2017: An Advent

A lot can change in a year, yet it lapses in the blink of an eye.

Disclaimer: This is not a religious post, nor am I in any way an expert theologian – just ask Fr Fleming and St Mary’s University Religion department – so the following may be riddled with inaccuracy. My apologies if this is the case!

Recently, I’d been teaching my class about Advent and particularly about the meaning of each Sunday, and in turn, each candle. We had a lot of discussion around this and about what it meant to the children and to others in their lives.

Advent – the arrival of a notable person or thing.

A year ago on December 23^rd, my wife and I buried our first-born daughter Fionnuala. She had been stillborn on December 15^th. On December 8^th this year, we welcomed our second daughter Muireann into the world. The past year has been a journey for us and it is summed up well in the meaning of the four Sundays of Advent.

Hope

“Hope is being able to see that there is light despite all the darkness.” 

Desmond Tutu

As we entered the Christmas period last year, we were brimming with hope. Our first child was on the way and there was nothing but joy and hope in our lives. Our families buzzed with excitement and we gleefully soaked up the giddy highs of being expectant parents.

By the 12^th of December, that hope had been shattered. Our baby’s heart was no longer beating. In the days that followed it felt like there was no hope.

Gradually, though, the experience of others began to restore some of the hope we had lost. The light began to edge into the darkness that had consumed our lives in the immediate aftermath of Fionnuala’s passing.

We heard from parents who had lost children and had gone on to have many more. It was reassuring to know that, although their other children made their loss no less painful, their strength was what shone through. Merely knowing that people close to us had been through a similar experience was enough to let that ember of hope burn and grow stronger.

Peace

“Peace begins with a smile.” 

Mother Teresa

Making peace with tragic circumstances is a major step in moving on. As the year turned and routines began to return to relative normality, there were times when it was harder than others to come to terms with what had happened.

Seemingly small things, like seeing a child’s birthday on social media, or just spotting a little girl while out and about was enough to trigger a wave of sadness, and in some cases, sheer jealousy.

Meeting others who had reached out to us after our experience to share theirs was really helpful, as well as attending the regular Sands meetings, but the moment I really started to make peace with what had happened was sharing the news with my class.

In the week I’d had off after Fionnuala’s death, the children had been vaguely aware of, as they put it, ‘a relative’ having died. When I returned, they never questioned anything, but were supportive in their own way – offering to help, getting on with things when it looked like I might have been struggling a little, but most importantly, being themselves and showing a natural kindness to each other that was heart-warming.

Just before the end of term, during a Circle Time session, I shared with them what had happened that week in December and how, just by showing that kindness to each other, and through their constant smiles, they had helped me come to terms with what had happened.

In a way, I was warmed by the thought that had Fionnuala lived to be half as kind and good-natured as those twenty-six children were, I would have been a very proud father.

Love

“Where there is love, there is life.” 

Mahatma Ghandi

Over the last year, Colleen and I have been overwhelmed by the outpouring of love in our direction. The volume of people who turned out for Fionnuala’s funeral was entirely unexpected and we were both genuinely touched by all who attended that day.

The constant stream of visitors who arrived at the door to comfort us in our grief, those who contacted us to offer their sympathies, all who sent cards and messages had a profound effect on us both and really helped us as we attempted to move forward.

The love and support of our families and friends continued throughout the year. Teammates and former teammates were a huge support for me in particular as I returned to playing following Fionnuala’s passing and all were instrumental in supporting our fundraising efforts later in the year.

In March, we found out that Colleen was pregnant again. We were absolutely thrilled and, as the news began to filter out, we were again overwhelmed at the sheer power of the love that came in our direction.

As the months of the pregnancy progressed, time and time again we were left almost in awe at how loving, accommodating and supportive the people around us were and we are incredibly grateful to you all.

Joy

“Joy is to fun what the deep sea is to a puddle. It’s a feeling inside that can hardly be contained.” Terry Pratchett

On the 8^th of December 2017, at 6:57am, our second daughter, Muireann Tunney arrived in the world. It has been difficult to wipe the smile from our faces since that night.

Even the deep inches of snow and precarious motorway could not dampen the feeling of joy as we made our way to the hospital for Colleen to give birth to our daughter. The smiles on the faces of our family and friends have further inflated our joy and with every new expression that makes its way onto our daughter's face it only increases.

Our joy has been shared by everyone around us and Muireann has been well and truly spoilt in the attention she has received. She made it just in time for her big sister’s first birthday, and has been well and truly looked after by Fionnuala in her journey here to join us.

A lot can change in a year indeed. 

Wishing everyone a happy and peaceful Christmas.

Nollaig Shona Daoibh from all the Tunneys.

The Tab

Not many were bothering with the football that was on the television. Indeed, most were doing their level best to avoid it. Liverpool v QPR. English football, that had no place in Ireland, according to the regulars. A foreign sport. Only two young men sat watching it, adorned with red T-shirts that screamed You’ll Never Walk Alone, trying their best to ignore the opinion of one particular man;

“Looks more like fruitball than football to me!”

His comrades agreed enthusiastically.

Paddy walked into the bar. A giant of a man, with a physique honed from years working on the building sites of Belfast. A scar above his eyebrow. Not quite a regular yet, he imagined he was still too young for that dubious accolade. Acknowledging the other men, he sat down quite happily on the high stool next to the bar.

“The usual Paddy, aye?” enquired the barman.

Paddy responded with a nod. He pondered the hours he had spent sitting on that stool, drinking, complaining and giving out. He remembered the more lively occasions too, the trophies they had filled, the craic they enjoyed and the hours spent in stuttering conversation with women who were both unattainable and unimpressed.

The barman broke into his personal reverie.

“Will I put it on the tab Paddy yeah? Until you get that job?” he asked, a grin breaking onto his face.

“Ya will surely,” replied Paddy, not seeming to pick up on the man’s smile, “or Seán will pay for it when he gets this far.”

Paddy looked around him again, scanning the crowd. As the years had gone by, a gradual change had come upon the clientele. Paddy barely recognised this crowd, except for Ruairí Rua O’Connor in the corner. He wasn’t so much Rua these days, bald as an eagle for years now. Ruairí was a big drinking man, Paddy supposed, always in the corner, drinking and reading his newspaper. When he didn’t have his paper, he would sit in silence, staring into his drink, a lonely, thoughtful expression etched on his face, not taking any notice of the world as it passed him by.

Paddy pitied him, sitting there without a friend in the world, apart from the pint of plain he lovingly caressed with his worn hand. It was whispered that he had once owned a successful corner-shop. He had a wife and three children whom he loved. A nice house and a garden at the back. Everything he had worked for had disappeared, prised from his grasp by the relentless onslaught of addiction.

He had tried to visit the children, but his wife would not let him anywhere near them. Heartbroken, he sought solace in the familiar surroundings of the pub. Customers arrived in the morning only to be met with the sight of closed doors. Sometimes they would find Ruairí slumped over the counter asleep. One morning he awoke and found the till was empty. He closed the doors, never to open again, and took refuge in his pint-sized companion. It was widely rumoured that he had emptied the till himself.

With a low grunt, Ruairí shifted, and Paddy realised with a start that he had been staring at the old man. He turned quickly back in the direction of the optics and sipped his pint wistfully.

Seán strode confidently into the bar. His suit was still in place but his collar unbuttoned. Paddy spotted his tie raising its head above the parapet of his breast pocket. A laptop case hung reluctantly from his hand. Paddy greeted him.

“Seán! How are ya lad? Sit down and have a wee drink! How was the Murder Machine today?”

He sat down, complaining about his long day educating the masses of the nation. Paddy always enjoyed these rants, it was nice to see that teachers felt the same emotions as the normal man on the street. He gave a wry smile. That was how he liked to think of himself, the ordinary man on the street. The working class hero. If only he had the work.

“If that wee shite O’Neill gives me any more hassle this week, I’ll give him something to whine about! Thinks he owns the place, just because his family are worth a fortune! If I shout at him it’s the end of the world, and the school will hardly back me up, sure aren’t they happy to accept their big fat cheque every year!”

“Good day then?” Paddy offered, trying to hide his smirk as he tipped his glass to his lips. There wasn’t much left.

“Is there any such thing?” Seán answered, as the barman set a pint in front of him. Sean watched it swirling, the red glow piercing through the dark liquid as the creamy head settled softly at its peak. He drank hungrily for a few seconds as Paddy watched.

“Ahhhh…fantastic! How are ya anyway?”

Paddy paused as he finished his pint. “Ach it’s not good Seán. This recession is killing me, there’s not a job to be found for fuck’s sake. Will it ever end?”

“It will, Paddy, it will, wait and see. Sure won’t there be a wheen of jobs going soon? Gearóid O’Neill is after buying that site out towards Carryduff. He’ll be building all sorts soon, you’ll get a chance there, will ye not?”

“Ach I wouldn’t work for that oul drip! Thinks he can lord it over the entire place because of the money he has. No Seán, I wouldn’t take his dirty coin if I was on the streets!”

“Beggars can’t be choosers Paddy, are you not in a bit of bother sure? You have to get money somehow, you can’t have a tab here forever.”

Paddy snorted and gestured to the corner of the bar. “Who do ya think I am, Ruairí Rua? I’ll get something soon.”

He looked away from Sean and scanned the growing crowd. Many were younger than him. Young professionals, finishing work for a Friday and calling in for a few drinks on their way home, or before heading out for the night in the city.

In one corner there was a group of young men, still dressed in their site clothes. There were holes in their trousers and stains on their shirts. One or two of them were messing around with a big yellow helmet, but all wore beaming smiles. They were quite happy, cash in their pockets and not a worry in the world. Hakuna Matata. Paddy remembered the hours he himself had spent in that corner, staring and whooping at any woman who had the misfortune to walk past, amid the raucous laughter of his friends.

And there were women in tonight. Glamorous and young, already dressed up for the night. One in particular caught his eye. When she laughed, Paddy supposed her smile was illuminating the room. Her blonde hair fell in ringlets around her shoulders and her soul seemed to stare out at him from her bright green eyes. Paddy froze, his glass floating purgatorially between the bar and his mouth, and stared at her. She reminded him of his wife.

Seán was looking at him questioningly. The two men drank in uncomfortable silence for a short while, but there was a question hanging in the air. It was Seán who gave it a voice.

“What about Máire?”

Paddy was taken aback.

“What about her?” he replied sharply, regaining composure, “She’s away, and the weans with her.”

“I don’t even care,” he continued angrily, “she’s a stupid oul’ bitch, and I’m near sure she’s been sneaking about with that arsehole Séamy McAnespie. Anyway, I’m far happier without her gairning and shouting at me.”

Seán nodded his head to the obvious untruth and dutifully agreed. He knew that Paddy loved that woman, and it was like a knife to his heart when she made it clear she intended to separate from him. He had often heard Paddy sobbing in the early hours, the whiskey and the witching hour getting the better of him. But you couldn’t talk to him about it, he would deny that he had been crying, become aggressive and eventually storm off home.

Paddy wouldn’t admit it, but he knew himself the cause of their split. It was said that there were no jobs in the area, and there was plenty of truth in that, but Seán knew that Paddy hadn’t the heart to work any more. He had lost everything he loved.

“Anyway, look at those wee things in the corner, what would ye not do?” grinned Paddy, trying to change the subject.

Seán met his gaze and opened his mouth to bring the conversation back to the subject of his separation, but it was Friday night and he didn’t want to start a row with his close friend. At least not this early in the evening.

“Oh aye, if only I was a single man again!”

The two of them laughed loudly, but Paddy’s eyes were still drawn to the blonde-haired woman in the corner of the bar. Seán bought him another drink.

“Another one will hardly do any harm, will it?” he asked rhetorically, heading towards the toilets. He knew Paddy had done the damage already.

Paddy had different thoughts on his mind. He lifted his pint and gulped it, making his way towards the women.

“Well, girls,” Paddy began sluggishly, “how are we tonight?”

The women stared at him in silence. The object of his gaze finally answered him.

“We’re just about to leave love, maybe we’ll see you another night?”

Paddy stared at her. He saw his wife staring back at him. He heard the words coming from her mouth.

“Go home Paddy, it’s finished.”

Paddy was startled.

“What did you say Máire?”

The woman began to laugh. Paddy felt the tears beginning to sting his eyes.

“I said we’ve finished our drinks love…maybe see you again sure!”

Paddy watched the girls as they rose and left the bar. He looked at their table. Most of the drinks were almost full. He shook his head and drained his glass.

“Ready for another one already?!”

He felt a hand on his back. It was Seán.

“We’ll have a few more and then we’ll hit the road. Any luck there?”

“Not a bit! No fish biting tonight!”

“Ach sure there are plenty more mate! Barman, one more if it pleases you sir!” laughed Seán.

“Right away lads” came his dutiful response as he tipped the tap once again.

“Stick it on the tab. I’m feeling lucky! I’ll have a job soon” Paddy grinned, rubbing his hands.

Seán began to speak, but Paddy cut across him.

“Will ye be in tomorrow night, for the Quiz?”

The men began talking and laughing. They forgot Paddy’s worries, ignored the romantic rejection, belittled the financial difficulties and all of life’s woes. The barman rang the bell and they decided on a quick nip for the road. The stinging heat of the whiskey yielded to the cold air that snapped at their faces as they stepped outside.

“I better head on here, or the wife will be cracking up!” Seán joked, trying to lighten the mood.

“Sure aren’t they always?” answered Paddy uncomfortably. Now that they were outside, the loneliness was creeping up on him, encroaching in the darkness of the winter night.

The men shook hands and went their separate ways.

Seán opened his door and walked inside. He went to bed, kissing his wife on the forehead.

“Just a few then, Sean?” she smiled sleepily.

“Aye, just a wee few” came Seán’s reply as the alcohol carried him into a deep sleep.

Paddy never opened his door. There was nothing there for him. He walked down the Ormeau Road towards the city.

The red brick swarmed around him. The wind roared a cacophony, whisking stubborn leaves from the trees that lined his path. Excited laughter floated on the winter wind as the carefree youth of the city made their way home, oblivious to the turmoil of the sobbing man to whom they barely gave a second glance.

Paddy crossed the embankment to the bridge and stared down at the choppy water. He watched trees dancing in the night wind all around him. He watched the colours merging as he fell towards the water. The laughter, the red brick and the tree-lined avenues faded from his consciousness until only darkness and silence remained.

The police opened Paddy’s door three days later. The house lay empty.

Why Do You Teach?

“Why do you teach?” is a question every teacher has heard at least once in their career.

The planning, obviously. The staff meetings. The endless futile paperwork demanded by various government bodies.

I jest. This is not another belligerent litany from a downtrodden workhorse. Yes, there are challenges, but all of the above pale into insignificance when I begin to answer the question.

We’ve just passed the summer equinox, the longest day of the year. The daylight stretches long into the evening, rendering previously punctual bedtimes sporadic and ineffectual.  The traditional end-of-year routines are in full flow.

Parents may be on the lookout for a gift for their child’s teacher. They may feel under pressure to get something fantastic – a Best Teacher mug maybe.

Teachers appreciate every gift they receive and still, years later, I am overwhelmed with the kindness shown by parents and children at the end of the year. However, one thing in particular sticks out in my mind when I think of end-of-year gifts.

It was simple, yet profound. Small in stature but awesome in intent. A card, with the simple message:

“Life is a journey and your words have been a guiding light throughout the year.”

Life is indeed a journey. Some journeys are long, arduous and draw every ounce of effort from the traveller. Some are short, fleeting and come to an end all too soon. Some journeys are taken independently, confidently, in search of exploration and adventure. Others are travelled in step with those around us, reassurance sought with every cautious step along the way.

Journeys can be scary. They can be fraught with danger at every turn. Some veer uphill at an alarming incline as the traveller fights wearily against the overwhelming desire to yield. Others are fortunate to be travelling down the incline, new paths popping up at every turn, each as profitable as the next.

Every journey is different, but they are never taken alone. Along each personal journey there are many encounters.

Your journey becomes intertwined in the winding paths of others’ lives. For some, this is a difficult transition. Your journey begins to affect others. Your actions create paths for yourself and others to explore.

Occasionally you take a wrong turn. The path becomes dark and worrying. The feeling of regret rises wildly around you and you begin flailing in the darkness in search of guidance.

Of a guiding light.

That guiding light comes in numerous forms. It can be the caring hand of a parent or relative, plucking you from the abyss of your folly. It could be the calming voice of a friend, beckoning you back on course. It may even be the words or actions of a teacher, those you thought were long deemed background noise.

So why do I teach?

While following your own path, you become aware of the journeys all around you. The twenty or thirty unique journeys that swirl around in your consciousness every day.

You see the child straining desperately against the incline and offer an alternative route to their next destination.

You see the child racing complacently down the incline and guide them to a more challenging route for their talents to thrive.

You see the child that has fallen so often that they no longer have the will to carry on. The apparent comfort of a downhill stroll summons them, but you usher them away from a path littered with a myriad of dangers and help them to find a way up the hill.

There is the child whose path is rockier than the rest, who longs to bound through the jagged rocks that delay their progress. You help them choose their path carefully through the perilous ravine.

Then, almost as fleetingly as theirs arrived around you, your path veers again. You are among a new web of journeys, all once again unique and challenging. These young people need new paths to follow.

Now and again you encounter on your journey someone whose path you have influenced.

The child who took your alternative route and made it to the top of the incline.

The child who made it even further down the road than they thought they could.

The child who pushed away from the dangers of the downhill stroll and never looked back.

The child who made it through the jagged ravine of their early path and onto smooth ground.

Our words are guiding lights in the journeys of lives, and, every now and then, a seemingly insignificant encounter reminds us that we too are guided by those in our care.

This is the reason I love my job.

That and the summer holidays, obviously.

The Nostalgia Box

This is my iPod. It’s not a fancy new one. It doesn’t even have a touch-screen. Time after time, though, I’ve rejected the disdainful suggestions to upgrade. Why? It’s difficult to explain. I’ll do my best though.

On my iPod is a collection of music. Music I’ve collected from 2004 to around 2011. In total there are 1459 songs, using 7.3GB of space. A tiny fraction, given today’s available options.

A few years ago I stored the entirety of my music library on an external hard drive. Somewhat predictably, the hard drive malfunctioned. It’s now lost. The only place this particular collection of music exists is on the little grey soldier pictured above.

Using the shuffle option reveals an eclectic mix. The haunting tones of Eva Cassidy’s Songbird give way to the raucous guitar of Rory Gallagher ripping his way through his Bullfrog Blues. The cultured protests of Bob Dylan’s Hurricane are preceded by Rik Mayall and his Young Ones butchering Cliff Richard’s Living Doll. A glance through the artists’ library sees the respected Beatles, Jimi Hendrix and Johnny Cash resting comfortably alongside such regal company as Boyzone, Craig David and Katy Perry.

But the content doesn’t tell the true story. The true worth of mine, and anyone’s music collection lies in the feelings they provoke.

2004 to 2011 brought me through the ages of 17 to 24, a hugely important period in anyone’s life. At the time we called it ‘growing up’. In hindsight, we probably didn’t. As another of the songs puts it, we had still got growing up to do. For me, the music on my iPod has the ability to transport me back, to relive the moments, both innocuous and significant, as I meandered from adolescence to adulthood.

It’s the inimitable feeling of teenage friendship. Of early summer procrastination on a distant school football pitch. The drama of teenage relationships and exam preparation that loomed large at the time but now serves only as a footnote. The joy of success as it danced with the affirmation of friendship. The sorrow of funerals that remembered lives lost well before their time. The realisation that what you’d come to know was ending, the pangs of sadness mixing uncomfortably with the excitement of the next step.

It’s launching out into the deep with your friends at your side. Searching for that first place away from home, unsure of your surroundings but excited to render them familiar. The tentative first steps into somewhere new, discovering new things, new experiences, new friends. Drunken arguments that briefly threaten your closest friendships. The late-night conversations left bereft in the cold light of day as the curtains are opened.

It’s watching your siblings growing up. Watching their talents spring to fruition in front of your eyes. Smiling as they follow the path in their own unique way. It’s how the slightest mention of a shared memory between siblings can bring reminiscence so vividly to life.

It’s warm summer nights in Donegal, sipping cider and staring at the silent beauty of a moonlit lake. The 5am walk home from the party, where the sun begins to rise, dawn begins to break and anything seems possible. Sitting in the house in the depths of winter, wrapped in anything you can put your hands on, not a penny in the gas meter but warmth in the conversation and laughter. It’s summer jobs grudgingly fulfilled and gleefully discarded in the delirious rush of maturing youth.

It’s falling in love. The excitement of meeting someone who speaks directly to you. The nervous excitement that drives you forward, that makes you want to spend time with that person. The sheer joy when the feeling is reciprocal and you can begin to plan a life together.

Then, all of a sudden, the mix of sadness and excitement returns. Graduation. The real world is looming and no amount of sitting on the Big Fish with a carry-out staring out at the sun rising on the Lagan will change that. Priorities change. Some drift away, others drift closer, but the music remains, metronomic.

2004 to 2011 was a shared table of emotion. There was joy, despair, fear, excitement and the rush of a life kicking into gear. Central to it all was friendship, love and people.

When I listen to the music on this old iPod, thoughts of exams, qualifications and jobs could not be further from my mind. The people, the moments and feelings that this collection conjures for me are the reason I’ll never update this iPod.

Some people self-consciously ask themselves; ‘What does my music collection say about me?’

Have a listen and ask yourself the more important question:

What does my music collection say to me?

  

A Bereaved Father - Fionnuala's Story

Today we visited our daughter’s grave.

A short sentence. Only six words. Six words that no parent would ever hope to have to utter, but today it’s my reality. A few weeks before Christmas, my wife and I tragically lost our beautiful daughter, Fionnuala, at just 22 weeks.

I’ll never forget the sheer wave of excitement that washed over me the day Colleen told me she was pregnant. The unadulterated joy of new life, of unconditional love I felt that day was like nothing I’ve ever experienced. Our love had created a new life and it took every ounce of willpower inside me not to walk out the door and tell every single soul I could find the good news.

That joy was only surpassed at our first scan, 13 weeks in. Seeing Fionnuala’s little heart beating and her tiny limbs waving around happily. For all the world it felt like a greeting, an excited ‘hello’ to her parents, who beamed from ear to ear at the sight. We have a scan photo where she is almost looking directly at us and it is something that we both treasure.

Friends and family were, of course, delighted at the news of our first child. There was hearty congratulations coupled with the usual tongue-in-cheek warnings of kissing goodbye to a decent sleep that accompany any new arrival. We were ecstatic.

This I’m sure is familiar to many people throughout the world. Babies are born every day and every single one is met with some degree of hope and joy.

Around the beginning of December, the US TV drama This is Us was broadcast for the first time in the UK. Intrigued, having watched a trailer, I tuned in. Colleen had already gone to bed as Fionnuala was already being a wee rascal and leaving her exhausted.

Out of the blue came a poignant scene, one of those pieces of art that leaves you in stunned silence at what you have just witnessed. The television equivalent of a piece of writing that makes you set the book down and sit in reverent silence for a moment or two.

A mother, expecting triplets, had tragically lost one of the children during labour. The distraught father was being counselled by the doctor, who himself had lost a child many years ago. I watched as the performance left me barely breathing and gripped with emotion.

I still don’t know why it gripped me so convincingly that night. Maybe it was the fact that we were expecting a child. Maybe it was the potency of the words used, or maybe it was just a powerful piece of acting. Its poignancy was not lost on me in the weeks that followed.

We arrived for our 20-week scan bursting with hope. Colleen, admittedly, had been worried, but I was trying to assure her that everything was going to be okay. I was still riding a wave of excitement, giddy with the highs of expectant fatherhood.

What was to follow was an erratic appointment. Our midwife was finding it difficult to get a good scan as Fionnuala was not assuming a convenient position. We joked that she was like her father, avoiding the camera, or like her mother, unable to sit still, but it was hard to shake the feeling that something wasn’t quite right. Finally, the midwife was able to confirm a heartbeat and we could see her moving, but she was unable to ascertain all the information she required.

As we became more distressed, we were ushered into a room across the corridor where midwives with whom we were more familiar attempted to calm our rising fears. In our haste, we hadn’t been able to get any photos from the scan. They had not said that there was anything specific wrong, but we were anxious that she had been unable to get a good scan.

Perhaps seeing the confusion and worry etched on our faces, the midwife arranged an appointment for the Monday morning, just three days later. I reassured Colleen that everything would be fine. In hindsight, it was myself I was attempting to placate.

As I arrived at work for the afternoon, I was met with the inevitable well-meaning questions about how the appointment had gone. I had my lines well prepared, but could feel my voice shaking a little as I relayed the news that the midwife had been unable to confirm all that she needed to.

Everyone, to their credit, was quick to reassure me, some even retelling their own stories of having to return for an extra scan. This set my mind at ease a little and I was still upbeat as we returned to hospital on Monday morning.

I can still hear the words that the consultant uttered clearly in my head. I can hear the deafening silence descending on the room, the drawing of breath, the sudden change in tone.

“Guys, I have some bad news.”

I can only describe what I felt in the minutes that followed as magnified reality. The rumble of chatter from the waiting room faded far into the background. I could feel pressure on the back of my neck as my blood ran cold and the grip of Colleens hand in mine intensified as she explained the situation. Fionnuala’s heart had stopped. I remember the solitary word that I uttered as my heartbroken wife collapsed into my arms.

“How?”

We listened grimly to the consultant as she explained what was to follow and the choices we had to make. I listened to her as our hearts were breaking. I listened as Colleen broke down in tears beside me. I wrapped my arms around her and tried to reassure her that everything was going to be okay. An automatic reaction, futile words against the sheer desolation felt in that moment. Our beautiful daughter, who had known nothing but love, was gone.

We made our way to my parents’ house. We didn’t know what else to do. My mother dropped everything and drove home from Derry to be with us. We talked. We cried. The word gradually began to spread among our families. They were devastated. Seeing their grief was almost as heart-wrenching as losing Fionnuala in the first place.

By this stage, I had developed a coping mechanism. I internalised my grief, readied my script in my head. Friends and family rang to offer their condolences but I could only get a few words into the script before I felt my voice breaking in pain. Eventually I stopped answering and resorted to text. I decided I had to at least try and appear strong, hold it in, put Colleen first.

The few days before we returned to hospital to deliver our daughter are a blur of tears and visitors. Colleen’s mother and aunt drove from Fermanagh to be with us. Her mum stayed for a week, looking after us in the house. I will never forget both our families’ and friends’ acts of kindness and love.

There were, of course, brief moments of laughter. It was almost like a wake. We wondered out loud if the Irish found it possible to deal with death without some degree of levity.

I vividly remember the evening we went to the hospital. We were due to arrive at 7pm. Around 5 I pulled on my coat and walked to the shop. I needed a few minutes to clear my head. When I returned, the hospital had been in touch asking us not to attend until 9pm.

As I drove down the M2 towards the Royal, the tears were brimming my eyes. It was difficult to believe that this was an actual situation in which we found ourselves. The M2 leading into Belfast is one of my favourite stretches of road. On a bright, sunny day, the sun shimmers on Belfast Lough as it welcomes you in. On a clear evening, the moon repeats the beautiful imagery. This night, however, the sky was dark, overcast and moonless.

At 01:46am on December 15^th 2016, Fionnuala Tunney was born sleeping.

Following her birth, it felt like the whole world was contained in that little room in the Royal Victoria Hospital. Nothing else mattered.

Although it may seem strange to anyone who hasn't experienced it, at that moment we felt the emotions that all new parents feel. I felt the elation of becoming a father. We held our new-born child in our arms and we smiled. We held her close, wrapped in a blanket my grandmother had knitted. We cradled her head in the hat I had worn at my own baptism. We introduced Fionnuala to her grandparents and speculated wildly at who she resembled most closely.

The time we spent together as a family in that room was the most precious memory. We held each other. We held our daughter. We smiled together. We cried together. We kissed her and laid her resting in her cot.

Our incredible midwife brought us all that we needed. She helped us make hand and footprints for the memory box. She smiled with us and shared in our joy. She took pictures, marvelled at Fionnuala’s perfectly formed little hands, just like her mother’s, and allowed us to drink in every priceless memory of our beautiful angel.

After spending the night with Fionnuala at our sides, Colleen and I held each other tightly as the midwives brought her away. We returned to the blur of visitors, condolences and a steady stream of flowers at our door, all the while preparing for what would be the toughest day of all. Her funeral.

In the meantime, I went back to work.

When I phoned my principal to explain I wanted to come back in for the two and a half days we had left, he was taken aback. He asked if I was sure. I said that I was. I knew that being in school, around the children, would not only keep me busy, but would make me smile. Their joy and wonder at preparing for Christmas was enough to sweep me along and keep me smiling. The support of everyone at work and the parents in the school was really uplifting and greatly helped both Colleen and I in our grief.

The afternoon that we finished for Christmas, I went to the undertaker to make final arrangements for my daughter’s funeral. Colleen and I had collected up some things to place in Fionnuala’s coffin. A small teddy that had been with her throughout the evening she was born. A photo of her mummy and daddy. Her mum’s scarf to keep her warm.

The undertaker gave me a few moments alone with her. I stood with her, again feeling the magnified reality as the distant rumble of the traffic outside gave way to serenity. I kissed her gently on the forehead one last time. When I got back into my car, I wept.

I had never fully appreciated the meaning of the word ‘weep’ until that day. It had always been just a powerful verb I would teach to my class that they could use instead of ‘cry’. I sat there, my hands gripping the steering wheel in a car park in Kilrea, a car park I had been in dozens of times growing up, and I wept uncontrollably for the loss of my daughter.

The tears flowed out. It was as if someone had turned a tap. The hurt and heartbreak of the previous week came flooding out of me. I could see people walking up and down the street, oblivious to the grieving father in the car park.

The day Fionnuala was buried the rain and wind swept the graveyard. Dozens of people continued to arrive to pay their respects to a little girl who had been with us for such a short time. We were so humbled that so many took the time, particularly so close to Christmas, to come and sympathise with us in our time of sorrow.

The wind and rain howled an epitaph like the keeners of a forgotten time as we lowered the tiny white coffin next to my grandfather in Rasharkin. The weekend before Fionnuala was born I had come across a photograph of Granda nursing me as an infant on his knee, a wide smile on both our faces. I asked him quickly to pass on the same laughter and love to his great-granddaughter. I have no doubt he will.

The word ‘hero’ is greatly overused. Throughout this experience I have learned its true meaning and discovered a new hero. I have long known that my wife is an incredible person. Her heart quite simply bursts with love for those for whom she cares. Colleen, you are my hero. Your love, support and sheer courage throughout this time has made something unimaginably sad into a positive.

Our love created a person. We became parents. We met our daughter and spent time with her. We got to say goodbye. We have a bank of memories bursting at the seams. Our little girl will always live in our hearts. We will always be her mum and dad and I believe she will look after us.

Yesterday we visited our daughter’s grave. We will always love her.

Myself and my wife are currently fundraising for SANDS (Stillbirth and Neonatal Death charity) who do invaluable work with bereaved parents. You can donate via the JustGiving page:

https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/fionnualatunney

Or alternatively text WEFI93 followed by the amount e.g. £2 to 70070.