found and he was airlifted to the closest trauma center, The South West Acute Hospital in Enniskillen, a town in County Fermanagh, Northern Ireland. There was no real expectation he would survive his injuries. I left my work in the hands of my colleagues and headed home.
I packed, got a ticket from Delta- the man I spoke to was exceedingly kind and got me on a flight at 6pm that same evening. Passport in hand, I boarded the plane. My daughter was worried that I had not made a plan to stay with someone, I was taking the bus from Dublin, and that I wouldn't have a phone to reach anyone. I had no such worries. I just needed to go. This was Sean, after all. My uncle who had always been so incredibly generous to me, to everyone, who loved us all so fiercely.
Sean was my mother's youngest brother. Her favorite. My aunt, of course, told me, "Sure, he was everyone's favorite."
I landed in Paris and had to get myself to a connecting flight in another terminal (My French from high school completely abandoned me) and after being misdirected twice and going through security again I cut it very close to catch my flight. And the heat even in the terminal was just brutal.
I arrived in Dublin, exhausted from lack of sleep and found myself waiting in the long line for non-EU members. I was desperate for a bathroom and there are none before you go thru immigration- Bah Humbug. When the man asked if I was in Ireland for a holiday or business, my eyes welled up and I whispered that my uncle was in the hospital and doing poorly. The young man was kind and passed me thru with directions to the nearest restroom. Next I searched for a bus to the Dublin Bus terminal, which I had a much less difficult time with on my last visit in 2014.
Dublin was quite changed- something I knew was happening but was amazing to see.
At the bus terminal, I found only one option to get me to Clones via a 1pm Cavan bus and a 4:40pm connection to Clones, which had me arriving in Clones after five. I couldn't sleep on the bus because it was meat locker cold, but the scenery was just beautiful as we wove thru all the small towns on the route.
At the Cavan terminal, I had tea that was disappointing prior to boarding the last bus of my journey. By the time I was dropped at the bottom of Fermanagh Street, I had been traveling over 24 hours. I lugged my much too large suitcase up the town to Packies and got a beer and tried to figure out how to get out to Rita's when Finton Morgan walked in. Sean had died at around 3pm that afternoon, Finton told me. After buying me a pint, he took me to drop off my case at Rita's (She was not back from the hospital) and then out to Annakilly to see Mac and Monica.
After Finton left, I had Mac drop me at Rita's but he didn't come in. Rita had all the Cunninghams and Teresa Marron. Bernard and the rest of the Marrons were due to arrive the next day, as were JP, Karen and Peter Sheerin. The Americans- Ann, Etta, Sean, Kathleen and Colleen were arriving Sunday, and John McMahon would fly in Monday for the funeral.
The funeral had to be Monday, as Eamonn, the eldest of my mother's brothers, was scheduled for Chemo Tuesday to treat his colon cancer.
We ate, we talked, and we missed him. Sean Moore was only 66 years old.
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