My Life in Shambles

I cringe internally. Padraig hasn’t told his team yet about his diagnosis. I know this was something he’s been waiting to do and right now is definitely not the right time, but it sucks that his best friend from the team doesn’t know the truth.

“Do you know when he’s coming back to the game?” he asks hopefully.

I can only shrug and give him a quick smile. “I don’t know.”

“He doesn’t talk about it?”

“We’ve just been so focused on his father …”

He nods. “Ah, I get it.”

And it’s not a lie either. This whole last week has been misery for everyone at the B&B, trying to deal with his father’s funeral arrangements. It’s too much stress for Agnes to worry about, and Padraig has been practically comatose, so I’ve had to take it all on by myself and let me tell you, funerals are a bitch. You would think they would make the process easier for people who are steeped in grief but they try and nickel and dime you every step of the way.

Luckily Padraig has money and told me to throw whatever I could at them to make the situation easier.

So far, I think it turned out okay. As far as funerals go.

The sun is shining and it makes the color of the grass and the beautiful bouquets and wreaths of flowers look electric. There are a lot of people here crying, a lot of love and stories being shared for this man. I think Colin would have been happy with it, but who knows. He might have secretly hated everyone here and complained about the color of the flowers.

“We should go sit down,” Hemi says to me, guiding me by the elbow to the seats.

I sit down next to Agnes, with the Major on the other side of her. Padraig is at the podium, ready to deliver the eulogy. He’s wearing a dark grey suit that I picked up for him in Cork, and even though it doesn’t fit him quiet right, he looks stunning in it.

“How are ye doing, dear?” Agnes asks me as she takes my hand in hers and gives it a squeeze. The tenderness brings a tear to my eye.

I nod, pressing my lips together. “I’m doing okay. How about you?”

“I have a hole in my nylons,” she grumbles. “The only good pair I had.”

I give her a sweet smile and rest my head on her shoulder for a moment, letting her know that I’m here. Her humor and grumpiness are defense mechanisms if I’ve ever seen one. I’m just lucky that she’s been able to get over the lies we told. When it comes to her relationship with me and with Padraig, it’s been repaired.

It hurts that the same didn’t happen with Colin.

Padraig holds up a sheet in his hands as he briefly looks over the crowd. The sheet is shaking but I can’t tell if it’s tremors from his MS or from the grief. This week, so many of his symptoms, the shaking, the fatigue, could easily be blamed on either affliction.

“Do not go gentle into that good night,” Padraig clears his throat and begins by reading the poem by Dylan Thomas. “Old age should burn and rave at close of day. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, because their words had forked no lightning, they do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, they wave by, crying how bright their fragile deeds might have danced in a green bay. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

He swallows hard, clears his throat, his eyes looking over the crowd and blinking as if trying to clear tears. “Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, and learn, too late, they grieved it on its way. Do not gentle into that good night.”

Padraig pauses again, closing his eyes, breathing hard. When he opens them there’s fear and sorrow across his brow. He blinks at the paper and puts it aside. “Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” He reads it all by memory and I have to wonder if that’s the poet soul of his mother speaking through him.

“And you, my father,” he begins and then stops, his words choked on a sob. He presses his fist to his mouth, trying to bite back his soundless cries until he can compose himself. “And you, my father, there on that sad height, curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night.” He pauses and looks up at the sky. “Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

After a few beats, among the sounds of sobbing and crying and sniffling that comes from all round us, he takes in a deep breath. “My father raged against the dying of the light. For those of you who knew him, even if you didn’t know him well, you knew he raged, especially if his favorite team was losing.”

To my surprise there are a few chuckles in the crowd. I’m also surprised Padraig is taking the humor approach after opening with that poem.

“Of course his favorite team was always Munster,” he says to which almost everyone cheers and hoots and hollers. Padraig had told me that this was the team most people here root for. “And when they’d lose, which they do a lot, the whole town would lock their doors. But my dad, Colin, was more than just an angry old sod. He was a terrible driver as well.”

I lean into Agnes. “What is this, a roast?”

“It’s just a funeral,” she answers. “If ye can’t laugh when you’re dead, when can ye laugh?”

Well, whatever it is, it’s nice to see Padraig smile, even if he’s crying at the same time. He continues, looking everyone in the crowd in the eye. “I remember when I first learned how to drive and my dad was my teacher.”

Some people laugh and moan in response to that, knowing where it’s going.

“First day out on the road and things are going okay. He’s calling me a right eejit for not using my turn signal or braking too harshly, ye know, normal things. And on the way back he decides I’m too thick and he’s had enough. He pushes me out of the car and says to watch him from the side of the road. There I am, fifteen, standing on the side of the road, not far from here actually,” he points off into the rolling hills, “and he drives off down the road at the speed of light. Next thing I know, I hear sirens and I see him speeding back, the police car going after him, lights ablazing.”

I’m laughing now along with everyone, picturing the scene with angry, fed-up Colin behind the wheel.

“And then,” Padraig says through a laugh, “my dad comes back around again, down through another road. Stops right in front of me. The cop pulls up behind him. I believe that cop might have been you Mr. Gallagher.” Padraig points to someone in the back row. “He comes out and he starts yelling at my dad but my dad gets out and points at me and says, ‘I’m teaching my dear boy how to drive. I thought I’d start off with what not to do.’ I believe he didn’t even get a ticket for that.”

More laughter ripples through the crowd, mixing with the tears.

“Another time,” Padraig begins but his smile begins to shake and then falter. A blank expression comes over his eyes for a second. “Another time,” he says again, clearing his throat and looking away, blinking rapidly.

Complete horror comes over him and he stiffens.

I don’t think this is him overcome with grief.

I think this is something else.

Before I know what I’m doing, I’m standing up.

“Padraig,” I say to him.

He looks in my direction.

“Valerie?”

It’s a question.

He’s looking in my direction but his eyes aren’t meeting mine.

He can’t see me.

Oh my god.

“What’s going on?” I hear Agnes say.

“Valerie,” he says again and his hands go out in front of him, waving blindly. “I can’t … I can’t see. I can’t see!”

I run over to him just as he’s trying to come over to me.

Before I can even reach him, his legs cross and he pitches forward and I’m too late. He falls to the ground in a heap.

“Padraig!” I scream, dropping to my knees beside him, trying to turn him over. I lean in close, listening to his breath. He is breathing and when I push my fingers at his neck his pulse seems strong enough.

Dr. Byrne had said that it’s rare any MS symptoms might make you end up in the hospital, but they do happen and since his is so aggressive, I’m not going to take my chances.

“Someone call an ambulance!” I yell up at the confused crowd that has gathered around us. “We need to get him to the hospital, now!”

“How is he? When can I see him?” I ask the doctor for the millionth time.

“We’re still running some tests,” he says to me. “I know this is hard for you.”

It’s the same doctor from last week when Colin was admitted to the hospital and I’m not sure how much experience he has dealing with MS. I called Dr. Byrne the moment this happened and he said he was on his way but he hasn’t shown yet.

“But his vision … can he …” I trail off, choking on the words, on what might lay ahead.

He nods. “His vision is coming back. Just a temporary loss.”

I exhale loudly, nearly keeling over with relief.

“This happens with MS. I promise I’ll let you know when you can see him, soon,” he says and then walks off down the hall.

I sigh and turn around, looking at Agnes and the Major sitting on the waiting room seats. It’s like it’s last week’s tragedy all over again, except this time Hemi is here, who went to the cafeteria to get everyone coffee.

“I don’t understand it,” Agnes says, shaking her head and sniffling into a tissue. “Why didn’t ye say something? All this time with us and ye didn’t say anything. Just more lies.”

I sit down beside her and put my hand on her shoulder. “No more lies, Agnes. I promise you. Padraig didn’t want to tell you or Colin until, well, until he was gone. We knew it would only make things worse and give you another thing to worry about.”

“Even so,” she says. “I could have helped in some bloody way.”