Dealing with death: How the Pet Shop Boys and a beach in Lahinch saved me
The candle flickered in the lantern in the window, lit every night since David had started sleeping in the sitting room. Eight months since he hadn't been able to climb the stairs to bed. Sixteen months since the second surgery to remove the tumour growing in his brain. Twenty months since he got the news he only had 12 more to live.
Because David was too full of life to leave it easily.
The mattress pump hissed as it rose and fell in the early morning quiet.
'Can you open the door please,' said David.
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I looked around, puzzled. There was no door. The sitting room opened into the dining room, where we'd often gathered for raucous dinner parties with David and his husband Jonathan, me, Sally, Paula and Craig. Now we took it in turns to sit with David on the Marie Curie nurses' nights off.
I reached for the plastic beaker of juice, thick with the chunky powder that helped him swallow.
'Have a drink,' I said, guiding his lips to the straw, thinking about other nights we'd spent drinking through straws.
Galway
in the '90s, glugging flagons of cider through straws in Seamus Quirke Road before hitting the dance floor in The Castle, strobe lights flashing, the whites of our fake Converse glowing in the dark.
'Open the door,' David said again.
I held his hand.
'Sleep now David. I'll stay with you.'
But he continued to ask me to open the door and eventually, as dawn crept in through the window and the candle in the lantern flickered out, I said: 'The door is open, David.'
And he squeezed my hand.
A week later, David went through the door.
I was in my mother's house in Sligo when Jonathan texted me to say David was fading. I lit a candle for him then, a candle with three wicks that could burn for days if it had to.
In the end, it burned for three hours.
Craig phoned me at 4pm.
'Have you got somebody with you?' he asked when I answered the phone, but I couldn't bring myself to ask if David was gone because, even then, I was still hoping he wasn't. Maybe Craig had just called for a chat. Or with an update. Or by accident.
That night I raised a glass to David and played all our favourite songs. The Blue Nile's A Walk Across the Rooftops, Rosie Vela's Magic Smile, the songs we'd first bonded over at college in Galway, when I knew I'd found a kindred spirit. I cried listening to Mel and Kim's Respectable, remembering how sad we were when Mel died.
I had a little dance by myself to Belinda Carlisle's Mad About You, a much overlooked and under-appreciated classic we'd agreed sagely at the wise old age of 18. And in the opening seconds of
Pet Shop Boys'
West End Girls, the clip-clop of high heels on slick wet pavements, the slush of traffic through rain, I was right back there again. The fading light of evening at the start of a new term, streetlights coming on in the dusk.
We know that music is linked to our personal stories
—
Catherine Loveday
The magic of Galway swirled around me, everything was new, unfamiliar and exciting as we took those first tentative steps into adulthood, poised at the start of life's great adventure.
The power of music to instantly return us to the past is mind-blowing.
'I was walking through the
Christmas
markets in
Dublin
a few years ago, engrossed in conversation with my husband, when a piece of music came on and I suddenly had tears rolling down my cheeks,' says neuropsychologist Catherine Loveday. 'It was my dad's favourite Christmas song, When A Child Is Born by Johnny Mathis, and it completely took me back to my childhood Christmases. I was eight years old again.'
Loveday, professor of cognitive neuroscience at the University of Westminster and author of The Secret World of the Brain, believes music taps into our brain's innate system for responding to emotions.
Bernadette Fallon and her late friend David Moclair
'We know that music is linked to our personal stories,' she explains. 'Research shows that music becomes linked to our memories – the brain cell networks become actively connected with each other so that one will trigger the other. The representation of the music becomes physically paired with the representation of our remembered experience.'
I know what she means. I hear Echo Beach and I'm on a heaving dance floor in The Warwick on a sweaty Thursday night. The Beat(en) Generation sends me back to the white-tiled kitchen in Grattan Park that David used to call the abattoir; Pet Shop Boys' Always on my Mind to a tiny two-bed flat on New Road, the lights of David's HiFi system flashing like we were on a spaceship.
So it's clear that music has a big impact on our brains and memories, but what's the impact of grief on the brain? I asked Henry Marsh, neurosurgeon and author. He's also the man who gave me back my life after he removed a tumour growing under my brain more than 20 years ago.
Grief is a whole-person experience. It impacts us physically, emotionally, cognitively, socially, financially
—
Niamh Fitzpatrick
'Everything you are thinking and feeling at the moment is the physical process in your brain from the neuroscientific point of view. So clearly, any trauma, any grief, will have an impact on it,' he says.
'Within a year, or even less, of losing a spouse, people over the age of 60 have a hugely increased risk of dying. That is a direct physiological response to a mental state.
'And there's a condition called Takotsubo, where severe trauma or emotion causes a weird change in the shape of the heart, which can even be fatal, although it normally reverses. That's neurologically mediated – our brains are intimately connected to our bodies.'
Psychologist Niamh Fitzpatrick has also observed first-hand how grief impacts every part of us. She suffered her own traumatic loss when her sister, Captain Dara Fitzpatrick, was killed along with three other crew members after their Irish Coast Guard Rescue helicopter crashed off the Mayo coast in 2017. Niamh talks about navigating her way through that grief in her book Tell Me the Truth About Loss.
Neil Tennant and Chris Lowe of the Pet Shop Boys performing at 3Arena ,Dublin, in 2023.
Photograph: Tom Honan/The Irish Times.
'Grief is a whole-person experience. It impacts us physically, emotionally, cognitively, socially, financially. There's so many layers and levels to it. And it's exhausting. The drain on us mentally, emotionally and in all sorts of ways is immense. And that's because of the impact of the loss on our life, the impact of knowing we are never going to see that person again, that we'll never sit with them or talk with them, we'll never hold and touch them, we won't do any of those things again.'
Grief, it has been said, is the price we pay for love. And along with music, the other great comfort I've found to help me cope with sadness is nature. Or more specifically, a beach in Lahinch.
The year before David's diagnosis, we were in and out of lockdowns, not able to meet up very often. But when we did meet, we headed for the seaside.
I have photos of us smiling into the sun in Whitstable, eating fish and chips in Margate and standing with our mouths open in Herne Bay, gobsmacked by the most glorious sunset we'd ever seen, the sky glowing orange and red like a giant bonfire in the sky.
I remembered that sunset the year after David died, standing on the beach in Lahinch on January 2nd. Christmas had been rough so when January hit, I decided to take my sad heart to the coast.
Evidence shows that contact with nature lowers our blood pressure, cortisol levels and stress
—
Henry Marsh
I'd spent most of the day on three buses, leaving Sligo early that morning while it was still dark. The rain was pelting down in Galway, with sodden ditches under water. The weather was even worse in Clare, swans and seagulls bobbing in the flooded fields. But as we approached Lahinch, a thin line of white light on the horizon started to force its way through the slate grey clouds and we arrived to blue skies and sunshine.
People were beaming at each other on the beach, several of whom stopped to tell me they'd been trapped inside by storms all week. As I stood taking photos of the sunset, I felt David standing beside me, smiling in the joyous light.
I spent most of the next few days on the beach, the sun shining so bright my friends messaged to ask if I was in the Mediterranean when I sent them my photos. And something inside me that was broken when David died started to heal.
Bernadette Fallon on Lahinch beach
'Evidence shows that contact with nature lowers our blood pressure, cortisol levels and stress,' says Henry Marsh. 'I've always been a passionate believer in gardens and my proudest moment was creating a roof garden in St George's Hospital outside the wards. Research shows that having a view of nature from a window shortens your time in hospital and also reduces the need for painkillers.'
I've gone back to Lahinch most months since. I walk on the beach and look at the beauty of it all and it helps me. Sometimes I feel David walking beside me.
I thought I saw him the other day, hoisting his rucksack on his back at Clapham Junction, putting his earbuds in and walking across the station platform, tall and purposeful, heading out to meet another tough day. His work as a community psychiatric nurse meant dealing with people who were often on suicide watch lists, living in some of the poorest and most deprived parts of London. But he never complained.
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The thoughts of him striding out with courage to meet the world, despite what it threw at him, gives me hope to do the same. Sometimes, a day is a hard thing to face. 'Make a start,' says David in my head, 'just get out of bed.'
It's the best advice I've heard so far. Just get out of bed. And take it from there. The time passes and the pain of grief doesn't go away, but it somehow becomes more manageable.
Albert Einstein said time was an illusion anyway. So maybe we're still walking home to Seamus Quirke Road with bags of shopping to make our favourite dinner (pasta with ham in a garlic cream sauce – we thought we'd invented it until somebody told us about spaghetti carbonara). Maybe we're still crossing O'Brien's Bridge in the drizzle, my heels clip clopping on the footpath, West End Girls playing in our heads.
In memory of David Moclair. Lived for 53 years, loved forever.
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Irish Times
2 hours ago
- Irish Times
How St Stephen's Green went from a mucky marsh to Dublin's most famous square in 400 years
Dublin Corporation, some years ago, found itself with a substantial but unprepossessing tract of land that was increasingly becoming a bit of a headache. The corporation, the forerunner of Dublin City Council, had become the custodian of this marshy, mucky expanse, which was quite a distance southeast of the city walls in 1577. But it hadn't done a whole lot with it. Back then, it was a grazing common any 'free citizen' of Dublin could use, as long as they did so 'proportionately'. But as the century turned, pressures from the expanding city meant more citizens were seeking to use the land – and the meaning of 'proportionately' was being stretched. READ MORE In the early 1600s the corporation tried leasing the land to the city's guilds, who promptly sublet it to farmers. As time went on, complaints were mounting from the burgeoning class of city merchants that more noxious and noisy 'household' animals – pigs and geese – were starting to appear, and worse still, newcomers to the city were annexing the pasture and building makeshift homes. In 1635 the corporation, tiring of the constant haranguing from constituents, passed laws ending the use of the land for grazing and designating it solely 'for the use of the citizens and others to walk and take the open aire by reason of this cittie growing very populous'. Then came the problem of what to do next. In reality no one was asking to stroll across this boggy expanse. The corporation was, however, looking towards the Continent, where formal tree-lined walks for the better sort were becoming all the rage. Also, as ever, the corporation needed cash. Its solution was to enclose the common with a rectangular, tree-lined perimeter walk, and set out 96 residential building plots on all four sides. In 1663 St Stephen's Green , the first and largest of Dublin's residential squares, was born. A rainy summer day in St Stephen's Green. Photograph: Chris Maddaloni The pasture land had actually been called St Stephen's Green for hundreds of years, taking its name from the local church and leper hospital of St Stephen, founded by 1192. The divvying out of building plots, which happened through a lottery system in 1664, marked the starting point for what is still Dublin's best-known square. The corporation had put thought into creating a classy new residential area. It stipulated the houses should be built of brick or stone topped with tiled or slated roofs, an uncommon and significant edict for the time, according to historian Arran Henderson who runs Dublin Decoded tours. 'At this time most houses were still built of wood, or were half timbered. The corporation made it clear that everything had to be brick, slate and stone, and be a certain size, a certain amount of storeys, and so on,' says Henderson. 'You weren't allowed build small, old-fashioned houses. St Stephen's Green was meant for upscale living from the get-go.' The corporation also ordered that for each house built, three sycamore trees were to be planted to contribute to the perimeter promenade. The development plan for St Stephen's Green was now in place, but construction was slow to start. By the end of the century, houses were mainly concentrated on the northern and western plots, leading from the top of Grafton Street, with little building on the eastern and southern sides. This meant that few trees for the promenade, one of the key themes of the development plan, were planted. The corporation eventually took the greening strategy in hand, using some of the rent from the plots to hire garden designers, who completed the perimeter walk with a mix of sycamore, ash and lime trees. The first houses that began to appear in the late 1600s were in the 'Dutch Billy' style, taking their name from the new King William of Orange, where the roof gables faced the front rather than the side of the house. A stroll around the green won't immediately reveal any gable-fronted houses but some lurk behind a Georgian veneer. No 87 St Stephen's Green, built in about 1730 as a pair with number 88, has a 'Dutch Billy' roof. Photograph: Chris Maddaloni 'There are some hiding there on the southside, close to the junction of Harcourt Street,' says Henderson. 'You'll notice that as they go up, the number of windows decreases, from three to two. It's really exciting when you see that because it means you're looking at a Dutch Billy.' The reduction in windows was required to accommodate the pitch of the sloped gable roof on the Dutch Billy house. 'It became so unfashionable, when the Georgian style came in fully,' he says. 'It was unforgivably naff to have a Dutch Billy, so if people kept them, they put on a fake parapet on the front and built up the brick on the left and right to flatten out the front of their houses.' By the middle of the 1700s remodelling, as well as demolition and reconstruction, reached fever pitch. 'There was a huge building boom in the Georgian era. Dublin was awash with money,' says Henderson. He was a notorious hell-raiser. A gambler, a drunkard and he did some really appalling things — Henderson on Buck Whaley Mansions started to appear on the green. One of the earliest was built on the southside in 1736 for Robert Clayton, bishop of Cork and Ross. The house, at number 80, was built by Richard Castle who less than a decade later went on to build Leinster House. Numbers 80 and 81 were bought by Benjamin Lee Guinness, who in 1862 joined the two together with a unified Portland Stone facade. His grandson, Rupert Lord Iveagh, in 1939 donated the pair to the State and it was renamed Iveagh House, now the headquarters of the Department of Foreign Affairs. The hot property action was all happening on the southside in these early years, largely due to the availability of vacant plots. A few doors down from numbers 80 and 81, Castle, the 'starchitect' of the day, was again commissioned in 1738 to build what is described by Christine Casey in The Buildings of Ireland as a 'diminutive Palladian palazzo' for Captain Hugh Montgomery at number 85. Next door, and a several decades later in 1765, number 86 was built in 1765 for Richard Chapell Whaley. Again, both were joined together in the 19th century to become Newman House for the Catholic University of Ireland, the predecessor of University College Dublin. No 85-86 St Stephen's Green. Photograph: Chris Maddaloni It's probably best Chapell Whaley didn't live to see the day, given his nickname was Burn-Chapel Whaley, due to his anti-Catholic activities. 'A really unpleasant man, as was his son,' says Henderson. 'I think the family distinguished themselves by each generation finding a different way to be obnoxious.' Thomas Whaley is better known than his father, but more by his nickname, Buck Whaley, after which a former Leeson Street nightclub took its name. 'He was a notorious hell-raiser. A gambler, a drunkard and he did some really appalling things,' says Henderson. Among these were playing handball against the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem as part of a bet, and – also probably for a bet – trying to jump a horse through the diningroom window of number 86, killing the animal in the process. 'He was considered, or thought himself, fashionable and fun, but he was pretty disgusting, actually,' says Henderson. He died in 1800, aged 34. On the opposite side of the park, mansion mania had firmly taken hold by the middle of the 1700s. Most of the plots on the northside had been built out by the end of the previous century, so it was a case of either adapting the earlier houses, or more commonly, razing them in favour of the new and fashionable. Among the first of these new builds was number 9, built in 1756 for the Reverend Cutts Harman, dean of Waterford. It became the home of the Stephen's Green Club in 1840. No 9 St Stephen's Green, home of Stephen's Green Club, founded by Daniel O'Connell and others in 1840. Photograph: Chris Maddaloni Next door, at number 8, a house built around 1772 for Samuel Hutchinson, bishop of Killala, also became a club in 1845: the Hibernian and United Services Club for gentlemen and senior members of the crown forces serving in Ireland. The late 1770s saw a construction spree, with four of the northside's grandest houses built, and still standing, from 1776 to 1779. These were number 14 for Ambrose Leet, numbers 15 and 16 for Gustavus Hume, and number 17 for Joseph Leeson, first earl of Milltown. The last was acquired by the University Club in 1850 and is now the Kildare Street and University Club. The clubs, however grand, were not the most impressive hospitality businesses to hit the green in the 1800s. In 1824, probably the best-known landmark on the green opened, and the last survivor of Dublin's grand Victorian hotels: the Shelbourne. The Shelbourne Hotel circa 1880. Photograph: Sean Sexton/Getty Tipperary hotelier Martin Burke leased three existing Georgian houses, 27, 28 and 29, including Kerry House, formerly the home of the earl of Shelburne (whose name was misspelt by Burke for his new establishment). The hotel was a hit from the start and was rebuilt in even grander style in 1865-1867, following the addition of number 30 and 31. The Shelbourne was not the only Victorian hotel built on the green. The Wicklow Hotel had opened at numbers 25 and 26 a few years earlier, but was rapidly eclipsed by its fancier neighbour and closed in 1842. More successfully, back on the southside, number 102 was acquired for a hotel in 1879. In what would have likely been an affront to the Whaley family, had they still been living a few doors down, it was an alcohol-free hotel. TW Russell secretary of the Irish Association for the Prevention of Intemperance opened the Stephen's Green Park Temperance Hotel, expanding it in the following years into the adjoining buildings at numbers 103 and 104. In 1908 it was renamed the Russell. The hotel passed out of the hands of the Russell family in 1947 and at this time it was expanded into number 101. Its restaurant earned a Michelin star in 1974, but had closed down by the time the award was announced. The arrival of hotels and clubs on the green were part of a distinct change in the 1800s, says Graham Hickey of the Dublin Civic Trust. 'After the Act of Union [1801] property values collapsed, and a whole new crop of commercial uses, from small-scale offices through to large institutional uses like St Vincent's hospital and the College of Surgeons, started to take up space on the green,' says Hickey. The Royal College of Surgeons over on the west side was first in 1805, building on what had been a Quaker cemetery. On the east side the Earl of Meath's House, at number 56, built in 1764, was bought by the Sisters of Charity in 1834 becoming St Vincent hospital in 1835. Also on the east side, in 1834 more nuns, the Loreto order, acquired number 53, built in 1772, for a convent and school. Dublin Unitarian Church. Photograph: Chris Maddaloni Churches appeared in these years too, first the Methodist Centenary Church of 1842 and 1843, then, the tucked-away University Church between 1855 and 1856, both on the southside. On the westside the Unitarian Church was built between 1861 and 63. While some new buildings appeared on the Green around the late 19th and early 20th centuries, interventions were largely in the form of change of use until the mid-20th century, when the most significant structural changes since the Georgian era happen. Where Georgian and Victorian owners may have retained elements of existing buildings, updating for new styles, the developers of the 1960s were having none of that. These old piles were for the wrecking ball. 'The destruction of the green's built heritage – the level of it, from the 1960s right through to the end of 1980s, was absolutely shocking,' says Hickey. St Stephen's Green, Dublin, October 18th, 1953. Photograph: Independent News and Media/Getty This started at the southeastern corner at Earlsfort Terrace. Between 1964 and 1971 12 Georgian houses, numbers 65 to 76, were demolished and replaced by three colossal lumps of offices, Canada House at numbers 65 to 68 at the corner, Hainault House at numbers 69 to 71, and Colmstock House at numbers 72 to 76. But perhaps the most notorious obliteration of Georgian buildings was on the east side when in 1969, demolition began on six buildings either side of Hume Street. The corporation had refused permission for demolition of several of the houses but was overruled by the minister for local government, Kevin Boland. The demolition followed a three-year battle in the courts and opposition from the Georgian Society; politicians Garret FitzGerald TD, Senator Mary Bourke (later Mary Robinson, who went on to serve as president of Ireland) and Dr Noël Browne; and occupation by students including a 19-year-old architecture student, the late broadcaster Marian Finucane. The buildings, which had been originally earmarked for a modern office development, were instead built in a Georgian pastiche style. While the battle to save the historic buildings was lost, the campaign was seen as a turning point in public attitudes towards the destruction of Georgian Dublin. It did not mean, however, the historic building stock of the green was saved. Back over on the northside there was a flurry of demolitions in the 1970s. Four 18th-century houses at numbers 18 to 21 were demolished in 1971 to clear the site for Stephen Court by Andrew Devane, which became the head office of Anglo Irish Bank. A Regency house at number 24 was demolished for a Scott Tallon Walker-designed office in 1971, while the same firm designed its neighbour, demolished and rebuilt in 1977. Earlier, in 1970, Huguenot House was built on a site at the end of the row beside the Huguenot Cemetery. While a lot of the infill buildings were, to put it mildly, regrettable, a couple stand the test of time, Hickey says, particularly Devane's Stephen Court. Stephen Court. Photograph: Nick Bradshaw 'It is an exemplar of 20th-century contemporary infill in a historic context – a beautifully designed building,' he says. However, the Hume Street mock Georgian buildings, which inspired such horror at the time, now probably appear more aesthetically sympathetic, he says. 'While the finer details of the brickwork and the window reveals are not correct, those reproduction blocks on the east side of the green present a harmonious streetscape, whether you like it or not, that is quite deceptive to the modern eye,' he says. The Russell Hotel was another casualty of the 1970s. It was demolished in 1974 and the site left vacant until 1982, when it was replaced by another building designed by Scott Tallon Walker, a five-storey office block. Things could have been worse, with the intervening years seeing an application for a 12-storey hotel. Also in 1982, the Ardilaun Centre was built on the westside, which involved the demolition of six houses, three either side of the Unitarian church. Unlike in other parts of the city, particularly the north Georgian core, which had been subject to decades of consistent neglect, the majority of buildings levelled on the Green, typified by the Russell, were in 'good condition, often very good condition', says Hickey. 'These were buildings almost in continuous occupation, even when it was no longer residential, the green always continued to be sought-after by commercial and corporate investors – a real hotspot for development capital – so most buildings were not rundown.' However, by the mid-1980s this was no longer true of all of the green, particularly the westside. In November 1984 number 124, the birthplace of Robert Emmet, which as built in the 1770s, partially collapsed into the street, crushing cars below. It had been vacant about four years at the time. The house was one of several acquired by the Slazenger family from the mid-1960s, which were subsequently sold to developer Patrick Gallagher, who in turn sold to British Land and Power Securities in 1983. The assembled buildings included a number of shops, the Green Cinema, Rice's pub and Dandelion Market. Over the course of the 1980s all became derelict and were replaced in 1988 by the Stephen's Green Shopping Centre, followed next door by the Fitzwilliam Hotel a decade later, and eventually in 2005 Bank of Scotland, built on the old cinema site which had been vacant then for 20 years. [ St Stephen's Green shopping centre: People will wonder why something unique was torn down for something generic Opens in new window ] In the last 20 years the Green's remaining historic buildings have secured protected status. Demolitions that have happened or are planned, are for buildings to replace the 1970s and 1980s blocks. Where St Stephen's Green does face change, is in the park self, which has been largely in its current form since 1880, after it finally properly drained and then landscaped by William Sheppard, commissioned by Lord Ardilaun, Arthur Edward Guinness. Plans for a MetroLink station would see a significant intervention at the east of the square, with the removal of 64 trees and the relocation of statues. This has been referred to as an act of 'demolition or destruction' by the green's custodians, the Office of Public Works - a d–scription rejected by Transport Infrastructure Ireland, the State agency that plans and manages the country's transport network. An Bord Pleanála will, in the coming months, decide which State body wins out. Whatever happens, Hickey says, the green will remain a unique space in Dublin. 'The Green is neither a traditional Georgian garden square, nor a municipal Victorian park,' says Hickey. 'It's not a grand piazza or plaza you get in continental cities. It is a space apart in the city, very much its own thing – a chameleon character.'
Irish Times
5 hours ago
- Irish Times
Dealing with death: How the Pet Shop Boys and a beach in Lahinch saved me
The candle flickered in the lantern in the window, lit every night since David had started sleeping in the sitting room. Eight months since he hadn't been able to climb the stairs to bed. Sixteen months since the second surgery to remove the tumour growing in his brain. Twenty months since he got the news he only had 12 more to live. Because David was too full of life to leave it easily. The mattress pump hissed as it rose and fell in the early morning quiet. 'Can you open the door please,' said David. READ MORE I looked around, puzzled. There was no door. The sitting room opened into the dining room, where we'd often gathered for raucous dinner parties with David and his husband Jonathan, me, Sally, Paula and Craig. Now we took it in turns to sit with David on the Marie Curie nurses' nights off. I reached for the plastic beaker of juice, thick with the chunky powder that helped him swallow. 'Have a drink,' I said, guiding his lips to the straw, thinking about other nights we'd spent drinking through straws. Galway in the '90s, glugging flagons of cider through straws in Seamus Quirke Road before hitting the dance floor in The Castle, strobe lights flashing, the whites of our fake Converse glowing in the dark. 'Open the door,' David said again. I held his hand. 'Sleep now David. I'll stay with you.' But he continued to ask me to open the door and eventually, as dawn crept in through the window and the candle in the lantern flickered out, I said: 'The door is open, David.' And he squeezed my hand. A week later, David went through the door. I was in my mother's house in Sligo when Jonathan texted me to say David was fading. I lit a candle for him then, a candle with three wicks that could burn for days if it had to. In the end, it burned for three hours. Craig phoned me at 4pm. 'Have you got somebody with you?' he asked when I answered the phone, but I couldn't bring myself to ask if David was gone because, even then, I was still hoping he wasn't. Maybe Craig had just called for a chat. Or with an update. Or by accident. That night I raised a glass to David and played all our favourite songs. The Blue Nile's A Walk Across the Rooftops, Rosie Vela's Magic Smile, the songs we'd first bonded over at college in Galway, when I knew I'd found a kindred spirit. I cried listening to Mel and Kim's Respectable, remembering how sad we were when Mel died. I had a little dance by myself to Belinda Carlisle's Mad About You, a much overlooked and under-appreciated classic we'd agreed sagely at the wise old age of 18. And in the opening seconds of Pet Shop Boys' West End Girls, the clip-clop of high heels on slick wet pavements, the slush of traffic through rain, I was right back there again. The fading light of evening at the start of a new term, streetlights coming on in the dusk. We know that music is linked to our personal stories — Catherine Loveday The magic of Galway swirled around me, everything was new, unfamiliar and exciting as we took those first tentative steps into adulthood, poised at the start of life's great adventure. The power of music to instantly return us to the past is mind-blowing. 'I was walking through the Christmas markets in Dublin a few years ago, engrossed in conversation with my husband, when a piece of music came on and I suddenly had tears rolling down my cheeks,' says neuropsychologist Catherine Loveday. 'It was my dad's favourite Christmas song, When A Child Is Born by Johnny Mathis, and it completely took me back to my childhood Christmases. I was eight years old again.' Loveday, professor of cognitive neuroscience at the University of Westminster and author of The Secret World of the Brain, believes music taps into our brain's innate system for responding to emotions. Bernadette Fallon and her late friend David Moclair 'We know that music is linked to our personal stories,' she explains. 'Research shows that music becomes linked to our memories – the brain cell networks become actively connected with each other so that one will trigger the other. The representation of the music becomes physically paired with the representation of our remembered experience.' I know what she means. I hear Echo Beach and I'm on a heaving dance floor in The Warwick on a sweaty Thursday night. The Beat(en) Generation sends me back to the white-tiled kitchen in Grattan Park that David used to call the abattoir; Pet Shop Boys' Always on my Mind to a tiny two-bed flat on New Road, the lights of David's HiFi system flashing like we were on a spaceship. So it's clear that music has a big impact on our brains and memories, but what's the impact of grief on the brain? I asked Henry Marsh, neurosurgeon and author. He's also the man who gave me back my life after he removed a tumour growing under my brain more than 20 years ago. Grief is a whole-person experience. It impacts us physically, emotionally, cognitively, socially, financially — Niamh Fitzpatrick 'Everything you are thinking and feeling at the moment is the physical process in your brain from the neuroscientific point of view. So clearly, any trauma, any grief, will have an impact on it,' he says. 'Within a year, or even less, of losing a spouse, people over the age of 60 have a hugely increased risk of dying. That is a direct physiological response to a mental state. 'And there's a condition called Takotsubo, where severe trauma or emotion causes a weird change in the shape of the heart, which can even be fatal, although it normally reverses. That's neurologically mediated – our brains are intimately connected to our bodies.' Psychologist Niamh Fitzpatrick has also observed first-hand how grief impacts every part of us. She suffered her own traumatic loss when her sister, Captain Dara Fitzpatrick, was killed along with three other crew members after their Irish Coast Guard Rescue helicopter crashed off the Mayo coast in 2017. Niamh talks about navigating her way through that grief in her book Tell Me the Truth About Loss. Neil Tennant and Chris Lowe of the Pet Shop Boys performing at 3Arena ,Dublin, in 2023. Photograph: Tom Honan/The Irish Times. 'Grief is a whole-person experience. It impacts us physically, emotionally, cognitively, socially, financially. There's so many layers and levels to it. And it's exhausting. The drain on us mentally, emotionally and in all sorts of ways is immense. And that's because of the impact of the loss on our life, the impact of knowing we are never going to see that person again, that we'll never sit with them or talk with them, we'll never hold and touch them, we won't do any of those things again.' Grief, it has been said, is the price we pay for love. And along with music, the other great comfort I've found to help me cope with sadness is nature. Or more specifically, a beach in Lahinch. The year before David's diagnosis, we were in and out of lockdowns, not able to meet up very often. But when we did meet, we headed for the seaside. I have photos of us smiling into the sun in Whitstable, eating fish and chips in Margate and standing with our mouths open in Herne Bay, gobsmacked by the most glorious sunset we'd ever seen, the sky glowing orange and red like a giant bonfire in the sky. I remembered that sunset the year after David died, standing on the beach in Lahinch on January 2nd. Christmas had been rough so when January hit, I decided to take my sad heart to the coast. Evidence shows that contact with nature lowers our blood pressure, cortisol levels and stress — Henry Marsh I'd spent most of the day on three buses, leaving Sligo early that morning while it was still dark. The rain was pelting down in Galway, with sodden ditches under water. The weather was even worse in Clare, swans and seagulls bobbing in the flooded fields. But as we approached Lahinch, a thin line of white light on the horizon started to force its way through the slate grey clouds and we arrived to blue skies and sunshine. People were beaming at each other on the beach, several of whom stopped to tell me they'd been trapped inside by storms all week. As I stood taking photos of the sunset, I felt David standing beside me, smiling in the joyous light. I spent most of the next few days on the beach, the sun shining so bright my friends messaged to ask if I was in the Mediterranean when I sent them my photos. And something inside me that was broken when David died started to heal. Bernadette Fallon on Lahinch beach 'Evidence shows that contact with nature lowers our blood pressure, cortisol levels and stress,' says Henry Marsh. 'I've always been a passionate believer in gardens and my proudest moment was creating a roof garden in St George's Hospital outside the wards. Research shows that having a view of nature from a window shortens your time in hospital and also reduces the need for painkillers.' I've gone back to Lahinch most months since. I walk on the beach and look at the beauty of it all and it helps me. Sometimes I feel David walking beside me. I thought I saw him the other day, hoisting his rucksack on his back at Clapham Junction, putting his earbuds in and walking across the station platform, tall and purposeful, heading out to meet another tough day. His work as a community psychiatric nurse meant dealing with people who were often on suicide watch lists, living in some of the poorest and most deprived parts of London. But he never complained. [ 'My husband recently died. We are in our early 50s. My whole future has been taken from me' Opens in new window ] [ The things I've learned about living from dying Opens in new window ] The thoughts of him striding out with courage to meet the world, despite what it threw at him, gives me hope to do the same. Sometimes, a day is a hard thing to face. 'Make a start,' says David in my head, 'just get out of bed.' It's the best advice I've heard so far. Just get out of bed. And take it from there. The time passes and the pain of grief doesn't go away, but it somehow becomes more manageable. Albert Einstein said time was an illusion anyway. So maybe we're still walking home to Seamus Quirke Road with bags of shopping to make our favourite dinner (pasta with ham in a garlic cream sauce – we thought we'd invented it until somebody told us about spaghetti carbonara). Maybe we're still crossing O'Brien's Bridge in the drizzle, my heels clip clopping on the footpath, West End Girls playing in our heads. In memory of David Moclair. Lived for 53 years, loved forever.
Irish Times
a day ago
- Irish Times
Child (7) dies after suffering ‘sudden heart condition' on bouncy castle
The death has been announced of a seven-year-old boy from Portlaoise, Co Laois, who died after he developed a sudden heart condition on a bouncy castle. The parents of Antony Perissato de Aguilar of Maryborough Village posted on that they were 'devastated' following the death of their 'little man' Antony Perissato de Aguiar. His parents, Raphael and Karla, said that Antony died unexpectedly and peacefully at the Crumlin Hospital on June 4th. 'Antony was healthy and full of joy playing in a bouncy castle in a beautiful day when he suffered from a sudden heart condition. READ MORE 'Dad, Raphael, and Mom, Karla, are very blessed to have Antony as their child and he will be forever missed by his little brother, Gianlucca, his cousin, Isaac, his beloved grandparents, Sandra, Rogerio, Maeli, Carlos and Solange, and his many friends from our Brazilian community, his school, Scoil Bhride and his after-school, After the Bell.' Antony will lie in repose at Keegan's Funeral Home, Portlaoise, on Sunday from 2pm to 4pm with prayers at 3pm. A private cremation will take place on Monday.
