Generations..

(these words all fell out of me earlier today, so I'm not going to bother fixing any of the grammar...)


It's amazing what you remember 20 years on….A phonecall from a friend broke the news in the middle of Christmas Day, and I remember going instantly weak at the knees, collapsing into the chair beside the phone, as she spoke saying words that I couldn't comprehend. The lights of the helicopter I watched hovering over town in the wee small hours was searching for them, and I still bitterly regret not saying hello to him outside McGarrigles a little over 24hrs before that news came through.

The only part of the next few days that stand out are their pictures on the fronts of all the papers as I stopped into PickNChoose - two gorgeous grins. How alike he and Sean were, despite the different hair-styles. How much he'd have hated the fact that they used the Young Scientist photo of him, taken when he was in secondary school. An array of papers, but the same pictures repeated on all. "Christmas Eve Tragedy"... Trying to ignore them as the queue moved forward, and the kindness of the lady behind the counter who instantly understood my choked-up request for 10 Silk Cut Purple and didn’t ID me, as I looked up from their faces to hers, trying not to cry.

A bitterly cold sleety evening outside a place lit up by brake lights and indicators as parents dropped their kids off. Rows of dark ripped jeans covering the tips of converse trainers and doc marten boots, which provided no grip on the snow-packed icey surface of the carpark. Black woolly hats and coat collars turned up against the sleet and snow.

Cigarette smoke wafting through the air as you wait in a queue outside, unsure of what to do or where to go. Nobody thinks to explain funeral home protocol to a 15 year old, so you talk and cry your way into a hot stuffy room with friends. Glasses fog up the second you reach the inner room, and you see people who must be their family sit ashen-faced as they shake hand after hand and occasionally lean into a hug. Numb faces all around the room as the newcomers make their way towards the two coffins in the corner. At a first glance, they could be twins, both dark haired boys with short curly hair, and you don't know which of them would laugh at you more for saying they almost looked the same age.

Shaking hands with a woman who must be their mother, the same frame around the eyes, and you want to just pause time for a while and tell her how cool you thought her youngest son was; how independent, how grown up, how gorgeous, how funny, how wonderfully kind and hilariously witty he was. How he tried to bring you and your ex-boyfriend back together by essentially locking you both in a room until you finally talked to one another after several months of no communication.

How his flat became your go to place for a gang of you during school lunchbreaks, and yet you never once felt like you were intruding on him, no matter what he had going on. How his bleach blondey short curly hair seemed to be immovable and yet totally flexible at the same time. How talented he was (did he really make that amazing looking electric guitar that hung on his apartment wall, or was he just messing...?!) how vast his CD collection was.

How you couldn't stop laughing as he and Cormac danced to the rather rude "Kyle's Mom" song from the SouthPark album. How he just exuded a kindness of soul that you, as a 15 year old appreciated so much in the short time you knew him. (was it a year, was it two?) How he just always seemed to be a part of your life as a teenager, but you can't remember when exactly your paths crossed for the first time..he was just always....there.

And how you'd love to meet him now for a pint and tell him of how his leaving life so early changed you, changed your friends. You'd love to tell him that it impacted in ways he probably never imagined it could. How it made every one of us appreciate each other so much during those years when we needed it most, how it made us look out for each other that little bit more; and how many of us carried that on in to our adult years...we're almost a generation away from him; and he is now dead longer than he was alive.

It made us understand that brutal lesson, so exposed in the anger that grief often brings, that life really is far too fucking short. It taught us that we should take the time to make the memories, the silly ones and the fun ones, and the inbetween plain ones…..because sometimes just sitting around on a couch talking about nothing and everything in between is a wonderful memory in itself.


He and Sean taught us that Death visits everyone, taking no heed of ages, nor the time of year or the devastation a bereavement will cause, and so, the only way you can fight Death, as best you can, is to just enjoy your life while you have it. Be kind, be silly, be an open soul and leave a legacy of fun-filled and love-filled memories that make those who knew you smile so many years after you have left. To quote from Terry Pratchett, "Do you not know that a man is not dead while his name is still spoken?'

Cronan and Sean's names are still spoken, and those memories, that legacy of love, and fun, lives on in all who knew them.

Big Sister and Little Sister....

If this were a scripted movie, it would be much easier to describe....jump cuts could help us travel through time, starting in the late eighties seeing through the eyes of a small girl as she watches her big sister stop breathing and collapse yet again, watches as her lips start to turning that blueish tint that she knows means big panic from her parents, watches as her sister's eyes slowly start to open and look around her, blinking slowly several times before big sister utters the simple words "....not again". Normality resumes. Normality always resumes.


Jump cut to big sister sitting proudly on top of a gentle giant of a horse, trotting around the stables of an old country house, cut to the two sisters playing alone together in caravan parks around the country (but parks that are always near to a hospital, and near to family, just incase there's a very bad turn) playing alone again because the other kids don't want to play with the weird kid. Cut to another holiday, this time in a holiday centre that Downs Syndrome Ireland have organised to be just for families like theirs, and holidays suddenly feel like they're supposed to; idyllic and fun. No-one stares at the two sisters, big sister makes new friends, little sister meets others siblings like her; and is relieved to know she's not alone in her experiences, it's a different kind of normal, but it's normal.


A brief montage, sisters playing football with their big brothers in their back garden, sisters trading library books in their shared bedroom, little sister learning to speed-read because big sister gets to decide when it's lights out for the night. Giggles and grins at the cinema with their Gran, helping their Dad dig potatoes in the garden, arguments over who gets to put baby Jesus in the crib on Christmas Eve; and over the years, little sister and big sister share their room (although the mess is always little sister's) they share their toys, share the same hair colour, but rarely hair styles and eventually, they share their height. Big sister has the cheekiest sense of humour, sneaking food from right under people's noses, teasing people, and occasionally, pulling their noses too. They fight, as all sisters do, but big sister doesn't know that little sister fights a lot more, at school, in the estate, on holidays; fights anyone who dares to call the big sister she idolises any bad names. Big sister instead idolises Michael Jackson, sings his songs, copies his dance moves, and guards her tapes of him with her life. She shares her Enid Blyton books with little sister though.

Jump cut to the teenage years, the sisters have their own bedrooms; and everything is changing, rooms, styles, houses and homes. In a new neighbourhood, they no longer share a room, no longer share secrets, and rarely share day to day stories, little sister and big sister's lives are diverging.


Big sister is now in a training centre, adding to her everyday skills, little sister is in secondary school, dealing with teenage friendships and boyfriends, heartbreak and bereavements and all the angst that comes with that. In the midst of it all, big sister has taken up golfing with her Dad. They travel to the local golf club, almost daily, Dad pushing her wheelchair, or occasionally driving across, and she pitches and putts and her heart holds out through it all.

Big sister plays with Team Connaught, as well as for herself, and the Special Olympics arrive properly into her life. In the past, she has won medals for swimming, for horse-riding, but she reckons golf is her thing now. She decides she's a bit of a Tiger Woods, little sister shrugs and says she'd prefer to be Dolores O'Riordan. Little sister often wonders why big sister bothers.

A slow fade to a dreary November weekday morning in 1999, little sister is grumpy and doesn't want to go to school, big sister is quiet and upset as she always is when Mum's away; and barely eats her porridge. Dad fusses and grumps at both of them to get ready for their respective buses. Little sister comes home to a quiet panicked house that evening. A Doctor is there, then there's wailing coming from big sister's room, talk of ambulances and whether it's already too late, and little sister retreats crying quietly into her room, choosing not to listen to her usual melancholy music but big sister's current favourite song, Westlife's "Flying Without Wings", hoping for a miracle, not ready to say goodbye, even though little sister has known all her life that this day would arrive.

Crash cut to a hospital bedside, big sister is awake, talking, and moving, but not on her left side. She's had a stroke. At the age of 20, her body has decided to test her with something completely unexpected yet again. In the hospital and at home, there's talk of physio, of rehab, of how much damage may have been done between it happening and her hospitalisation; and all the while, little sister wonders how she didn't notice the previous morning that big sister was struggling. Big sister's tenacity gets her through yet again; 3 weeks later, she has some movement back in her left hand side, and she's wheeled across a golf course to take her shots and putts to help Team Connaught to a Special Olympics title; yet another trophy, yet another medal.

A slow sequence, shots of gym work, and home physio with her parents, while big sister slowly recovers, and trains daily; as she practises her putts, her chips, her golf skills, the years pass, and it's 2002. Little sister has moved to England; and, in a yellow reg'd car on a country lane one sunny evening, gets a call to tell her that big sister has qualified for Team Ireland for 2003's Special Olympics, to be held in Dublin. Big sister's caddy and coach, her Dad, works with her at home as well as at the golf club. Little sister knows big sister is different person to who she was before her stroke, but there's so many signs she's coming back to who she was before.

A wide shot of a colourful Croke Park, 82 thousand people cheer as one as the Olympic flame is lit, as U2 play, as Nelson Mandela speaks, and countless other celebrities march through with different countries...but the biggest cheers come for the athletes. You could cut to any face in the crowd and see the same love, the same stories echoed throughout the continents, the countries; each family there knows what they have all been through, and the shared love radiates.


Video screens show the scenes in the stadium, the fans, the athletes and all of a sudden, big sister's face appears on one, grinning as she's interviewed on live TV as the Irish team enter; and with her usual confidence, reckons she'll do well. Her family are thankful she didn't say she'd kick ass as she was watched throughout the world; as is her typical response when asked how she'll perform. The next few days prove her right though, she does kick ass.


Shots of a golf course, of athletes and their families, little sister watches as big sister faces 5 different tests of her golfing skills, everything chipping over a high wall from 10 ft away, to short putts; and with hugs and well wishes from Colin Farrell as well family and friends, she works her way up the scoreboard towards the top. Little sister quietly raging that big sister never pointed Colin Farrell her way, but overall, in awe of big sister and the shots, the concentration and the dedication required to get her to this point.

Final shots are a montage again, with the overlay of an announcers voice rising over a cheering crowd, saying the words "and the gold medal winner, with a score of 217, representing Team Ireland, Bairbre Callagy...." and you see her family in the crowd, her Mum, her Dad in his coaches t-shirt, her Gran, her Aunt & Uncles, her big brothers, and little sister all with tears in their eyes, but smiles that couldn't be bigger or brighter, finally, it cuts to a beaming Bairbre, who, after receiving her medal, urges the crowd to cheer for her louder and louder, who all respond. Little sister knows no matter what else life throws at her, at big sister, at this family, this is a moment of hope, of joy forever etched in their souls.

It could just end there, fading on a cheering crowd, no need for a follow up, but everyone always wants to know what happened next.....


Since 2003, it's not been a totally happy ever after. Loss of family and friends have hit big sister hard; and physically and mentally she's regressed a lot from the madcap kid, the cheeky teenager and young adult before the stroke happened. Yet the flashes of that Babs shine through sometimes; and sometimes it feels like we're 6 & 10 again, planning to run away together (we made it as far as Carraroe...) and sometimes it feels like we're 10 & 14 and trying to figure out why we're so similar yet so different....and sometimes, nowadays, it feels like we've swopped roles; and I'm big sister looking out for little sister.

So a brief summation before the screen should fade to black....big sister celebrated her 30th birthday in 2009, and is planning already for her 40th in 2019. She still visits the golf club regularly, sometimes for practise, sometimes just for tea and a scone. She has three madcap nieces who she quietly adores; parents, siblings, neighbours and friends in awe of her on a daily basis; and she still adores Michael Jackson. Almost as much as she adores her soaps, Westlife, One Direction and a plain ham sandwich on brown bread with a cup of tea for supper. Little sister is sitting here, almost 15 years to the day after that gold medal win, reflecting how just how lucky she has been to have a big sister like Babs.