she’s been through she should live or die alone.
I know I say it all the time, and in all my little notes and letters about this and that, but time is running out and I need you to know that it’s been a privilege to be your wife and, although I feel selfish for all the pain I’ve caused you, I know I’ve brought happiness too, so hang on to that and forgive me because, even knowing what I know now, I’d love and marry you again. I suppose Leslie would say I was a selfish truffle-sniffer but I can die with that.
Yours,
Imelda
Imelda Sheehan died at eight o’clock on the morning of 12 July 1996. She was twenty-five years old. Her husband Jim was by her side, holding her right hand, and her sister Leslie was sitting on the opposite side of the bed, holding her left hand. They both felt her slip away at exactly the same time. For Leslie it was familiar: the ocean of grief inside her swelled and rose but she knew what to do: she remained still and allowed the pain to wash over her. For Jim it was so shocking: one second his wife was alive and battling to breathe, the next dead and silent. He let Imelda’s hand go and stood up quickly, so quickly that he nearly fell. He steadied and hugged himself. He stood in the corner of the room as the doctor and nurses approached to confirm time of death.
Leslie sat with her dead sister Imelda, holding her hand for as long as they would allow her to. Jim cried and his parents, brothers and friends made a fuss of him. Leslie sat alone and frozen. She knew that the physical pain, which made her heart feel like it was about to explode and her ears ring until she feared they’d bleed, would dissipate in time, just as the tide would turn and, with it, Imelda would drift further and further away until she was a distant memory. It only served to make her loss greater. Leslie had just turned twenty-nine.
Jim asked Leslie to read at the funeral but she refused. He asked her to sit beside him and in the first pew, when she’d attempted to sit at the back of the church. She told him she didn’t want to shake hands with the people whose hands she had shaken so many times before, but Jim was not taking no for an answer: she found herself sitting beside her brother-in-law with a heavy heart and the all-too-familiar swollen hand from those whose earnest sympathy had ensured they squeezed too tight.
When the priest asked if anyone would like to speak, Leslie stood up. This surprised her and those around her, especially Jim who hadn’t even been able to get her to do a reading. She found herself standing without reason. The priest asked her to come forward but her legs refused to comply with his request. He waited and the congregation waited, and Jim nudged her and asked if she was all right. What the hell am I doing? she asked herself, as she started to move towards the altar. But once she was on the altar and standing in front of a microphone the words came easily.
“I am the last of the five Sheehans,” she said. “Four days ago there were two of us, me the middle child, and Imelda the baby of the family. I should have been next, and not just because I was older but because Imelda was the strong one, the one who embraced life regardless and without fear. Over the years she’s run five marathons in aid of cancer. I didn’t even walk for cancer, not once – mostly I’ll avoid standing if I can.” She stopped to take a breath. There was a hint of a titter from the crowd. “She fell in love and married Jim, and she always planned to have kids. Imelda always made plans and that’s what I admired about her most because even when she was diagnosed with thesame cancer that had killed our grandmother, our mother and sister she still made plans. She froze her eggs and they bought a house and when she wasn’t in chemo she travelled. Even when she knew her life was coming to the end she still made plans. Little plans that don’t mean much to most, like ‘Tonight we’ll reminisce about
I know I say it all the time, and in all my little notes and letters about this and that, but time is running out and I need you to know that it’s been a privilege to be your wife and, although I feel selfish for all the pain I’ve caused you, I know I’ve brought happiness too, so hang on to that and forgive me because, even knowing what I know now, I’d love and marry you again. I suppose Leslie would say I was a selfish truffle-sniffer but I can die with that.
Yours,
Imelda
Imelda Sheehan died at eight o’clock on the morning of 12 July 1996. She was twenty-five years old. Her husband Jim was by her side, holding her right hand, and her sister Leslie was sitting on the opposite side of the bed, holding her left hand. They both felt her slip away at exactly the same time. For Leslie it was familiar: the ocean of grief inside her swelled and rose but she knew what to do: she remained still and allowed the pain to wash over her. For Jim it was so shocking: one second his wife was alive and battling to breathe, the next dead and silent. He let Imelda’s hand go and stood up quickly, so quickly that he nearly fell. He steadied and hugged himself. He stood in the corner of the room as the doctor and nurses approached to confirm time of death.
Leslie sat with her dead sister Imelda, holding her hand for as long as they would allow her to. Jim cried and his parents, brothers and friends made a fuss of him. Leslie sat alone and frozen. She knew that the physical pain, which made her heart feel like it was about to explode and her ears ring until she feared they’d bleed, would dissipate in time, just as the tide would turn and, with it, Imelda would drift further and further away until she was a distant memory. It only served to make her loss greater. Leslie had just turned twenty-nine.
Jim asked Leslie to read at the funeral but she refused. He asked her to sit beside him and in the first pew, when she’d attempted to sit at the back of the church. She told him she didn’t want to shake hands with the people whose hands she had shaken so many times before, but Jim was not taking no for an answer: she found herself sitting beside her brother-in-law with a heavy heart and the all-too-familiar swollen hand from those whose earnest sympathy had ensured they squeezed too tight.
When the priest asked if anyone would like to speak, Leslie stood up. This surprised her and those around her, especially Jim who hadn’t even been able to get her to do a reading. She found herself standing without reason. The priest asked her to come forward but her legs refused to comply with his request. He waited and the congregation waited, and Jim nudged her and asked if she was all right. What the hell am I doing? she asked herself, as she started to move towards the altar. But once she was on the altar and standing in front of a microphone the words came easily.
“I am the last of the five Sheehans,” she said. “Four days ago there were two of us, me the middle child, and Imelda the baby of the family. I should have been next, and not just because I was older but because Imelda was the strong one, the one who embraced life regardless and without fear. Over the years she’s run five marathons in aid of cancer. I didn’t even walk for cancer, not once – mostly I’ll avoid standing if I can.” She stopped to take a breath. There was a hint of a titter from the crowd. “She fell in love and married Jim, and she always planned to have kids. Imelda always made plans and that’s what I admired about her most because even when she was diagnosed with thesame cancer that had killed our grandmother, our mother and sister she still made plans. She froze her eggs and they bought a house and when she wasn’t in chemo she travelled. Even when she knew her life was coming to the end she still made plans. Little plans that don’t mean much to most, like ‘Tonight we’ll reminisce about