“There us nothing more to talk about,” you say, on this bitter Good Friday. Standing, frozen, graveside in Tagoat.
Your right…what is there to talk about now? My condolences fall on angry ears; It was an empty hopeless gesture. Perhaps I was seeking reassurance, even forgiveness. But none was coming. You were angry, angry that in your eyes we did nothing, we in the mental health services.
We sighed, at the hopelessness of every crisis that consumed her, like a tsunami. Ironic that at a time in her life when there was no crisis, no cry for help. She took a fist of Valium and a rope…”look at me” And took her own life, in the shed of her childhood memories..
“There is nothing left to talk about” you say meeting my hand shake, limp and angry.
“Your right” I say to my self.. There is nothing left to say.
As I leave the grave yard I’m distracted by two cyclists, zipping by on the hard shoulder on their way towards Rosslare harbour. Instinctively I check out their gear to see what club they belong too. Or is it Aldi’s finest? (Jaysus I’m turning into David Furlong) Wondering if there on their way home, with the wind to their backs, cruising, how far had they cycled, did they stop for coffee and scones?. I envy their freedom on this Good Friday. What I wouldn’t give right now to be on my bike, lost on back roads, Mt Leinster in the distance calling me over its summit.
I had promised myself that I would never count the days to retirement. That I would try live each day, every moment to its fullest. But right now, sitting here in my car. Retirement cannot come soon enough. Two more Christmases, three more diaries, three more Nurse registrations, three more summer holidays….a thousand more bullshit meetings, a million more injections, a billion more nursing assessments…and..and, how many more angry funerals will I have to attend…
Ah yes on this so called “Good Friday” standing in an angry grave yard in Tagoat…Sundays club cycle cannot come soon enough.