Showing posts with label Real Life Features.. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Real Life Features.. Show all posts
Monday, July 28, 2014
Monday, October 14, 2013
Thursday, July 25, 2013
Thursday, January 24, 2013
Saturday, August 18, 2012
TED, Irish style.
Irishmen and their Teddy-bears
By Sue Leonard.
Published in Feelgood, The Irish Examiner, 3rd August 2012.
From Winner the Pooh, to Paddington Bear, Rupert and Yogi Bear, most of us have been reared on talking bears. It’s all very well for children to believe that bears have their own personalities, but surely not adults?
Think again. Meet ‘Ted,’ a bear with attitude, and the star of US box office smash, co-starring Mark Wahlberg, and Mila Kunis.
In the movie, John Bennett was thrilled when his childhood wish came true and his bear comes to life; but fast forward a couple of decades, and Ted’s influence starts to cause problems. John’s girlfriend, Lori, isn’t impressed. She wants John to herself, and wants Ted out of their lives.
John Bennett is not alone. A survey, carried out in England in 2010, found that more than half the adults there still owned their childhood teddy-bear. And a quarter of the men admitted the bear travelled with them on business trips.
That shouldn’t be so surprising, when you think of classic literature. Who could forget Aloysius, Sebastian Flyte’s bear, and constant companion at Oxford University, in Brideshead Revisited? Evelyn Waugh based Aloysius on Archibald Ormsby Gore, a teddy-bear belonging to the poet, John Betjeman. And, it’s said, Betjeman was hugging Archibald on his deathbed.
Dublin man Jason Garland identifies strongly with both with John Betjeman, and with Ted, the movie. But he’s jealous.
“I’d like my teddy-bear, Pooh, to come to life,” says the 32 year old fire protection engineer. “I know, logically, he’s made of fluff, but there’s always that glimmer of hope. When we walk past our balcony I dream I’ll see him dancing around the living room.”
Ted isn’t the first soft toy Jason has loved. That was Monkey, given to him by an uncle when he was a toddler.
“We were inseparable,” he says. “But my sisters, Michelle and Lorraine teased me unmercifully. I’d come back from school, and he’d be hanging from a light fitting, or shut in the oven. That, to me, was torture. I was convinced he had feelings.”
Monkey met a sad end.
“When I was 11, we got a puppy called Shandy. He wasn’t allowed to sleep in the house, and I felt so sorry for him, huddled in a kennel too big for him. He looked lost, so I gave him the monkey to cuddle for the night. The next morning the garden was full of fluff.”
Eight years later, Jason was on a trip to Wales with two friends.
“I was a wingman for this guy who’d arranged to meet a girl in Holyhead. He’d met her on holiday, but she never turned up. On the way home I saw Pooh on the bottom shelf of the gift shop. I had to have him. It was the expression on his face. He cost me £45.
“I pretended he was a present for Valerie, my then girlfriend, whose now my wife. She wasn’t impressed, but soon, Pooh started to exert his personality. I’d talk in his voice if I wanted something, and she began to do that too.
“I began to bring him on holidays, and on business trips. He’s been to Ayres Rock, Tokyo, China, Paris, everywhere we go. This can be difficult. He’s the size of a nine to twelve month old baby. I know this, because of all the clothes he makes me buy for him. He came to my wedding. He wore a tuxedo. He’s brought a whole new dimension into my life.
“Pooh never complains. He never judges. He listens without making it about him. And he’s always ready for a cuddle. He’s not, now, like the Pooh in the books. He has an adult sense of humour, a sharp tongue, and an eye for the ladies.”
What, though, does Valerie make of this?
“I was perplexed when he first arrived,” she says. “Jason and Pooh have a very close bond. Sometimes, I feel, I’m just there to take the pictures on holiday. But having Pooh in our lives has good benefits. Our rows don’t last as long, because he always has an input and lightens things.”
Does she have moments, like Lori in the movie, of wishing Pooh would take a running jump?
“No. Pooh is great company for Jason when I’m not there. Jason doesn’t like to be on his own. Often I come home and they’re in each other’s arms.”
Come January, a baby will be joining the household. What will happen to Pooh then?
“We have all of Pooh’s friend, like Tigger and Piglet, but they’ve been resigned to the top of a spare room wardrobe,” says Valerie. “Jason wanted them all in bed with us, but there just isn’t room. I’ve said Pooh is going there when the baby comes, but Jason, and Pooh weren’t impressed with that.
“I wonder, though, what will happen if the baby takes a shine to Pooh. Like in Friends, where the baby, Emma, adopted Joey’s Hugsy. But Jason says that won’t happen.”
“He’ll be like a big brother,” says Jason. “He will be very much part of the dynamic. The baby will give me a great excuse to carry Pooh around the place!”
To protect your bear, and your business, from fire, contact Jason: Jason@incendum.ie www.incendum.ie
WHAT IRISMEN THINK OF TEDDY-BEARS
Stephen Donnelly. Independent TD for Wicklow and East Carlow.
“I didn’t have a teddy-bear, and my son doesn’t have one either,” he says. “He sleeps with a blue block. I think Teddy-Bears are an English thing. Irish males are repressed. We’re told not to show our feelings. It’s probably a shame, because yes, sometimes I feel I missed out.”
Tom Dunne. Presenter at Newstalk.
Tom doesn’t remember having a bear as a child. But he now shares a bed with one called George, who is about 40 years old.
“George is named after George Best,” says Tom. “He looks unique; he’s been repaired very, very often. He’s been in the bed with me ever since I met my wife, Audrey. Obviously, I love him. But only this morning I threw him to the end of the bed – gently, of course.”
Paul Howard. Creator of Ross O’Carroll Kelly, and editor of Triggs; The Autobiography of Roy Keane’s dog.
“Unfortunately I didn’t have a teddy-bear as a kid,” he says. “Instead, I was weaned on star-war toys.”
TED ON LINE
• To Watch the Official Trailer: www.yuutube.com/watch?v=VxKIC77XAp8
• For more view Ted’s on FACEBOOK. He has several pages dedicated to him, with dozens of clips from the movie.
Typical entries.
‘This one time I played hooky from work and watched a nature Channel documentary about bears. Turns out I’m nothing like a real bear. Real bears hibernate. I like getting high and having sex with hot chicks....but hibernation sounds kind of awesome.’
‘I don’t need clothes, they make me look like Snuggles accountant; but you guys do, otherwise all your junk hangs out like Flash Gordon.’
• For more clips, look at Ted at Tumbir.
• Follow Ted on Twitter: @whattedsaid. Ted has 396.1K followers.
Typical Tweet. ‘Boston bars in summertime smell like base makeup and pussy.’
• Ted has a Blog too. Ted is Coming.
© Sue Leonard. 2012
By Sue Leonard.
Published in Feelgood, The Irish Examiner, 3rd August 2012.
From Winner the Pooh, to Paddington Bear, Rupert and Yogi Bear, most of us have been reared on talking bears. It’s all very well for children to believe that bears have their own personalities, but surely not adults?
Think again. Meet ‘Ted,’ a bear with attitude, and the star of US box office smash, co-starring Mark Wahlberg, and Mila Kunis.
In the movie, John Bennett was thrilled when his childhood wish came true and his bear comes to life; but fast forward a couple of decades, and Ted’s influence starts to cause problems. John’s girlfriend, Lori, isn’t impressed. She wants John to herself, and wants Ted out of their lives.
John Bennett is not alone. A survey, carried out in England in 2010, found that more than half the adults there still owned their childhood teddy-bear. And a quarter of the men admitted the bear travelled with them on business trips.
That shouldn’t be so surprising, when you think of classic literature. Who could forget Aloysius, Sebastian Flyte’s bear, and constant companion at Oxford University, in Brideshead Revisited? Evelyn Waugh based Aloysius on Archibald Ormsby Gore, a teddy-bear belonging to the poet, John Betjeman. And, it’s said, Betjeman was hugging Archibald on his deathbed.
Dublin man Jason Garland identifies strongly with both with John Betjeman, and with Ted, the movie. But he’s jealous.
“I’d like my teddy-bear, Pooh, to come to life,” says the 32 year old fire protection engineer. “I know, logically, he’s made of fluff, but there’s always that glimmer of hope. When we walk past our balcony I dream I’ll see him dancing around the living room.”
Ted isn’t the first soft toy Jason has loved. That was Monkey, given to him by an uncle when he was a toddler.
“We were inseparable,” he says. “But my sisters, Michelle and Lorraine teased me unmercifully. I’d come back from school, and he’d be hanging from a light fitting, or shut in the oven. That, to me, was torture. I was convinced he had feelings.”
Monkey met a sad end.
“When I was 11, we got a puppy called Shandy. He wasn’t allowed to sleep in the house, and I felt so sorry for him, huddled in a kennel too big for him. He looked lost, so I gave him the monkey to cuddle for the night. The next morning the garden was full of fluff.”
Eight years later, Jason was on a trip to Wales with two friends.
“I was a wingman for this guy who’d arranged to meet a girl in Holyhead. He’d met her on holiday, but she never turned up. On the way home I saw Pooh on the bottom shelf of the gift shop. I had to have him. It was the expression on his face. He cost me £45.
“I pretended he was a present for Valerie, my then girlfriend, whose now my wife. She wasn’t impressed, but soon, Pooh started to exert his personality. I’d talk in his voice if I wanted something, and she began to do that too.
“I began to bring him on holidays, and on business trips. He’s been to Ayres Rock, Tokyo, China, Paris, everywhere we go. This can be difficult. He’s the size of a nine to twelve month old baby. I know this, because of all the clothes he makes me buy for him. He came to my wedding. He wore a tuxedo. He’s brought a whole new dimension into my life.
“Pooh never complains. He never judges. He listens without making it about him. And he’s always ready for a cuddle. He’s not, now, like the Pooh in the books. He has an adult sense of humour, a sharp tongue, and an eye for the ladies.”
What, though, does Valerie make of this?
“I was perplexed when he first arrived,” she says. “Jason and Pooh have a very close bond. Sometimes, I feel, I’m just there to take the pictures on holiday. But having Pooh in our lives has good benefits. Our rows don’t last as long, because he always has an input and lightens things.”
Does she have moments, like Lori in the movie, of wishing Pooh would take a running jump?
“No. Pooh is great company for Jason when I’m not there. Jason doesn’t like to be on his own. Often I come home and they’re in each other’s arms.”
Come January, a baby will be joining the household. What will happen to Pooh then?
“We have all of Pooh’s friend, like Tigger and Piglet, but they’ve been resigned to the top of a spare room wardrobe,” says Valerie. “Jason wanted them all in bed with us, but there just isn’t room. I’ve said Pooh is going there when the baby comes, but Jason, and Pooh weren’t impressed with that.
“I wonder, though, what will happen if the baby takes a shine to Pooh. Like in Friends, where the baby, Emma, adopted Joey’s Hugsy. But Jason says that won’t happen.”
“He’ll be like a big brother,” says Jason. “He will be very much part of the dynamic. The baby will give me a great excuse to carry Pooh around the place!”
To protect your bear, and your business, from fire, contact Jason: Jason@incendum.ie www.incendum.ie
WHAT IRISMEN THINK OF TEDDY-BEARS
Stephen Donnelly. Independent TD for Wicklow and East Carlow.
“I didn’t have a teddy-bear, and my son doesn’t have one either,” he says. “He sleeps with a blue block. I think Teddy-Bears are an English thing. Irish males are repressed. We’re told not to show our feelings. It’s probably a shame, because yes, sometimes I feel I missed out.”
Tom Dunne. Presenter at Newstalk.
Tom doesn’t remember having a bear as a child. But he now shares a bed with one called George, who is about 40 years old.
“George is named after George Best,” says Tom. “He looks unique; he’s been repaired very, very often. He’s been in the bed with me ever since I met my wife, Audrey. Obviously, I love him. But only this morning I threw him to the end of the bed – gently, of course.”
Paul Howard. Creator of Ross O’Carroll Kelly, and editor of Triggs; The Autobiography of Roy Keane’s dog.
“Unfortunately I didn’t have a teddy-bear as a kid,” he says. “Instead, I was weaned on star-war toys.”
TED ON LINE
• To Watch the Official Trailer: www.yuutube.com/watch?v=VxKIC77XAp8
• For more view Ted’s on FACEBOOK. He has several pages dedicated to him, with dozens of clips from the movie.
Typical entries.
‘This one time I played hooky from work and watched a nature Channel documentary about bears. Turns out I’m nothing like a real bear. Real bears hibernate. I like getting high and having sex with hot chicks....but hibernation sounds kind of awesome.’
‘I don’t need clothes, they make me look like Snuggles accountant; but you guys do, otherwise all your junk hangs out like Flash Gordon.’
• For more clips, look at Ted at Tumbir.
• Follow Ted on Twitter: @whattedsaid. Ted has 396.1K followers.
Typical Tweet. ‘Boston bars in summertime smell like base makeup and pussy.’
• Ted has a Blog too. Ted is Coming.
© Sue Leonard. 2012
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
Love Lasts for a Lifetime. Grieving Doesn't.
Bébhinn Ramsay’s Charity in Brazil
By Sue Leonard.
Published in Reality Magazine, July, 2012
In 2007, Alastair and Bébhinn Ramsay were on holiday in America with their two young sons. Life was good for the couple. Then Alastair got a fever, his symptoms worsened, and within days he died, aged 39.
Bébhinn felt she’s lost everything. Struggling to find meaning in life, she fretted that Alastair was unsettled. He’d been a devoted husband and father, and his worst fear had been not being there for his children. As for Bébhinn, at 31, she felt sure life could never be happy again.
Desperate to find a way through her grief, Bébhinn took the boys on Pilgrimage to the Camino de Santiago; but that only highlighted her isolation.
“I’d walked it before, alone. Pushing the boys in a double buggy was exhausting. It made me realise I was no longer independent, or part of a family unit. I needed help”
She tried a Buddhist Retreat, but found it unbearable being alone with her thoughts. She started a PhD in Child Poverty at Oxford University; something she’d planned before Alastair died. But she felt unable to concentrate. And then, after six months, her grief shifted.
“I woke one day, feeling calm. I felt, ‘all is well.’ It was as if Alastair was now settled, and was happy somewhere. I could now mourn him properly.”
A partner in McKinsey and Company, Alastair had been passionate about contributing to society. A leader in pro-bono work, he’d worked with several children’s charities, and was involved with a medical support charity in Peru.
Bébhinn shared this passion.
“From the age of eight, I’ve wanted to work with the poor,” she says. “I’m one of eight, and our parents handed down strong values. My mother would say, ‘if you are given talents, you use them. It’s your duty.’ I really took that to heart.
“I’d always had a fascination with Peru; perhaps because my uncle was a priest there, and, after studying at UCD, I worked there in an orthopaedic clinic.”
After a short stint as a supply teacher, Bébhinn joined McKinsey, as a Management Consultant.
“I saw that as a step to working in a non-profit organisation,” she says. And it was there she met Alastair. “I was 24, and he 32.”
They married, and moved to Rio, where Bébhinn worked with an NGO. By the time Alastair died, the couple lived in London, but had planned the move to Oxford.
In his will, Alastair allocated some money to be spent on a charity, and Bébhinn decided to set up a charity in his name. Gathering family and friends to help her, she set up The Alastair Ramsay Charitable Trust –ARCH - based on the NGO Alastair had worked with in Peru. And she now lives in Brazil, on the Island of Florianopolis.
“ARCH fitted perfectly. My Masters was in Child Poverty, and Alastair had always wanted to set up a charity. Child poverty was the one thing I still felt passionate about, so I could do what I loved, and honour Alastair.”
ARCH tries to meet the dual challenge of poverty combined with a child’s illness. Families are referred by a hospital, and ARCH develops a two year plan helping the families in all areas of their lives.
“The children might have cancer; they might have HIV or Heart problems. We make a plan with the families, seeing what needs to be done, and how we can lend them a hand.
“We’ve turned around a lot of lives. One women, who graduated last year, was referred because her second child had HIV, and the authorities were thinking of taking the child into care. The mother was illiterate. She wasn’t able to administer the medication. But the social worker felt with help, she would manage. And she did have the support of her husband.
“At the start she was scared of public transport. Her husband had to bring her the one and a half hours. Later, we’d collect her from the bus station, and then she gained total independence. She learned to read and write, and could administer the medication.
“We give group therapy, and for a year, that woman didn’t speak. And she wasn’t keen to join in the arts and crafts. The second year she opened up and she changed dramatically.”
The charity provided money for a bathroom for the family too. The husband did the work on it. Then he died of AIDS, leaving his wife with the two small boys.
“She was distraught, but she was managing. She’d started applying to get her pension; she could never have done that before. Her relationship with her children had really improved too. The child with developmental delays was now walking and talking. It was incredible to have had a hand in the transformation.”
Three years on, Bébhinn feels she is healed. She has a boyfriend in Brazil, and a third son. She’s happy in herself. The charity, she feels, enabled her to put her grief to bed. And the book she has written about her journey through grief, feels like the end of a chapter.
“When I move from an overwhelming sense that death is bad, for Alastair, for me, and for the boys, to the possibility that death is also good, I experience a great sense of peace and liberation for Alastair and me, and a surge of joy and hope for the future.
“Love lasts a lifetime, but mourning doesn’t,” she says. “The future is exciting. I have three gorgeous boys, a lovely family and great friends. I must now makes decisions based on what’s best for my family. I still want to help with poverty, but I can now do so with joy; not because I’m a widow.”
Response to her memoir of hope, courage and eternal love, has been amazing.
“I’ve had some wonderful messages. One was from a woman who lost her husband three and a half months ago, and had two small girls. She said the book had given her such comfort. She no longer felt alone. And that message alone made the writing of the book worthwhile.”
Love’s Last Gift by Bébhinn Ramsay is published by Hachette Books Ireland. All royalties will go to ARCH.
©Sue Leonard 2012
By Sue Leonard.
Published in Reality Magazine, July, 2012
In 2007, Alastair and Bébhinn Ramsay were on holiday in America with their two young sons. Life was good for the couple. Then Alastair got a fever, his symptoms worsened, and within days he died, aged 39.
Bébhinn felt she’s lost everything. Struggling to find meaning in life, she fretted that Alastair was unsettled. He’d been a devoted husband and father, and his worst fear had been not being there for his children. As for Bébhinn, at 31, she felt sure life could never be happy again.
Desperate to find a way through her grief, Bébhinn took the boys on Pilgrimage to the Camino de Santiago; but that only highlighted her isolation.
“I’d walked it before, alone. Pushing the boys in a double buggy was exhausting. It made me realise I was no longer independent, or part of a family unit. I needed help”
She tried a Buddhist Retreat, but found it unbearable being alone with her thoughts. She started a PhD in Child Poverty at Oxford University; something she’d planned before Alastair died. But she felt unable to concentrate. And then, after six months, her grief shifted.
“I woke one day, feeling calm. I felt, ‘all is well.’ It was as if Alastair was now settled, and was happy somewhere. I could now mourn him properly.”
A partner in McKinsey and Company, Alastair had been passionate about contributing to society. A leader in pro-bono work, he’d worked with several children’s charities, and was involved with a medical support charity in Peru.
Bébhinn shared this passion.
“From the age of eight, I’ve wanted to work with the poor,” she says. “I’m one of eight, and our parents handed down strong values. My mother would say, ‘if you are given talents, you use them. It’s your duty.’ I really took that to heart.
“I’d always had a fascination with Peru; perhaps because my uncle was a priest there, and, after studying at UCD, I worked there in an orthopaedic clinic.”
After a short stint as a supply teacher, Bébhinn joined McKinsey, as a Management Consultant.
“I saw that as a step to working in a non-profit organisation,” she says. And it was there she met Alastair. “I was 24, and he 32.”
They married, and moved to Rio, where Bébhinn worked with an NGO. By the time Alastair died, the couple lived in London, but had planned the move to Oxford.
In his will, Alastair allocated some money to be spent on a charity, and Bébhinn decided to set up a charity in his name. Gathering family and friends to help her, she set up The Alastair Ramsay Charitable Trust –ARCH - based on the NGO Alastair had worked with in Peru. And she now lives in Brazil, on the Island of Florianopolis.
“ARCH fitted perfectly. My Masters was in Child Poverty, and Alastair had always wanted to set up a charity. Child poverty was the one thing I still felt passionate about, so I could do what I loved, and honour Alastair.”
ARCH tries to meet the dual challenge of poverty combined with a child’s illness. Families are referred by a hospital, and ARCH develops a two year plan helping the families in all areas of their lives.
“The children might have cancer; they might have HIV or Heart problems. We make a plan with the families, seeing what needs to be done, and how we can lend them a hand.
“We’ve turned around a lot of lives. One women, who graduated last year, was referred because her second child had HIV, and the authorities were thinking of taking the child into care. The mother was illiterate. She wasn’t able to administer the medication. But the social worker felt with help, she would manage. And she did have the support of her husband.
“At the start she was scared of public transport. Her husband had to bring her the one and a half hours. Later, we’d collect her from the bus station, and then she gained total independence. She learned to read and write, and could administer the medication.
“We give group therapy, and for a year, that woman didn’t speak. And she wasn’t keen to join in the arts and crafts. The second year she opened up and she changed dramatically.”
The charity provided money for a bathroom for the family too. The husband did the work on it. Then he died of AIDS, leaving his wife with the two small boys.
“She was distraught, but she was managing. She’d started applying to get her pension; she could never have done that before. Her relationship with her children had really improved too. The child with developmental delays was now walking and talking. It was incredible to have had a hand in the transformation.”
Three years on, Bébhinn feels she is healed. She has a boyfriend in Brazil, and a third son. She’s happy in herself. The charity, she feels, enabled her to put her grief to bed. And the book she has written about her journey through grief, feels like the end of a chapter.
“When I move from an overwhelming sense that death is bad, for Alastair, for me, and for the boys, to the possibility that death is also good, I experience a great sense of peace and liberation for Alastair and me, and a surge of joy and hope for the future.
“Love lasts a lifetime, but mourning doesn’t,” she says. “The future is exciting. I have three gorgeous boys, a lovely family and great friends. I must now makes decisions based on what’s best for my family. I still want to help with poverty, but I can now do so with joy; not because I’m a widow.”
Response to her memoir of hope, courage and eternal love, has been amazing.
“I’ve had some wonderful messages. One was from a woman who lost her husband three and a half months ago, and had two small girls. She said the book had given her such comfort. She no longer felt alone. And that message alone made the writing of the book worthwhile.”
Love’s Last Gift by Bébhinn Ramsay is published by Hachette Books Ireland. All royalties will go to ARCH.
©Sue Leonard 2012
Saturday, January 7, 2012
A home from home
Homeless at Christmas.
By Sue Leonard
Published in the Irish Examiner December 2011
With just a few days left until Christmas, stress levels are rising. As we frantically cook, and rush to make sure our Christmas will be as perfect as possible, it’s easy to forget how lucky we are. Lucky to have a family to cook for; lucky, indeed, to have a home.
We’re so accustomed, now, to seeing the homeless in our cities. To seeing them crouched in doorways, shivering against the cold, that sometimes, we rush past them without even giving them a thought.
“Christmas is lonely for the homeless,” says Brother Kevin Crowley, who runs the Capuchin Day centre for the homeless in Bow Street, Dublin. “It’s hard, always, being homeless, but at Christmas, if someone is separated from their families, or broken up from their families, it’s an especially difficult time.
“Two years ago on Christmas Eve, I remember, this guy was sitting in the corner with tears streaming from his eyes. I said,
“What is the problem?” He said,
“Do you hear that song?” It’s Nice to be Home for Christmas was playing on the radio. I said,
“Yes. It’s beautiful.” And he said,
“It is. But once I had a beautiful home, a beautiful wife and a beautiful family. And now I have none of those things. I’m homeless at Christmas.”
Brother Kevin has been serving meals to the homeless since 1969. And the situation, he says, has never been as bad as it is this year.
“We’re serving 500 dinners a day, and we have 200 people in for breakfast.
“We give out food parcels every week. Up to three or four years ago, maybe 300 people would queue up. Last Wednesday there were 1,240 people.”
And some of them, were the new poor.
“The profile of people in need has changed in recent years,” says Brother Kevin. “We now see people who have lost their jobs and are on the verge of losing their houses. They have huge anxiety of what they face in the future. There are more Irish people these days, and they’re embarrassed because they have to come to place like this for their food.
“Our expenses have gone up to €1.4 million, and we’re still getting €450,000 from the government. Were it not for the amazing generosity of the people, there is no way we would be able to continue helping people in need.”
Over in TRUST, in Bride Street, Dublin, it’s business as normal around Christmas. The Director Alice Leahy and her team, are busy providing showers to the regulars, who always find a warm welcome in the bright, wooden floored centre.
“We provide 350 showers a week,” says Alice. “A shower could take two hours because you have to deal with lice, with skin complaints, and most of all, with neglected feet.” They may be given a new set of clothes, and, possibly, a food parcel. They can have their medical needs dealt with, or their drug regimes explained. And they are helped to access their rights, and other services.
Many appear each day, anxious for a cup of tea; perhaps a biscuit. They love spending a few hours in the warm. In a place where the giving of time is considered valuable. Alice refers to the homeless as ‘Outsiders,’ because many of her regulars don’t fit the societal norm.
“People need shelter,” she says, “And a lot of agencies provide accommodation. But some people who are given flats can’t cope. They may not be able to relate to people.” All are catered for at TRUST.
There’s Tom, who lives in a hostel, and attends a psychiatric clinic. He pops in regularly, and sits quietly, nursing a cup of coffee, as he listens to Lyric FM. There’s Josef, who is always polite. He shakes hands when he arrives, and leaves, and says the welcome he gets at TRUST makes it more precious to him, than the place he once called home.
There are the drunk, from early morning; including those who have replaced the meths of old, with an addiction to the hand sanitizer used in hospitals. There are the addicts, trying for just a few hours sleep; there are the angry, there are the despairing. And, perhaps worse, there are those who have sunk into apathy and resignation.
“We see that too often,” says Alice. “Dull, dead eyes have replaced the once bright ones, when dreams of a better future existed.”
And it’s worse at Christmas, she says.
“They get angry. They don’t like what’s going on, and sometimes, they withdraw.” Alice is constantly overwhelmed by the generosity of Irish people. TRUST doesn’t take money from the government; they don’t fundraise, yet clothes, food, and essential supplies constantly pour in to the centre.
“We give out hats and socks, tea coffee and soup, brown bread and fruit, all the year round. Christmas is a bit special,” she says. “Then we give out the Christmas cake and the mince pies that people have sent in.”
TRUST and the Capuchin day Centre are both shut on Christmas Day. But that’s when The Order of The Knights of St. Columbanus step in. They’ll provide dinner for 500 in the Royal Dublin Society for the homeless, the poor, and anyone else with little food or money. And another 1,200 meals are produced, and sent as takeaways for those too sick or incapacitated to leave their homes.
The Order have been providing this service since 1915. But in the past couple of years, the profile of the needy has changed.
“There are more Irish now,” says the Chairman, Adrian King. “A high percentage would be homeless people, but last year, it was so sad seeing who came. There were those whose pensions and funds had gone; there were Irish families. It’s a different profile entirely.”
There will be a full Christmas Dinner; they’ll be entertainment, and they’ll be visits from Dublin’s Lord Mayor, and the Archbishop of Dublin. And the guests, picked up and dropped in prearranged areas in Dublin, will not go home empty handed.
“Their take away bags will contain sandwiches; drinks, crisps, toiletries, anything we can source,” says King.
Focus Ireland will be busy, too, making Christmas as happy for those using their services as they possibly can.
“Christmas is a time of great sadness for somebody out of home,” says Sr Stanislaus Kennedy, co founder and lifetime president of the organisation. “We provide Christmas dinner for them in three different locations, and we try to help them celebrate as best we can.”
Sr Stan is saddened by the new Irish poor – and particularly because so many women and children are now affected by homelessness – with a shocking one in seven of the homeless a child.
“The recession is so traumatic for families,” she says. “When they were used to two cars, two phones, two of everything, and now they have nothing, where do they turn?”
The other side of Christmas, for Focus Ireland, is to make their message known. It’s a time for fundraising, and highlighting the need for volunteers.
“What we give, we receive,” says Sr. Stan. “If we can allow the homeless to give to us, and to touch into our broken side, then they change us. And once we are changed, we are changed forever. That is the gift of the poor.”
Ciaran Boylan, a 6th year student at Belvedere College in Dublin, can’t wait for the run up to Christmas. But it’s not about partying or present buying. He’ll be spending the days, and nights, of 22nd and 23rd of December, sleeping out in O’Connell Street near the GPO. He’ll be there on Christmas Eve too; only stopping at around six in the evening, when he’ll go to the school for Mass.
180 boys from 5th and 6th year apply for the Sleep Out each year, but only 30 are chosen.
“I applied last year,” says Ciaran, who has, anyway, been involved for the past two or three years. “My brother was on the sleep-out. I was out around the city, collecting money for the charities. Everyone in school wants to help. We all have feelings about the homeless.
“Belvedere is not in a good area of Dublin. Seeing the homeless around is unavoidable. We build up bonds with homeless guys around the city. We’re aware of all the factors that come into play.
“People are homeless for various different reasons. Some are down on their luck, for family, or financial reasons. Some have had enough of life. It’s not just about houses. Some of them use the shelters. Others find them too dangerous. They’d rather sleep in a doorway.”
This year, Ciaran is in charge of the PR.
“Miss Ireland is coming along to support us,” he says, “and Ger Brennan, who was on the GAA team that won the all Ireland. He was a past pupil, he won a scholarship, and was here as a teacher. He’s coming down to collect for us. Other past pupils are sleeping out in College Green. There are guys who left one or two years ago, and guys who left 10 or 15 years ago.”
At Belvedere, it’s not just a case of helping at Christmas.
“The Vincent de Paul is a big thing in our school. We do a soup run with them every Wednesday. We give out soup and sandwiches, but the greatest thing is to give people your time.
“By listening to them, and finding out how they feel, we gain an awful lot from it. Some of them lift your spirits. There’s one guy, Dave, in Dawson Street. It could be raining, you could be in bad form. You sit with him, and in 20 seconds you’d be crying laughing. He’s a great sense of humour.”
Doesn’t he resent giving up all that time, just before Christmas?
“What we get from chatting to the guys is the best present you can imagine. Their appreciation is better than any I-pod or bike. We’re seeing the real world.”
One thing, though. Ciaran is trying hard, not to emulate a boy, who, three years ago, went home after the sleep-out, and straight to bed.
“When he woke up, and went down for Christmas dinner, there was nothing there. His mum said he’s slept for 18 hours. He’d missed out on Christmas Day completely.”
Aimee Concannon, 15, always loved filling shoe boxes with gifts for Africa. But last year, she missed the essential deadline. She was upset. Until, going for a drum lesson in Temple Bar, she noticed all the homeless sleeping rough in the cold. And that gave her an idea.
“I filled shoe boxes with hats gloves and scarves; with toothbrushes and paste, plasters throat lozenges and Vaseline. And with playing cards, cards and stamps,” she says. “I filled ten shoeboxes, I wrapped them, and on Christmas Eve, my friend Georgia and I distributed them to the homeless.
“It was amazing,” she says. “They were so emotional and appreciative. One of them started crying. They couldn’t believe they were getting something. It was sad how shocked they were.”
This year Aimee has expanded her scheme. She’s asked around for sponsorship, and has vouchers from food and coffee shops. She’s vouchers for Butler’s Chocolates too.
“People have been so generous. I’m hoping to fill 20 shoe boxes this year; maybe even 25. I’m so happy I can help people.”
FOR MORE INFOMATION
CAPUCHIN DAY CENTRE
www.homeless.ie Looking for funds and donations of food.
TRUST
http://www.trust-ireland.ie/
CHRISTMAS DAY DINNER IN THE RDS
Provided by the order of the Knights of St Columbanus. Main sponsor ESB Electric AID Ireland. To donate money, or products for the goody bags, ring Adrian King. 086 804 0720.
Adrian@christmasdaydinner.com
FOCUS IRELAND
www.focusireland.ie
You can volunteer your time; become involved in an event, or donate.
BELVEDERE SLEEP OUT
Money raised will go to Focus Ireland, Peter McVerry, and Home Again.
This year, Coláiste Iogháid, sister school to Belvedere in Galway, willstage a 24 hour sleep-out.
© Sue Leonard 2011
By Sue Leonard
Published in the Irish Examiner December 2011
With just a few days left until Christmas, stress levels are rising. As we frantically cook, and rush to make sure our Christmas will be as perfect as possible, it’s easy to forget how lucky we are. Lucky to have a family to cook for; lucky, indeed, to have a home.
We’re so accustomed, now, to seeing the homeless in our cities. To seeing them crouched in doorways, shivering against the cold, that sometimes, we rush past them without even giving them a thought.
“Christmas is lonely for the homeless,” says Brother Kevin Crowley, who runs the Capuchin Day centre for the homeless in Bow Street, Dublin. “It’s hard, always, being homeless, but at Christmas, if someone is separated from their families, or broken up from their families, it’s an especially difficult time.
“Two years ago on Christmas Eve, I remember, this guy was sitting in the corner with tears streaming from his eyes. I said,
“What is the problem?” He said,
“Do you hear that song?” It’s Nice to be Home for Christmas was playing on the radio. I said,
“Yes. It’s beautiful.” And he said,
“It is. But once I had a beautiful home, a beautiful wife and a beautiful family. And now I have none of those things. I’m homeless at Christmas.”
Brother Kevin has been serving meals to the homeless since 1969. And the situation, he says, has never been as bad as it is this year.
“We’re serving 500 dinners a day, and we have 200 people in for breakfast.
“We give out food parcels every week. Up to three or four years ago, maybe 300 people would queue up. Last Wednesday there were 1,240 people.”
And some of them, were the new poor.
“The profile of people in need has changed in recent years,” says Brother Kevin. “We now see people who have lost their jobs and are on the verge of losing their houses. They have huge anxiety of what they face in the future. There are more Irish people these days, and they’re embarrassed because they have to come to place like this for their food.
“Our expenses have gone up to €1.4 million, and we’re still getting €450,000 from the government. Were it not for the amazing generosity of the people, there is no way we would be able to continue helping people in need.”
Over in TRUST, in Bride Street, Dublin, it’s business as normal around Christmas. The Director Alice Leahy and her team, are busy providing showers to the regulars, who always find a warm welcome in the bright, wooden floored centre.
“We provide 350 showers a week,” says Alice. “A shower could take two hours because you have to deal with lice, with skin complaints, and most of all, with neglected feet.” They may be given a new set of clothes, and, possibly, a food parcel. They can have their medical needs dealt with, or their drug regimes explained. And they are helped to access their rights, and other services.
Many appear each day, anxious for a cup of tea; perhaps a biscuit. They love spending a few hours in the warm. In a place where the giving of time is considered valuable. Alice refers to the homeless as ‘Outsiders,’ because many of her regulars don’t fit the societal norm.
“People need shelter,” she says, “And a lot of agencies provide accommodation. But some people who are given flats can’t cope. They may not be able to relate to people.” All are catered for at TRUST.
There’s Tom, who lives in a hostel, and attends a psychiatric clinic. He pops in regularly, and sits quietly, nursing a cup of coffee, as he listens to Lyric FM. There’s Josef, who is always polite. He shakes hands when he arrives, and leaves, and says the welcome he gets at TRUST makes it more precious to him, than the place he once called home.
There are the drunk, from early morning; including those who have replaced the meths of old, with an addiction to the hand sanitizer used in hospitals. There are the addicts, trying for just a few hours sleep; there are the angry, there are the despairing. And, perhaps worse, there are those who have sunk into apathy and resignation.
“We see that too often,” says Alice. “Dull, dead eyes have replaced the once bright ones, when dreams of a better future existed.”
And it’s worse at Christmas, she says.
“They get angry. They don’t like what’s going on, and sometimes, they withdraw.” Alice is constantly overwhelmed by the generosity of Irish people. TRUST doesn’t take money from the government; they don’t fundraise, yet clothes, food, and essential supplies constantly pour in to the centre.
“We give out hats and socks, tea coffee and soup, brown bread and fruit, all the year round. Christmas is a bit special,” she says. “Then we give out the Christmas cake and the mince pies that people have sent in.”
TRUST and the Capuchin day Centre are both shut on Christmas Day. But that’s when The Order of The Knights of St. Columbanus step in. They’ll provide dinner for 500 in the Royal Dublin Society for the homeless, the poor, and anyone else with little food or money. And another 1,200 meals are produced, and sent as takeaways for those too sick or incapacitated to leave their homes.
The Order have been providing this service since 1915. But in the past couple of years, the profile of the needy has changed.
“There are more Irish now,” says the Chairman, Adrian King. “A high percentage would be homeless people, but last year, it was so sad seeing who came. There were those whose pensions and funds had gone; there were Irish families. It’s a different profile entirely.”
There will be a full Christmas Dinner; they’ll be entertainment, and they’ll be visits from Dublin’s Lord Mayor, and the Archbishop of Dublin. And the guests, picked up and dropped in prearranged areas in Dublin, will not go home empty handed.
“Their take away bags will contain sandwiches; drinks, crisps, toiletries, anything we can source,” says King.
Focus Ireland will be busy, too, making Christmas as happy for those using their services as they possibly can.
“Christmas is a time of great sadness for somebody out of home,” says Sr Stanislaus Kennedy, co founder and lifetime president of the organisation. “We provide Christmas dinner for them in three different locations, and we try to help them celebrate as best we can.”
Sr Stan is saddened by the new Irish poor – and particularly because so many women and children are now affected by homelessness – with a shocking one in seven of the homeless a child.
“The recession is so traumatic for families,” she says. “When they were used to two cars, two phones, two of everything, and now they have nothing, where do they turn?”
The other side of Christmas, for Focus Ireland, is to make their message known. It’s a time for fundraising, and highlighting the need for volunteers.
“What we give, we receive,” says Sr. Stan. “If we can allow the homeless to give to us, and to touch into our broken side, then they change us. And once we are changed, we are changed forever. That is the gift of the poor.”
Ciaran Boylan, a 6th year student at Belvedere College in Dublin, can’t wait for the run up to Christmas. But it’s not about partying or present buying. He’ll be spending the days, and nights, of 22nd and 23rd of December, sleeping out in O’Connell Street near the GPO. He’ll be there on Christmas Eve too; only stopping at around six in the evening, when he’ll go to the school for Mass.
180 boys from 5th and 6th year apply for the Sleep Out each year, but only 30 are chosen.
“I applied last year,” says Ciaran, who has, anyway, been involved for the past two or three years. “My brother was on the sleep-out. I was out around the city, collecting money for the charities. Everyone in school wants to help. We all have feelings about the homeless.
“Belvedere is not in a good area of Dublin. Seeing the homeless around is unavoidable. We build up bonds with homeless guys around the city. We’re aware of all the factors that come into play.
“People are homeless for various different reasons. Some are down on their luck, for family, or financial reasons. Some have had enough of life. It’s not just about houses. Some of them use the shelters. Others find them too dangerous. They’d rather sleep in a doorway.”
This year, Ciaran is in charge of the PR.
“Miss Ireland is coming along to support us,” he says, “and Ger Brennan, who was on the GAA team that won the all Ireland. He was a past pupil, he won a scholarship, and was here as a teacher. He’s coming down to collect for us. Other past pupils are sleeping out in College Green. There are guys who left one or two years ago, and guys who left 10 or 15 years ago.”
At Belvedere, it’s not just a case of helping at Christmas.
“The Vincent de Paul is a big thing in our school. We do a soup run with them every Wednesday. We give out soup and sandwiches, but the greatest thing is to give people your time.
“By listening to them, and finding out how they feel, we gain an awful lot from it. Some of them lift your spirits. There’s one guy, Dave, in Dawson Street. It could be raining, you could be in bad form. You sit with him, and in 20 seconds you’d be crying laughing. He’s a great sense of humour.”
Doesn’t he resent giving up all that time, just before Christmas?
“What we get from chatting to the guys is the best present you can imagine. Their appreciation is better than any I-pod or bike. We’re seeing the real world.”
One thing, though. Ciaran is trying hard, not to emulate a boy, who, three years ago, went home after the sleep-out, and straight to bed.
“When he woke up, and went down for Christmas dinner, there was nothing there. His mum said he’s slept for 18 hours. He’d missed out on Christmas Day completely.”
Aimee Concannon, 15, always loved filling shoe boxes with gifts for Africa. But last year, she missed the essential deadline. She was upset. Until, going for a drum lesson in Temple Bar, she noticed all the homeless sleeping rough in the cold. And that gave her an idea.
“I filled shoe boxes with hats gloves and scarves; with toothbrushes and paste, plasters throat lozenges and Vaseline. And with playing cards, cards and stamps,” she says. “I filled ten shoeboxes, I wrapped them, and on Christmas Eve, my friend Georgia and I distributed them to the homeless.
“It was amazing,” she says. “They were so emotional and appreciative. One of them started crying. They couldn’t believe they were getting something. It was sad how shocked they were.”
This year Aimee has expanded her scheme. She’s asked around for sponsorship, and has vouchers from food and coffee shops. She’s vouchers for Butler’s Chocolates too.
“People have been so generous. I’m hoping to fill 20 shoe boxes this year; maybe even 25. I’m so happy I can help people.”
FOR MORE INFOMATION
CAPUCHIN DAY CENTRE
www.homeless.ie Looking for funds and donations of food.
TRUST
http://www.trust-ireland.ie/
CHRISTMAS DAY DINNER IN THE RDS
Provided by the order of the Knights of St Columbanus. Main sponsor ESB Electric AID Ireland. To donate money, or products for the goody bags, ring Adrian King. 086 804 0720.
Adrian@christmasdaydinner.com
FOCUS IRELAND
www.focusireland.ie
You can volunteer your time; become involved in an event, or donate.
BELVEDERE SLEEP OUT
Money raised will go to Focus Ireland, Peter McVerry, and Home Again.
This year, Coláiste Iogháid, sister school to Belvedere in Galway, willstage a 24 hour sleep-out.
© Sue Leonard 2011
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Life of a cabin Crew
Being a cabin-crew mum just got harder
As the Aer Lingus roster dispute rumbles on, Sue Leonard meets the flight attendants struggling to juggle work and family life
By Sue Leonard
Wednesday February 02 2011
Drunk football fans; women with panic attacks; screaming babies and belligerent business men... all feature in the working life of an aeroplane cabin crew. Factor in delays and cancellations, turbulence and the threat of terrorism, and it's clear that life in the air is far from glamorous.
What if, on top of all of that, you were a mum? How would you sort out your childcare? It's tough enough for the Aer Lingus crew as it is; but the proposed new rosters will make a work life balance almost impossible to negotiate.
"Childcare is a definite issue," says Niall Shanahan from the union IMPACT. "The new rosters are anti-family and unnecessary.
"Duties can be changed by three hours with little notice," says Shanahan. "You could arrive for duty at 7am to be told you are on a different flight departing up to three hours later. A nightmare if you have kids.
"Duties can be changed by up to four hours the day before the rostered shift. Weekends are affected too. All this is unacceptable."
Michael O'Leary, CEO of Ryanair has spoken out in favour of Aer Lingus management. He says that his cabin crew work 19 flight-hour weeks, and yet, he says, there is no shortage of applications.
O'Leary is a known hard taskmaster, but what is it like to work for an airline abroad?
Alex Humphries worked as a flight attendant for six and a half years. Coming from the rat-race in London, she decided for a complete career change. She stopped flying last year when she moved to Italy with her partner, a pilot, and is now expecting her first baby.
"I worked for easyJet, then left and worked long haul for Qantas for 18 months. Then I went back to easyJet again. Shift working was a problem for my social life. I struggled to see my close friends who worked from nine to five. I'd be working weekends, and away for five to six days.
"My partner is a pilot; some weeks we'd only see each other for an hour or so. Flying paid havoc with my body clock, and my eating habits went down the drain. Flying, you often don't have time to look after yourself.
'The lifestyle was much worse for mothers. They found it very difficult, and there was a lot of sickness as well. They tended to rely on brothers, sisters, and parents. Some mums fly for 20 to 30 years. I really don't know how they do it."
Looking at the issues faced by Aer Lingus cabin crew, Alex has some sympathy.
But she says you expect unpredictability in the airline business.
"At easyJet we were on report. You'd turn up an hour before your flight, and find you were assigned a completely different route.
"Instead of flying to Madrid, which was an hour and a half there -- so three hours there and back, you'd fly to Athens which was three and a half hours -- so seven hours there and back."
She didn't get meal breaks with easyJet -- but there was usually time to grab something mid-flight.
"At easyJet we always had one weekend off a month," she says, "And at Qantas we had one every eight weeks. But airlines are having to cut costs.
"There's more competition now and the cost of fuel is up. It's tough, but it's just the way the industry works."
- Sue Leonard
Irish Independent
As the Aer Lingus roster dispute rumbles on, Sue Leonard meets the flight attendants struggling to juggle work and family life
By Sue Leonard
Wednesday February 02 2011
Drunk football fans; women with panic attacks; screaming babies and belligerent business men... all feature in the working life of an aeroplane cabin crew. Factor in delays and cancellations, turbulence and the threat of terrorism, and it's clear that life in the air is far from glamorous.
What if, on top of all of that, you were a mum? How would you sort out your childcare? It's tough enough for the Aer Lingus crew as it is; but the proposed new rosters will make a work life balance almost impossible to negotiate.
"Childcare is a definite issue," says Niall Shanahan from the union IMPACT. "The new rosters are anti-family and unnecessary.
"Duties can be changed by three hours with little notice," says Shanahan. "You could arrive for duty at 7am to be told you are on a different flight departing up to three hours later. A nightmare if you have kids.
"Duties can be changed by up to four hours the day before the rostered shift. Weekends are affected too. All this is unacceptable."
Michael O'Leary, CEO of Ryanair has spoken out in favour of Aer Lingus management. He says that his cabin crew work 19 flight-hour weeks, and yet, he says, there is no shortage of applications.
O'Leary is a known hard taskmaster, but what is it like to work for an airline abroad?
Alex Humphries worked as a flight attendant for six and a half years. Coming from the rat-race in London, she decided for a complete career change. She stopped flying last year when she moved to Italy with her partner, a pilot, and is now expecting her first baby.
"I worked for easyJet, then left and worked long haul for Qantas for 18 months. Then I went back to easyJet again. Shift working was a problem for my social life. I struggled to see my close friends who worked from nine to five. I'd be working weekends, and away for five to six days.
"My partner is a pilot; some weeks we'd only see each other for an hour or so. Flying paid havoc with my body clock, and my eating habits went down the drain. Flying, you often don't have time to look after yourself.
'The lifestyle was much worse for mothers. They found it very difficult, and there was a lot of sickness as well. They tended to rely on brothers, sisters, and parents. Some mums fly for 20 to 30 years. I really don't know how they do it."
Looking at the issues faced by Aer Lingus cabin crew, Alex has some sympathy.
But she says you expect unpredictability in the airline business.
"At easyJet we were on report. You'd turn up an hour before your flight, and find you were assigned a completely different route.
"Instead of flying to Madrid, which was an hour and a half there -- so three hours there and back, you'd fly to Athens which was three and a half hours -- so seven hours there and back."
She didn't get meal breaks with easyJet -- but there was usually time to grab something mid-flight.
"At easyJet we always had one weekend off a month," she says, "And at Qantas we had one every eight weeks. But airlines are having to cut costs.
"There's more competition now and the cost of fuel is up. It's tough, but it's just the way the industry works."
- Sue Leonard
Irish Independent
Thursday, December 16, 2010
The Pain of Adoption.
The Pain of Adoption.
Fiona Cassidy
Interviewed by Sue Leonard
Published in the Irish Examiner. 30TH November 2010
Fiona Cassidy can’t wait for Christmas. She’ll be celebrating with her partner Philip, with her two children, her partner’s two, and their own three year old, Áine. Best of all, Fiona is pregnant again, with a baby due in March. It’s all a long way from the time when she struggled as a single mum of two.
“Christmas will be brilliant,” she says. “We have a mad brood. It was will be chaos, but I love that. I love the identity it gives me.” And that, for Fiona is a vital feeling.
Fiona was adopted. As a teenager, she often wondered who she really was. She wondered what life would have been like with her birth mother. And what sort of person was she?
Fiona had always known she was adopted. Her adoptive parents, Peter and Eileen Cassidy had told her she was special. They’d given her a magical childhood in County Tyrone, and said, simply, that her birth mother had been unable to look after her.
“My parents said I’d been ‘meant’ to come to them. They described me to others as their special wee girl, and when I was younger, I accepted that. But as a teenager you realise, ‘my mother didn’t want me.’ I wanted to know why.
“I was always close to my parents, and I felt almost guilty about asking questions. But I was dying to know if I looked like somebody. I hated those conversations other people had, when they were told, ‘you are so like your sister,’ or ‘you have your mother’s eyes.’ I would have loved somebody to turn round and say that to me.
“My parents always supported me,” she says. “They didn’t palm me off. When I said I would contact my birth mother, they said, ‘do what you want to do. We will always be behind you.”
Fiona expected her search to be long and hard. But when, a few weeks after her eighteenth birthday she went to the registry of births deaths and marriages, she procured her full birth certificate. That certificate had my birth mother’s full name and address on it.
It was a momentous moment.
“It was surreal. It was ‘wow.’ I was once somebody else. I carried my birth mother’s address around for a long time, and I never told mummy and daddy that I had it. I was afraid of their reaction. I felt I’d sneaked off without telling them, and gone behind their back. I knew they were keen for me to go through the proper channels, but I was impulsive. I didn’t want to do that.”
Although she was nervous about taking the next step, Fiona was excited too.
“I’d often dreamt of meeting my birth mother. When I saw people meet their relatives on Cilla Black’s ‘Surprise Surprise,’ I’d thought, one day that will be me. I waited for weeks. I only told my boyfriend about it. I didn’t trust anyone else enough. I was afraid if I told my friends, they would have told their mummies, and their mummies would have told mine.”
Eventually she and her boyfriend went to her birth mother’s house but Fiona hadn’t the nerve to knock on the door. In the meantime she’d found her baptismal certificate, and on it, was an aunt’s address.
“She had been my Godmother. My boyfriend did some sleuth work, and he came up with her phone number. He phoned her, she gave him the address and we went to see her.”
Fiona was hoping for her happy ever after ending, but she was in for one big shock.
“Two aunts were there, but they weren’t exactly welcoming. They told me that my birth mother had health problems, and it would be detrimental to her to meet me. They said it would not do me any good either. It was just awful to hear that. It was really upsetting. I was basically told to go away and not to come back.”
Fiona carried around the hurt for months, too upset to tell her parents.
“I was emotionally distraught. When I did tell them, it was straight to the family doctor, and he organised for me to have counselling. It was a very bad time for me. I do realise it was partly my own fault. If I’d gone down the proper channels I’d have had counselling before making contact. It would have prepared me.”
Shortly after that Fiona became pregnant. Her son is now 15. She had another child, and ended up coping as a single mum. Ten years ago she met her partner, Philip, and they live happily in County Tyrone with her children, with his two part time, and with their own child Áine, who is three.
Having her own family has helped Fiona. She now feels she fits in somewhere. But it’s brought back the pain too.
“When I had Áine, in particular, it did make me think, how could a mum give a baby away. You realise how precious they are, and how much you love them. You think, I would die if anything happened to them. I remember someone came to leave off a baby present when we had Áine. They said, ‘Oh you are gorgeous, how could anyone give one away?’ I was thinking, yes how could you?”
Fiona’s latest book, ‘Anyone for me?’ covers the story of an adopted child. She covers the issue in an authentic way, but gives Ruby the happy ending she would have liked for herself.
“Writing the book was cathartic,” she says.
Fiona is still close to her parents. They’re looking after the children while Fiona is in Dublin for this interview. Over the years, Fiona has tried contacting her aunts again; she wants, at the least, to know how her mother is doing, but each time she’s knocked back.
“They’ve always snubbed me, and that’s hard. I’ve done some research. There are politicians in my family on both sides of the border. There’s a famous actor, even a writer. There are cousins the same age as me. I can’t contact them because I have a duty of care towards my mother. I do understand that her sisters want to protect her.”
She doggedly kept contact, using Philip as an intermediary, but in the Autumn, when Philip met a relative, he was abruptly told that Fiona has been a mistake; and that when she’d been adopted, her birth mother’s family gave up all legal and moral responsibility towards her.
“I’m so shocked,” she says. “And so saddened. I can’t agree that they have no moral responsibility. It’s so harsh. If I could, I would ask them to walk in my shoes for a day. I never asked to be born, any more than any child did, and I’m not wanting to intrude, but I’d love them to acknowledge me.
“One of my biggest fears is I am going to open the obituary pages and see my birth mother’s name. Why can’t they extend their hand and say, ‘I am glad you are well – this is how your mammy is.’
Anyone for me by Fiona Cassidy is published by Poolbeg Press at 13.99 euro.
FOR MORE INFORMATION on ADOPTION
www.adoption.ie
www.aai.gov.ie
ends.
Fiona Cassidy
Interviewed by Sue Leonard
Published in the Irish Examiner. 30TH November 2010
Fiona Cassidy can’t wait for Christmas. She’ll be celebrating with her partner Philip, with her two children, her partner’s two, and their own three year old, Áine. Best of all, Fiona is pregnant again, with a baby due in March. It’s all a long way from the time when she struggled as a single mum of two.
“Christmas will be brilliant,” she says. “We have a mad brood. It was will be chaos, but I love that. I love the identity it gives me.” And that, for Fiona is a vital feeling.
Fiona was adopted. As a teenager, she often wondered who she really was. She wondered what life would have been like with her birth mother. And what sort of person was she?
Fiona had always known she was adopted. Her adoptive parents, Peter and Eileen Cassidy had told her she was special. They’d given her a magical childhood in County Tyrone, and said, simply, that her birth mother had been unable to look after her.
“My parents said I’d been ‘meant’ to come to them. They described me to others as their special wee girl, and when I was younger, I accepted that. But as a teenager you realise, ‘my mother didn’t want me.’ I wanted to know why.
“I was always close to my parents, and I felt almost guilty about asking questions. But I was dying to know if I looked like somebody. I hated those conversations other people had, when they were told, ‘you are so like your sister,’ or ‘you have your mother’s eyes.’ I would have loved somebody to turn round and say that to me.
“My parents always supported me,” she says. “They didn’t palm me off. When I said I would contact my birth mother, they said, ‘do what you want to do. We will always be behind you.”
Fiona expected her search to be long and hard. But when, a few weeks after her eighteenth birthday she went to the registry of births deaths and marriages, she procured her full birth certificate. That certificate had my birth mother’s full name and address on it.
It was a momentous moment.
“It was surreal. It was ‘wow.’ I was once somebody else. I carried my birth mother’s address around for a long time, and I never told mummy and daddy that I had it. I was afraid of their reaction. I felt I’d sneaked off without telling them, and gone behind their back. I knew they were keen for me to go through the proper channels, but I was impulsive. I didn’t want to do that.”
Although she was nervous about taking the next step, Fiona was excited too.
“I’d often dreamt of meeting my birth mother. When I saw people meet their relatives on Cilla Black’s ‘Surprise Surprise,’ I’d thought, one day that will be me. I waited for weeks. I only told my boyfriend about it. I didn’t trust anyone else enough. I was afraid if I told my friends, they would have told their mummies, and their mummies would have told mine.”
Eventually she and her boyfriend went to her birth mother’s house but Fiona hadn’t the nerve to knock on the door. In the meantime she’d found her baptismal certificate, and on it, was an aunt’s address.
“She had been my Godmother. My boyfriend did some sleuth work, and he came up with her phone number. He phoned her, she gave him the address and we went to see her.”
Fiona was hoping for her happy ever after ending, but she was in for one big shock.
“Two aunts were there, but they weren’t exactly welcoming. They told me that my birth mother had health problems, and it would be detrimental to her to meet me. They said it would not do me any good either. It was just awful to hear that. It was really upsetting. I was basically told to go away and not to come back.”
Fiona carried around the hurt for months, too upset to tell her parents.
“I was emotionally distraught. When I did tell them, it was straight to the family doctor, and he organised for me to have counselling. It was a very bad time for me. I do realise it was partly my own fault. If I’d gone down the proper channels I’d have had counselling before making contact. It would have prepared me.”
Shortly after that Fiona became pregnant. Her son is now 15. She had another child, and ended up coping as a single mum. Ten years ago she met her partner, Philip, and they live happily in County Tyrone with her children, with his two part time, and with their own child Áine, who is three.
Having her own family has helped Fiona. She now feels she fits in somewhere. But it’s brought back the pain too.
“When I had Áine, in particular, it did make me think, how could a mum give a baby away. You realise how precious they are, and how much you love them. You think, I would die if anything happened to them. I remember someone came to leave off a baby present when we had Áine. They said, ‘Oh you are gorgeous, how could anyone give one away?’ I was thinking, yes how could you?”
Fiona’s latest book, ‘Anyone for me?’ covers the story of an adopted child. She covers the issue in an authentic way, but gives Ruby the happy ending she would have liked for herself.
“Writing the book was cathartic,” she says.
Fiona is still close to her parents. They’re looking after the children while Fiona is in Dublin for this interview. Over the years, Fiona has tried contacting her aunts again; she wants, at the least, to know how her mother is doing, but each time she’s knocked back.
“They’ve always snubbed me, and that’s hard. I’ve done some research. There are politicians in my family on both sides of the border. There’s a famous actor, even a writer. There are cousins the same age as me. I can’t contact them because I have a duty of care towards my mother. I do understand that her sisters want to protect her.”
She doggedly kept contact, using Philip as an intermediary, but in the Autumn, when Philip met a relative, he was abruptly told that Fiona has been a mistake; and that when she’d been adopted, her birth mother’s family gave up all legal and moral responsibility towards her.
“I’m so shocked,” she says. “And so saddened. I can’t agree that they have no moral responsibility. It’s so harsh. If I could, I would ask them to walk in my shoes for a day. I never asked to be born, any more than any child did, and I’m not wanting to intrude, but I’d love them to acknowledge me.
“One of my biggest fears is I am going to open the obituary pages and see my birth mother’s name. Why can’t they extend their hand and say, ‘I am glad you are well – this is how your mammy is.’
Anyone for me by Fiona Cassidy is published by Poolbeg Press at 13.99 euro.
FOR MORE INFORMATION on ADOPTION
www.adoption.ie
www.aai.gov.ie
ends.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Research on Suicide
Real Life: New research on the causes of suicide and the effects on those left behind
New research, due to be published next year, hopes to finally shed light on the causes of suicide and the effects on those left behind
Positive: Nuala Whelan, whose husband killed himself 10 years ago, has come to terms with what happened and says 'life is to be enjoyed, not endured.'
By Sue Leonard
Monday September 07 2009
This Thursday, September 10, is World Suicide Prevention Day. With 460 people dying by suicide in Ireland in 2007, and our youth suicide rate the fifth highest in Europe, it's a date we should all take note of.
Until now there has been little research to find out just why so many young people kill themselves, and that worried Professor Kevin Malone of UCD and St Vincent's University Hospital. So thanks to funding from, amongst others, 3Ts and the Padraig Harrington Foundation, he decided to talk to the families and the friends of suicide victims.
"We examined 400 suicide cases: 400 young people who had attempted suicide, and another 400 who were depressed, but who had not made a suicide attempt," says Professor Malone. "Over 80pc of those who had committed suicide had told someone of their intention up to two weeks before," he says.
"That is so sad, and is a reflection on our society. It's difficult, too, for the friends who are burdened with that news. They may feel, in the aftermath, that they were enabling the suicide, by standing by their friend and not telling."
Life, too, is difficult for those who made a suicide attempt, and survived.
"They get a second chance at life, but society is angry at them," says Malone. "Yet they had reached a point where they were overwhelmed by a feeling of low self-worth, where the world would be better off without them.
"In the aftermath, they have to deal with anger, and the realisation that they are considered selfish in a society that doesn't care. They have no idea what the aftermath of a successful suicide is like for their family. If they knew they would probably think about the act, but they are in a bubble of despair and they don't see any way out."
Ten suicide clusters were identified in the research, accounting for 40 additional deaths. And this, Malone suggests, is a complex issue.
Loss
"It is clear that the grief of suicide death and suicide loss is profound in a young person's society," he says. "They feel alone, afraid, and they identify with suicide as a solution. Young people often tell their parents that suicide is a dreadful thing, and they would never do it, but two weeks later they are dead themselves."
Mental health support for the young is woefully inadequate. There are no public beds for adolescents with mental health problems in Professor Malone's catchment area.
"Not one," he says. "We can 'buy' expensive beds from St John of God's Hospital, but that is not the solution. There are three suicides on our database directly associated with adolescent kids being put in an adult unit. They felt completely out of it."
Anthony knows that feeling well. At 19, he was a patient in St Columba's Psychiatric Hospital in Sligo. It was his third visit and he had been having suicidal thoughts for some time. Whilst there, he went to a nearby derelict building and jumped from a second-floor window.
"I wanted to end the pain," he says. "Killing yourself is not a selfish thing to do; you don't want to hurt your family. It's not brave either. It is neither of those things. My thinking just wasn't right."
Anthony smashed a knee and the bones in his heel. He couldn't walk for five weeks. But when he woke, he was glad that he was alive.
"That was my turning point," he says. "I have been through a lot since then, but I have never once been suicidal. People took me seriously after that. Nobody did before; not even the doctors. I don't think my doctor believed in my story. He didn't believe what I was going through."
It was a long road to recovery. But at 30, Anthony's life has improved beyond recognition. "I still get low days, but I can cope with them now," he says. That is due to counselling and to the support of the organisation Grow, a kind of AA for sufferers of depression.
"I go to Grow every week now," he says. "It gave me the confidence to talk about my illness. I went to Grow to get help for myself, but you help other people as well. You open up about things."
The artist Bernadette Walsh has lost not one but two of her three sons to suicide. Her youngest, Owen, was 33 when he died.
"His breakdown was related to work," says Bernadette. "There'd been trouble, and Owen stood up for his colleagues. He felt, after that, that he was isolated."
He left that job, and started working as a carpenter but he was severely depressed.
"He felt his capacity as a man was diminishing," says Bernadette. "He didn't think he could support his wife, Marie. He was ashamed and we couldn't reason with him."
The family tried to get Owen help. They talked to doctors, and Owen had told his GP that he wanted to kill himself.
"There should have been intervention," says Bernadette. "He should have been admitted to hospital." But he wasn't and on December 6, 1999, Owen was found dead.
Bernadette is convinced that Owen's death contributed to the death of his elder brother, Stephen, years later. Stephen had been a volunteer for four years in Moldova where he'd done sterling work. He'd worked in Ireland as a plumber, and had then volunteered to dig for pumps and to build wells in Sri Lanka. It was soon after he had arrived in Sri Lanka, on December 26, 2006, that he drowned.
"No one wants to believe that her son took his own life, but I know that he did. Stephen couldn't swim. He hadn't been sleeping and he had said goodbye to friends he hadn't seen for years. Work was tough. He was worried about his daughter. Stephanie was pregnant. The baby was born two days after he died."
How has Bernadette coped with this double loss? "I've been helped by the support group Console," she says. "They have been so good to me. I write poems and I paint and paint until I am exhausted. That is how I keep going.
"It is like a glass shattering when you lose someone. Families can split up over the pain. My son David is a hero because he has survived and is a good father. All my sons are heroes. Someone said to me, 'how come you didn't die afterwards?' I said, 'I live for me. Hope is all we have.'"
Depressed
When Nuala Whelan's husband John killed himself 10 years ago, she had absolutely no idea that he was depressed.
"Everything was in his favour. He was 41. He'd worked as a postman for 22 years and worked up the grades. He'd changed jobs just before he died, and he seemed happy. We didn't have debts and we had eight children aged between 18 and six.
"It was like being hit in the face with a shovel. My first thought, though, was for the kids. They were looking at me to get them through this, so I had to get myself to a place where I could cope. I handed the funeral over to the kids. I felt they needed control over their grief."
It wasn't until Nuala's father died, a few years later, that she realised how difficult John's death had been.
"That's when it hit me. My dad died with his family around. It was a release. John's death was so lonely and cold. It was so hard to visualise his pain.
"I had a dark three years. I've never understood why John died. No matter what I do I will never find the answer. So I might as well live my life since he chose not to live his."
Ten years on, life is rosy. All the children are well and happy. One is married and pregnant, one is a barrister, one a banker with a first-class degree, one is an architect, one a business manager, and another an intensive care nurse. One is studying interior design and the youngest is soon to start college. Nuala has returned to college too.
"Life is to be enjoyed, not endured," says Nuala. "Even after the funeral I said: 'I want a bucket of laughter for every tear you have shed.' You have to find the good in the bad and get on with it."
For help and support
- GROW - www.grow.ie
- CONSOLE - www.console.ie, Helpline 1800 201 8910
Copyright - Sue Leonard 2009
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Sudden Cardiac Death.
Sudden Cardiac Death.
Greg and Elsa Leonard
And Sandra
Interviewed by Sue Leonard.
Published in The Irish Independent, 21st January 2009.
Francis Leonard was a fit 29 year old. The youngest of four boys, he had never been happier. He’d just completed a Masters, and was excelling at his job with Intel. He’d moved in with his girlfriend, Sandra McKay.
Francis was never sick. He wouldn’t take, even, an aspirin and his GP hadn’t seen him since he was 13. So when he died, suddenly; during a GAA match on 18th November, 2006, everyone was stunned.
“Francis was so diligent,” says his father, Greg. “And he loved keeping fit. That week he’d rung his club, Erin’s Isle to explain he had to work late and would miss training.
“Normally it was ‘no train, no game,’ but they said, ‘you are our number one player.’ And he swam, on the Friday, to make up for it. He swam 40 lengths.”
Greg and Elsa were off to England that weekend for a party.
“It was my brother’s birthday, and we were going as a surprise,” explains Greg. “We saw Francis on that Thursday. I remember seeing him out to the car. I gave him a big hug.”
Sandra remembers that Saturday morning.
“I remember him sitting on the couch, and the way he looked at me. We were so happy. We were watching ‘True Romance,’ his all time favourite film, and I had to run off. He came to the door.
“I went to the RDS for ‘Off the Rails’ with a friend. I bought a dress for the Intel Christmas party, then we went to Liffey Valley to eat. I had one bite of a chip, then my phone went. It was Francis’s brother, Greg. He said, ‘It’s Francis. It’s serious.’
“I completely panicked, and jumped into the car. And, now I think back I went the longest way to Blanchardstown. I ran into the hospital and saw someone on a table. It looked like Francis. And there was a priest standing there and I thought, ‘oh s**t.’”
Francis had died within seconds. The frantic efforts to revive him at the grounds; and the hour doctors worked on him in A and E, were all in vain.
“I still relive that day,” says Sandra. “I still feel the same pain. Every detail is so clear.”
Meanwhile, Greg and Elsa were shopping in Stevenage.
“And suddenly, I was so cold,” says Greg. “I told Elsa, and she thought I was mad. It was a lovely warm day.”
The phone started ringing at 4.00 pm. And though nobody actually told the couple that Francis was dead, they knew.
“I wanted to get back to Sandra, to see how she was doing,” says Elsa. “We flew from Stanstead, and she was at the airport with the boys.”
The house was full for the next few days.
“Everyone was so upset,” says Elsa, “and we tried to make the funeral happy. We wanted to celebrate his life. We got everyone to sing a song Francis had loved, ‘The Happy Song.’” The couple sing it for me, there and then.
Francis’s autopsy was confusing.
“The doctors said it showed Francis was healthy. There was no reason for his heart to stop beating. His heart was enlarged, but they put that down to his physical activity.”
It wasn’t until December 2006, when Greg and Elsa became the first patients to be screened in a new programme in Tallaght, that they realised what Francis had died of. Greg was identified with the Brugada’s syndrome gene, a syndrome discovered in 1992, where death happens because of the severe disturbances of the rhythm of the heart. There may be no symptoms.
Greg’s extended family are still being screened. But one of his other sons has the gene; along with uncles and cousins. Some of them have been fitted with an internal cardioverter defibrillator.
“One cousin had a son who died in Spain at 5,” says Greg. “We thought he had drowned, but now we know there was no water in his lungs. Clearly he had Brugada’s Syndrome too.”
Elsa thinks everyone should have an ECG routinely, to pick up such abnormalities.
“We go to the optician. We go to the dentist, and our heart is beating for us 80 times a minute,” she says.
Sandra is annoyed that she didn’t insist that Francis got screened.
“I knew about Cormac McAnally,” she says. “I was on to Francis about the amount of sport he was doing; but I never said ‘maybe you should get tested.’”
Sandra laughs as she remembers the man she has loved since she was 17.
“I talk about him all the time, to new friends as well as old ones. I have all these photos of our Australian trip, and of other holidays. Friends say ‘you can see he was special. He jumps off the page.’ He was always smiling.”
Elsa remembers how she had to bribe him to get him into college.
“I didn’t believe in bribing until Francis came along. He had to repeat his leaving certificate. I’m from Trinidad. I’ve taken the boys there twice, but Francis was too young to remember the first time. He always complained. So I said, ‘if you succeed to 3rd level I will take you.’
“He did college the hard way,” says Greg. “He went to IT to get a diploma, then to Galway for his degree. And he got a first.”
Greg is immensely proud of the son he lost. He tells me that Intel loved him. They have changed Francis’s office space into a ‘quiet corner’ for employees to take time to chill out.
“They call it the Francis corner,” he says.
“I can’t stop talking about Francis,” says Greg, as tears spring to his eyes. “He knew me so well. He knew all my faults. I talk to him all the time. I can hear him now, saying, ‘oh Da!’”
Their religion, the couple say, have helped them stay positive. As for Sandra, she has no regrets.
“If someone had said, when I was 17, all this will end in tears, I wouldn’t change a thing. I am positive and thankful that I had the time with him. Some people never find someone as special as Fran. If I never find anyone else it will have been worth it. Every second of it.”
ABOUT CARDIAC RISK IN YOUNG POEPLE.
· Over 5,000 people suffer sudden cardiac death in Ireland. 60 – 80 are under 35.
· Cardiac death in young people is mostly due to inherited heart disease or congenital defects.
· Screening is vital.
· The Centre for cardiovascular Risk in young people at The Adelaide and Meath Hospital, in Tallaght, was launched by Garret Fitzgerald on 10th November, 2008.
· The centre will screen at least 1,600 patients every year, but has already screened 500 people.
· The centre is supported by CRY- Cardiac Risk in the Young; a charity formed by parents of children who had died suddenly, who were troubled by the lack of medical and emotional support. Funding is provided by the Patches Trust and Individual benefactors.
· The centre provides a free service to young people at risk and families of someone who has suffered a sudden cardiac death.
· To be referred, ask a Consultant, GP, or the Charity, CRY.
For More Information; www.cry.ie
© Sue Leonard. 2009.
Greg and Elsa Leonard
And Sandra
Interviewed by Sue Leonard.
Published in The Irish Independent, 21st January 2009.
Francis Leonard was a fit 29 year old. The youngest of four boys, he had never been happier. He’d just completed a Masters, and was excelling at his job with Intel. He’d moved in with his girlfriend, Sandra McKay.
Francis was never sick. He wouldn’t take, even, an aspirin and his GP hadn’t seen him since he was 13. So when he died, suddenly; during a GAA match on 18th November, 2006, everyone was stunned.
“Francis was so diligent,” says his father, Greg. “And he loved keeping fit. That week he’d rung his club, Erin’s Isle to explain he had to work late and would miss training.
“Normally it was ‘no train, no game,’ but they said, ‘you are our number one player.’ And he swam, on the Friday, to make up for it. He swam 40 lengths.”
Greg and Elsa were off to England that weekend for a party.
“It was my brother’s birthday, and we were going as a surprise,” explains Greg. “We saw Francis on that Thursday. I remember seeing him out to the car. I gave him a big hug.”
Sandra remembers that Saturday morning.
“I remember him sitting on the couch, and the way he looked at me. We were so happy. We were watching ‘True Romance,’ his all time favourite film, and I had to run off. He came to the door.
“I went to the RDS for ‘Off the Rails’ with a friend. I bought a dress for the Intel Christmas party, then we went to Liffey Valley to eat. I had one bite of a chip, then my phone went. It was Francis’s brother, Greg. He said, ‘It’s Francis. It’s serious.’
“I completely panicked, and jumped into the car. And, now I think back I went the longest way to Blanchardstown. I ran into the hospital and saw someone on a table. It looked like Francis. And there was a priest standing there and I thought, ‘oh s**t.’”
Francis had died within seconds. The frantic efforts to revive him at the grounds; and the hour doctors worked on him in A and E, were all in vain.
“I still relive that day,” says Sandra. “I still feel the same pain. Every detail is so clear.”
Meanwhile, Greg and Elsa were shopping in Stevenage.
“And suddenly, I was so cold,” says Greg. “I told Elsa, and she thought I was mad. It was a lovely warm day.”
The phone started ringing at 4.00 pm. And though nobody actually told the couple that Francis was dead, they knew.
“I wanted to get back to Sandra, to see how she was doing,” says Elsa. “We flew from Stanstead, and she was at the airport with the boys.”
The house was full for the next few days.
“Everyone was so upset,” says Elsa, “and we tried to make the funeral happy. We wanted to celebrate his life. We got everyone to sing a song Francis had loved, ‘The Happy Song.’” The couple sing it for me, there and then.
Francis’s autopsy was confusing.
“The doctors said it showed Francis was healthy. There was no reason for his heart to stop beating. His heart was enlarged, but they put that down to his physical activity.”
It wasn’t until December 2006, when Greg and Elsa became the first patients to be screened in a new programme in Tallaght, that they realised what Francis had died of. Greg was identified with the Brugada’s syndrome gene, a syndrome discovered in 1992, where death happens because of the severe disturbances of the rhythm of the heart. There may be no symptoms.
Greg’s extended family are still being screened. But one of his other sons has the gene; along with uncles and cousins. Some of them have been fitted with an internal cardioverter defibrillator.
“One cousin had a son who died in Spain at 5,” says Greg. “We thought he had drowned, but now we know there was no water in his lungs. Clearly he had Brugada’s Syndrome too.”
Elsa thinks everyone should have an ECG routinely, to pick up such abnormalities.
“We go to the optician. We go to the dentist, and our heart is beating for us 80 times a minute,” she says.
Sandra is annoyed that she didn’t insist that Francis got screened.
“I knew about Cormac McAnally,” she says. “I was on to Francis about the amount of sport he was doing; but I never said ‘maybe you should get tested.’”
Sandra laughs as she remembers the man she has loved since she was 17.
“I talk about him all the time, to new friends as well as old ones. I have all these photos of our Australian trip, and of other holidays. Friends say ‘you can see he was special. He jumps off the page.’ He was always smiling.”
Elsa remembers how she had to bribe him to get him into college.
“I didn’t believe in bribing until Francis came along. He had to repeat his leaving certificate. I’m from Trinidad. I’ve taken the boys there twice, but Francis was too young to remember the first time. He always complained. So I said, ‘if you succeed to 3rd level I will take you.’
“He did college the hard way,” says Greg. “He went to IT to get a diploma, then to Galway for his degree. And he got a first.”
Greg is immensely proud of the son he lost. He tells me that Intel loved him. They have changed Francis’s office space into a ‘quiet corner’ for employees to take time to chill out.
“They call it the Francis corner,” he says.
“I can’t stop talking about Francis,” says Greg, as tears spring to his eyes. “He knew me so well. He knew all my faults. I talk to him all the time. I can hear him now, saying, ‘oh Da!’”
Their religion, the couple say, have helped them stay positive. As for Sandra, she has no regrets.
“If someone had said, when I was 17, all this will end in tears, I wouldn’t change a thing. I am positive and thankful that I had the time with him. Some people never find someone as special as Fran. If I never find anyone else it will have been worth it. Every second of it.”
ABOUT CARDIAC RISK IN YOUNG POEPLE.
· Over 5,000 people suffer sudden cardiac death in Ireland. 60 – 80 are under 35.
· Cardiac death in young people is mostly due to inherited heart disease or congenital defects.
· Screening is vital.
· The Centre for cardiovascular Risk in young people at The Adelaide and Meath Hospital, in Tallaght, was launched by Garret Fitzgerald on 10th November, 2008.
· The centre will screen at least 1,600 patients every year, but has already screened 500 people.
· The centre is supported by CRY- Cardiac Risk in the Young; a charity formed by parents of children who had died suddenly, who were troubled by the lack of medical and emotional support. Funding is provided by the Patches Trust and Individual benefactors.
· The centre provides a free service to young people at risk and families of someone who has suffered a sudden cardiac death.
· To be referred, ask a Consultant, GP, or the Charity, CRY.
For More Information; www.cry.ie
© Sue Leonard. 2009.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Giving Up the Good Life. Elained Bannon.
Giving up the Good Life.
Elaine Bannon
Interviewed by Sue Leonard.
Published in The Irish Independent 14th April. 2008.
Elaine Bannon had life sussed. She had a high flying career in the lighting industry; a house and a flash car. She took two holidays a year and enjoyed countless weekends away. But in 2002, Elaine took stock.
“I celebrated my 40th birthday with a friend in Kenya. It was a typical package; we went on Safari for a week and then spent a week on a beach relaxing. But when I got back to work in Ireland, I couldn’t settle down.
“Everyone seemed to want more. The suppliers wanted more money; my employer wanted more profit, and the customers wanted more discount. Suddenly the Celtic Tiger ideal didn’t make sense to me.
“Where I had been people didn’t even have clean water. I’d seen poverty. I’d seen kids who hadn’t shoes or a school to go to.
“I handed in my notice, and left work in March 2003. Our courier, on that holiday had told me about a friend of hers who ran a free school in Mombassa. I asked did she want a volunteer, and I went to see her.
“Then I returned to Ireland and wrote to some customers asking could they give me money to help the school and I raised around 15,000 euro. I went to help in the school for a year and I put the cash to good use.
“I did everything. We had a clinic. Some days I would run that cleaning up wounds and treating malaria; other days I would teach; help cook lunch or sweep the floor.
“I met some Maasai people who became friends. They invited me to visit their homes in Rombo- the most Southern part of the Kenyan Rift Valley where the Maasai Tribe live. They live in huts made from mud and cow dung; they wear traditional clothes and, mainly, still live through their animals; cows, sheep and goats.
“It was like going back to the dark ages. There were no roads; just dirt tracks, and there was little access to education. The only source of water was the river or the spring. And the poverty is terrible.
“They are peaceful people, and hospitable. I fell in love with the area, but I became aware of their profound difficulties. I wanted to help. I talked to local leaders, like a Roman Catholic priest and a Pentecostal Bishop. One of the Maasai guys had worked for a charity that had run out of money. I asked what their aims had been.
“I went back to Ireland after the year, and thought about the Maasai. And I decided to go back there and live. I’ve been there ever since.
“I have formed a community- a precursor to an NGO called Light of Maasai. My aim is to help the people with education, with health, and with water projects. Three young Maasai men from the area help me. They translate, and point me in the right direction. They know the lay of the land.
“I live in a little house provided by a mission. It had a sheet iron roof, a bathroom, and, mostly, running water. It’s basic, but comfortable. I raise money in Ireland. Matt Porter of The Kedington Group, and through him the Rotary club have been amazing. And I do one project at a time.
“One month I might dig a well. The next I’ll build a classroom. That might take five or six months. The work makes a huge difference. The people love me. They call me Narikuinkerra, or Nariku for short. It means brought by the children.
“AIDS is a problem here, but children die of diarrhoea too. We’ve had a drought. Cows aren’t producing milk and there’s no money for food.
“You can plough an acre, with your bare hands; you can plant it and fertilise it, but if it doesn’t rain for a year the crop dies in the ground.
“Every morning when I wake up I will find at least two women in my garden, waiting to see me. Perhaps they are starving and need a bag of rice. Maybe their baby has malaria or typhoid and they don’t have the money to pay for the medicine.
“Perhaps her husband wants to take her daughter out of school; to circumcise her and marry her off. She wants help to stop that. In that case we try and get the girl into boarding school away from the village. We may involve a local chief, or, in the last resort, the police.
“Female circumcision is against the law in Kenya, but unless the family is educated, all Maasai girls are circumcised. It is seen as the beginning of womanhood. We try to use words that are respectful, but we do stress it is against the law.
“When they ask me to sponsor a child I first have to make sure the story is legitimate. If it is, I say, ‘you will have to wait a month or a year. I will do my best to get you money.’
“We’ve just opened a school. 3 classrooms were built by us, and two by AMREF- the African Medical Research Foundation. The women told me that their children had to walk 12km to the nearest school. They might meet wild animals, and in the rainy season they’d have to go through dangerous riverbeds.
“I said, ‘give me two years and I will see what I can do.’ In the meantime, I asked them to collect rough stones for foundations and clear an area. And they did that. I’d no idea where the money would come from; in the end Belgrove Senior Boy’s school in Clontarf raised it. Primary kids built a school for primary kids. And it’s called Belgrove School.
“The recent skirmishes didn’t really affect Maasai land. After the election we could get no newspapers and no rice for a while. And someone, one day, spread hate leaflets along the main road, saying the Kikuyu Tribe had better leave the area, but no-one took much notice.
“In response we bought maize and had it ground into flour. We gave it to the community as a peace gesture. We said, ‘we are sharing this from our table. You are starving. If your neighbour is starving too, help him, whatever tribe he is in.
“Sometimes people ask me about politics. I say, ‘I am only here to help you go to school and get clean water. Let me worry about those things.’ I don’t worry about the trouble spreading. What’s the point? I just get on with life.
“I don’t have holidays now, except to come home. I don’t need good clothes. Nobody judges me. But I never leave the house without eyeliner and lipstick on, and I always wear perfume.
“I eat maize, beans, rice kale and fruit, like the locals. There is a shop, but you can’t buy bread butter or chicken. I go to Mombassa every six to eight weeks for two or three days. I go to a supermarket, then, and buy sausages, pasta, butter and garlic.
“I miss my mother’s Sunday dinner, and I miss having a hot shower. I hate washing sheets and towels in cold water in a bucket. But I love it here. I love watching the clear night sky. I can’t see myself coming home anytime soon.
“I was in Ireland with two Maasai men last year. A friend showed us his new car. It had five individual screens for his children to watch films. It had GPS, and if someone tried to break into it, the car would ring your mobile phone, and you could then make the horn blast by remote control.
“I thought, ‘what incredible technology. But if they can do that, why can’t they find clean water for the Maasai kids to drink?’ It makes no sense to me at all.”
For more information or to donate; www.lightofmaasai.com
©Sue Leonard. 2008.
Elaine Bannon
Interviewed by Sue Leonard.
Published in The Irish Independent 14th April. 2008.
Elaine Bannon had life sussed. She had a high flying career in the lighting industry; a house and a flash car. She took two holidays a year and enjoyed countless weekends away. But in 2002, Elaine took stock.
“I celebrated my 40th birthday with a friend in Kenya. It was a typical package; we went on Safari for a week and then spent a week on a beach relaxing. But when I got back to work in Ireland, I couldn’t settle down.
“Everyone seemed to want more. The suppliers wanted more money; my employer wanted more profit, and the customers wanted more discount. Suddenly the Celtic Tiger ideal didn’t make sense to me.
“Where I had been people didn’t even have clean water. I’d seen poverty. I’d seen kids who hadn’t shoes or a school to go to.
“I handed in my notice, and left work in March 2003. Our courier, on that holiday had told me about a friend of hers who ran a free school in Mombassa. I asked did she want a volunteer, and I went to see her.
“Then I returned to Ireland and wrote to some customers asking could they give me money to help the school and I raised around 15,000 euro. I went to help in the school for a year and I put the cash to good use.
“I did everything. We had a clinic. Some days I would run that cleaning up wounds and treating malaria; other days I would teach; help cook lunch or sweep the floor.
“I met some Maasai people who became friends. They invited me to visit their homes in Rombo- the most Southern part of the Kenyan Rift Valley where the Maasai Tribe live. They live in huts made from mud and cow dung; they wear traditional clothes and, mainly, still live through their animals; cows, sheep and goats.
“It was like going back to the dark ages. There were no roads; just dirt tracks, and there was little access to education. The only source of water was the river or the spring. And the poverty is terrible.
“They are peaceful people, and hospitable. I fell in love with the area, but I became aware of their profound difficulties. I wanted to help. I talked to local leaders, like a Roman Catholic priest and a Pentecostal Bishop. One of the Maasai guys had worked for a charity that had run out of money. I asked what their aims had been.
“I went back to Ireland after the year, and thought about the Maasai. And I decided to go back there and live. I’ve been there ever since.
“I have formed a community- a precursor to an NGO called Light of Maasai. My aim is to help the people with education, with health, and with water projects. Three young Maasai men from the area help me. They translate, and point me in the right direction. They know the lay of the land.
“I live in a little house provided by a mission. It had a sheet iron roof, a bathroom, and, mostly, running water. It’s basic, but comfortable. I raise money in Ireland. Matt Porter of The Kedington Group, and through him the Rotary club have been amazing. And I do one project at a time.
“One month I might dig a well. The next I’ll build a classroom. That might take five or six months. The work makes a huge difference. The people love me. They call me Narikuinkerra, or Nariku for short. It means brought by the children.
“AIDS is a problem here, but children die of diarrhoea too. We’ve had a drought. Cows aren’t producing milk and there’s no money for food.
“You can plough an acre, with your bare hands; you can plant it and fertilise it, but if it doesn’t rain for a year the crop dies in the ground.
“Every morning when I wake up I will find at least two women in my garden, waiting to see me. Perhaps they are starving and need a bag of rice. Maybe their baby has malaria or typhoid and they don’t have the money to pay for the medicine.
“Perhaps her husband wants to take her daughter out of school; to circumcise her and marry her off. She wants help to stop that. In that case we try and get the girl into boarding school away from the village. We may involve a local chief, or, in the last resort, the police.
“Female circumcision is against the law in Kenya, but unless the family is educated, all Maasai girls are circumcised. It is seen as the beginning of womanhood. We try to use words that are respectful, but we do stress it is against the law.
“When they ask me to sponsor a child I first have to make sure the story is legitimate. If it is, I say, ‘you will have to wait a month or a year. I will do my best to get you money.’
“We’ve just opened a school. 3 classrooms were built by us, and two by AMREF- the African Medical Research Foundation. The women told me that their children had to walk 12km to the nearest school. They might meet wild animals, and in the rainy season they’d have to go through dangerous riverbeds.
“I said, ‘give me two years and I will see what I can do.’ In the meantime, I asked them to collect rough stones for foundations and clear an area. And they did that. I’d no idea where the money would come from; in the end Belgrove Senior Boy’s school in Clontarf raised it. Primary kids built a school for primary kids. And it’s called Belgrove School.
“The recent skirmishes didn’t really affect Maasai land. After the election we could get no newspapers and no rice for a while. And someone, one day, spread hate leaflets along the main road, saying the Kikuyu Tribe had better leave the area, but no-one took much notice.
“In response we bought maize and had it ground into flour. We gave it to the community as a peace gesture. We said, ‘we are sharing this from our table. You are starving. If your neighbour is starving too, help him, whatever tribe he is in.
“Sometimes people ask me about politics. I say, ‘I am only here to help you go to school and get clean water. Let me worry about those things.’ I don’t worry about the trouble spreading. What’s the point? I just get on with life.
“I don’t have holidays now, except to come home. I don’t need good clothes. Nobody judges me. But I never leave the house without eyeliner and lipstick on, and I always wear perfume.
“I eat maize, beans, rice kale and fruit, like the locals. There is a shop, but you can’t buy bread butter or chicken. I go to Mombassa every six to eight weeks for two or three days. I go to a supermarket, then, and buy sausages, pasta, butter and garlic.
“I miss my mother’s Sunday dinner, and I miss having a hot shower. I hate washing sheets and towels in cold water in a bucket. But I love it here. I love watching the clear night sky. I can’t see myself coming home anytime soon.
“I was in Ireland with two Maasai men last year. A friend showed us his new car. It had five individual screens for his children to watch films. It had GPS, and if someone tried to break into it, the car would ring your mobile phone, and you could then make the horn blast by remote control.
“I thought, ‘what incredible technology. But if they can do that, why can’t they find clean water for the Maasai kids to drink?’ It makes no sense to me at all.”
For more information or to donate; www.lightofmaasai.com
©Sue Leonard. 2008.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)