Lessons learned by an obituary writer

My job requires me to regularly write of loss. Be it from outside a church, from an open graveside or in the Coroner’s Court, journalism has demanded my developing not so much a suit of armour but more a sense of detachment on the worst of all days in many a family’s existence.

Of course, working in a regional newspaper has made such distancing impossible on many occasions when someone I’ve known and respected has died, particularly in sudden, unexpected circumstances.

I’m as human as the next man. There have been days when I’ve somewhat dissolved for a few hours, acknowledged my sadness while doing my utmost not to let it rule me. Then I’ve gathered myself, gone home, leafed through some hastily scribbled notes and listened back to the audio recorded from the sermon and eulogy. And then I write. Then I edit. Then I file.

Inside the past month, I’ve written two obituaries about two 47-year-old men from either side of County Waterford. The circumstances of their respective deaths differed but the blast radius catalysed by their passing will extend for a great many years to come; decades, indeed lifetimes in some cases.

One of the two men sold me my car insurance in recent years. I didn’t know him personally but in those few minutes when we chatted every 12 months, his warmth and energy were immediately palpable. He’d have polled well in a vote for someone you’d have happily had a pint with.

The other was a man I never had the pleasure of meeting at all. He hurled all his life for his local club and was involved in the training of several juvenile teams in recent years.

He’d lined out for Waterford at Minor level, played in the 1992 All-Ireland Final and also featured in the county’s 1994 Munster Under-21 Championship win. He loved the game and loved talking about the game. His company would, undoubtedly, have proven enjoyable.

Now they’re both gone. I’ve learned more about them since they died than I knew while they lived.

Such is the experience of a journalist who, over the years, becomes accustomed to the rhythms of obituary writing; that is, being conscious of what ought to feature in attempting to do the impossible: summarising an entire life.

I’ve never lost sight of the honour of writing any obituary; it’s something I’m acutely aware of when I’ve been asked by a family to put together such a piece for a lost loved one of theirs. But irrespective of the circumstances, I’ve always done my level best to ensure that, years from now, a relative too young to grasp the loss of today will have something to refer to and hopefully draw some comfort from.

In many cases, there’s a huge social history attached to many of those deceased men and women I’ve written about, be it Waterford’s last All-Ireland Senior Hurling winning captain or the seventh son of a seventh son in my native Portlaw.

It’s a deep and varied list. The kindly teacher, the young woman who left home to seek a new life across the Atlantic, later to come home and care for her parents.

Then, there’s the valiant Garda diver, the equally brave Aer Corps Search And Rescue captain, the District Nurse who never stopped giving and those irrevocably pained, turmoiled and overwhelmed by their circumstances. The shopkeeper, the performer, the court reporter, the cleric, the public servant. The victim. All loved by someone and all worthy of being recalled and remembered with respect.

The words of John Wooden, the famed UCLA Basketball coach, are ones that I often turn to for a great many reasons. Solace lies at the heart of so much of what he shared with the world and if you’ve yet to have encountered his message, a quick search engine trawl is well worth your time.

“Early on I came to believe that you should learn as if you were going to live forever, and live as if you were going to die tomorrow. What does this mean? In the simplest terms, I would explain it like this. Always be learning, acquiring knowledge, and seeking wisdom with a sense that you are immortal and that you will need much knowledge and wisdom for that long journey ahead. Know that when you are through learning, you are through. But I want to live that life as if I were going to die tomorrow: with relish, immediacy, and the right priorities. I also will not waste even a minute.”

There are no words I’ve read of Wooden’s that I have not re-read. I’d recommend this habit to anyone taking the time to read this entry. Read it. Absorb it. Take it with you. Hold onto it.

A wonderful relative of mine died recently. He was a brilliant, kind, generous and well-read man. Over eight decades, he acquired knowledge, sought wisdom and never needed reminding about the importance of having a good time and making life better for those he loved. He was a titan who wore his knowledge lightly, someone who recognised listening and talking as equals.

After he died, I turned to the words of another titan – Billy Connolly - and I shared them with his three children.

“Acting your age is about as sensible as acting your street number. You can volunteer to take life seriously but it’s going to get you anyway. It’s going to win against you in the end. It’s harsh, and you can either break down and complain about how miserable your life is, or you can have a go at it and survive. I think that’s the basis of it all. So thank you for laughing with me. And please do keep it up.”

During a lunchtime conversation yesterday with a good friend, who also lost her Dad some time ago, I couldn’t help thinking about my own father, Johnny. But he’s never too far away. Dad is with me every morning when I walk the dogs, when I feel the breeze in my face and catch a glimpse of the Comeraghs.

I know exactly how he’d want me to be each and every day: calm and useful, both at home and at work. And he’d want me to laugh. And I do. Nor do I intend stopping.