“Nobody has a monopoly on grief and loss; it is deeply personal. There is no place for ‘chief mourners’ attempting to undermine or devalue the grief experienced by others. Each person’s grief is their own and deserves respect.”
As I sit on the plane traveling back to Sweden writing this blog, I now have a profound understanding of how difficult it is to receive news of a loved one’s passing while living and working aboard.
In the span of just two weeks, I have had to say goodbye to two beloved uncles. Thankfully, I was home in Ireland for Christmas when we received the news of Uncle James’s passing. While deeply sad, his passing brought a sense of peace, as he had been battling a long illness. We had somewhat prepared ourselves for the inevitable as his health declined rapidly in his final days. Though we grieved his loss, there was solace in knowing his immense suffering had ended after a long and hard-fought battle with cancer.
But the news of Uncle Brendie’s sudden and unexpected passing completely took my breath away. So, when Mum called to tell me of your passing, I was floored. A wave of grief crashed over me, shaking me to my core. Tears poured down my chubby cheeks, stinging as they fell. The last time I felt such profound heartbreak was when Granddad and Granny Malone passed away.
I am so grateful I was lucky enough to spend your last Christmas with you. During my time at home over the holidays, we shared several family dinners with Mum, Dad, PJ, and I. Even Wax, the sheepdog, stopped by to say hello. I still replay our conversations in my mind, cherishing them. I remember how you mentioned cutting back on sugar in your tea again, to immediately ask if there was any cake or biscuit and me teasing you as we laughed and joked about it. We even debated whose porridge was better: mine, made with milk and a splash of water, or yours, made with water and a splash of milk. It is these little moments and conversations I will miss the most.
On Christmas Day you were in great form as we recalled stories of old as you got me up to speed on all the local news I had missed since my last visit in September. I asked was there any newborn lambs yet? The topic of new lambs at Christmas was a tradition that was always discussed between us. Even when I was living away, at Christmas one of my first questions when I phoned you would be is there any lambs yet? I will always fondly remember our very last conversation. After you greeted me, you mentioned another baby lamb was born. We both smiled, recalling how I had said on Christmas Day that more would arrive before the New Year, you replied “You were right”. You see this was always our thing as it stemmed from my childhood giving my days out on the farm running round after you and the sheep.
We were also united by our cancer journeys as you and I both fought cancer. I suppose we both had a true understanding only those who have been diagnosed can genuinely appreciate. Watching a family member go through cancer and experiencing treatment first hand is completely different there is no comparison. So, we would trade updates on our medical appointments and our recovery. Even tho you always seemed more concerned about my welfare than your own but that was just your way “totally unselfish and unassuming.”
Uncle Brendie was always a constant in my life—he was the uncle who lived next door, but to me you were so much more than just an uncle. You were like a second father to me.
For those who say, “Isn’t it great working away, living the life of Reilly,” let me make this clear: we are away working, not on a holiday. We would love nothing more than to live and work in Ireland, but it simply is not feasible for us. Our work requires us to travel abroad, and so we do.
The next time you slag or criticize family or friends for “living it up” abroad, please consider the sacrifices we make and the life milestones we miss by being far from home. Think about the simple joys we forgo—making memories with loved ones, dropping by for a coffee, meeting for a chat, or seeing family regularly. Life is fragile, and in an instant, someone can be taken away. Every time we leave Dublin Airport and say goodbye to our family and friends, we have no guarantee they will still be there when we return.
Flying home to Ireland for Uncle Brendie’s funeral has taken a massive toll on me—physically, emotionally, and mentally. Although my loving husband was by my side, supporting me every step of the way, all I wanted was to hug my parents tightly and feel the warmth and comfort of my childhood home.
But going home to Killadulisk will never be the same again. Driving past your house will hurt, as the sense of belonging and the warmth of your welcome is now gone. With your passing, that door is permanently closed a door that was a gateway to a lifetime of cherished memories deeply rooted in my childhood. It was the house you once shared with Granddad and Granny, a home where some of my most precious childhood memories were made. Now that door is shut, and with that, a part of my heart feels it is forever broken.
Your house was so much more than just a building to me. It was my second home a place that, from my earliest memories, was filled with love, laughter, music, and dance. Every time I stepped through that door, I felt truly welcomed and greeted with love and your unforgettable smile. Your presence always brought comfort, love, and a deep sense of belonging.
Now, that door and finally that chapter in my life is closed for good, as you were the last link to those memories and that part of my life. Driving past the house, knowing you are no longer there, will hurt in ways I cannot put into words. Yet, what remains and what I will hold close and dear in my heart are the treasured memories and the love we shared, as no one can try undermine or devalue them as those personal precious memories are mine and mine alone.
Your passing has also open the floodgates of old memories of my grandparents with it.
It is a strange one for me, and my reaction has surprised me and caught me totally off guard. So not only am I grieving your loss I am also grieving for my grandparents all over again. I guess there is no timescale on grief after all.
I suppose in a way if I look deeper and if I am totally honest with myself, I am also grieving the old Siobhán too. The healthy carefree version of myself before sickness arrived at my door. Memories of running after sheep, being free and in general my love for my time spent out on the farm, or dancing in the kitchen while music played in the background. That too is now gone, it was a different time as for now I am lucky if I can get up off the chair on my own as the Muscular Dystrophy continues to feast on my body. It is just another bitter reminder that my own personal grief is also ongoing, as I too lose more and more of myself to this horrible relentless disease. It is all loss and it’s all monumental.
Your passing definitely marks an end of an Era for me knowing there now is only one house that welcomes me home and greets me with love and offers me a sense of belonging in killadulisk. I read a quote about grief that said, “Grief is love with no place to go. It is the absence of presence, the hole left behind by the pain of the loss, but it is also a reminder of love once shared, never truly dies” and this definitely resonates with me.
So please watch over me and continue to guide me through this challenging life of mine and may your gentle soul rest in peace. Until we meet again, Uncle Brendie.
Your loving niece,
Siobhan Malone McBarron xoxo
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