Edward Daly reminded us of the church at its best, just when we needed it most 

I didn’t know him at all, but I feel as if I did. Tributes to the late Bishop Edward Daly of Derry have come from far and wide, from Catholic and non Catholic, believer and non believer. His death was a lead item on news bulletins in Ireland and the U.K., with commentators speaking of him with warmth and affection.

Of course, those of a certain age remembered him as the priest who waved the blood-stained handkerchief on Bloody Sunday, but he was more than that. He was a model, a reminder, of what a good priest, a good bishop, is like. It was an important reminder at the end of another difficult week for the Irish Catholic Church.

In fact, that was one of the contrasts that hit me most clearly these past few days: the same radio shows and newspapers and social media that feasted on the Maynooth crisis and the dysfunction in the church, leaving people to wonder if there is any such creature as a good or normal priest, then reported on the life and ministry of one good priest, reminding people that such creatures do exist after all.

And Edward Daly was one such priest.

He was unpretentious, without airs or graces, happy to be called ‘Eddie’ rather than ‘Bishop’ or ‘My Lord.’

He was not ambitious, and had no desire for high office. He was shocked to be appointed bishop at just 40 years old.

He was an ecumenist, and knew the importance of extending the hand of friendship and solidarity across the religious divide.

He was a peacemaker, not afraid to stand up to the men of violence from whatever side.

He was a man of the people, who knew the smell of the sheep, and knew many of them by name.

He was a simple pastor, who for the last 20 years of his life, ministered to the dying and the bereaved. It must have been very consoling for them, whether or not they were people of faith, to have a bishop by their bedside at their end.

He gave witness to the faith, witness to what it means to be a follower of Jesus Christ. His life and example offer a good template for all bishops and pastors.

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Another difficult week for the Irish Catholic Church 

I watched them streaming into Mass this morning, the regulars – old, young and in-between – and I marveled at their faith and commitment. After another awful week for the church in Ireland, with allegations of all sorts of strange goings-on in Maynooth, still they came. After a week of lurid headlines and wild speculation about life in the national seminary, still these faithful people came out to Mass. If I were a layman in Ireland today, I’m not sure I would.

It’s been another embarrassing week for priests in Ireland and for the church we serve. I couldn’t help wondering how many people in the pews today are looking up at the altar and asking silent questions about the celebrant. Is he gay or straight? Has he ever been up to anything? Is he on one of those dating apps they are talking about?

And even if they are not asking those questions about their own curate or parish priest, who they know and are comfortable around, they will be wondering about priests in general, that ragged body of men out there who struggle on despite the storms that periodically swell around them. How many of them are gay or straight or perverted in some way? What do they do behind closed doors?

And that’s the tragedy of this past week. The stories about the national seminary don’t just affect those connected to or associated with Maynooth, they affect everyone who wears a collar. They impact on all clergy. All feel upset and embarrassed by association.

The glee with which some people on social media have commented about the Maynooth affair is also extraordinary to behold. They delight in any negative story to do with the church. They glory in it. They don’t distinguish between one priest and another or between one part of the church and another. As far as they are concerned all are one and the same. It’s understandable that people react against the church’s past dominance, and delight in its death rattle, but when they rejoice in the church’s misery, they rejoice in my misery too.

I don’t know what’s going on in Maynooth. I have been there less than ten times in my life, but I am certain that the vast majority of those in Maynooth are good men doing their best. Obviously, some type of review or reform will take place, but it’s difficult to act based on anonymous letters or in response to the agitation of the Catholic right. 

This story will pass in a few days and life will go on, but the fundamental issues around mandatory celibacy and church teaching on sexuality remain to be addressed, as do questions about how priests should be trained and even the nature of priesthood itself. 

Meanwhile, ordinary priests will continue to administer the sacraments and to do their best, even as their morale sinks lower and wearing the clerical collar leaves them open to suspicion or ridicule.

Seeking reasons to stay alive

I am going through some dark days. Anyone who has happened across this blog will know about my battle with chronic pain. It’s a battle I have been fighting for more than two years now, and it’s a battle I’m finding it harder and harder to fight. It frightens me to think of the number of hospital visits I have made, the number of medics I have seen, and the number of procedures I have gone through, not to mention the amount of money I have spent.

And yet, and yet, the pain is more deep-rooted and widespread now than at any time in the past. It’s wrapped around my lower back and my left thigh. It digs in and through me – and no pill, no opiad, no medication of any kind can make a dent in it.

I try being more positive, I’m trying journaling, I walk a lot, but nothing seems to make the slightest impact.

I’m awaiting news on a spinal cord stimulator, but though I want to have that procedure, I’m also scared of having it. It will mean more surgery on my already fragile body, and of course there is no guarantee that it will ease my pain. If I were to have it, and it did not work, I doubt that I could cope with the disappointment.

I know that in many ways I am lucky. I have a community that supports me and that allows me to do as little or as much work as I can manage. I don’t have to worry about my next meal or how I will pay for a consultant’s visit.

But it makes me feel guilty, too. Because I earn nothing, and my tear-filled, sorrowful presence only upsets people. I am making no contribution.

And as each day turns out as miserable as the one that went before, I wonder about my future, for I know that I cannot go on living like this. I do not have the strength. My spirit is sapping. My motivation is slipping. My faith is weak. I can’t take much more.

And so I seek reasons to keep on going. What is life if there is no happiness? Why go on if there is only spirit-crushing, unrelenting pain, day after day, week after week? I do try to hold on for the sake of my mother and my family, and because I have enjoyed being alive for the 52 pain-free years that I had, and because I want to build up the life of the community and the church.

But it’s difficult.

I have become but skin and bone

I am fading away. For some time now, I have noticed that I’m losing weight, but, despite my best efforts, I can’t stop the pounds from falling off. I have never been overweight. At my heaviest, I’ve been about 12 stones, but today I weigh just a few pounds over nine stones or 131lbs. It’s not a healthy weight.

Some people with chronic pain put on weight due to lack of exercise. I am the opposite. My chronic pain is knocking the weight off of me.

I went to the swimming pool for the first time in months last week and was shocked to discover just how frail and skinny I have become. The water from the jet pool was too strong for me, it nearly blew me away. I could barely lift my legs to get out of the water. Though there were several older people in the pool, I felt the oldest and weakest of the lot. And the most frightened too.

It’s not that I don’t eat – I do. And I love sweet things. It’s just that I can retain nothing. Day by day, pills and pain are sucking the weight and the life out of me. 

If anyone knows a good way to increase weight, that doesn’t increase constipation, I’d be delighted to hear about it. Because not only are my clothes becoming too large for me, if I don’t build up some strength soon, it will be much harder to fight my way back to recovery.

Hospital blues

I am now in hospital more than 24 hours. In terms of facilities, it couldn’t be better – spacious room, big tv, wonderful menus (I might add to my miserable 62kg weight), caring staff. A few days in this place would be a lovely break were it not for the reason I’m here, which is to try to calm my pain.

A line was inserted into my stomach yesterday. It carries a strong painkiller, which should begin to ease pain after a few hours. Alas, so far it has done nothing. The pain has not diminished. It’s as if the line had not been inserted at all.

Of course, there have been the usual reassurances – give it time, don’t panic, let’s see what happens over the next couple of days. I know all that, and yet it’s hard not to feel disappointed.

I know, too, that things could be worse. I have a cousin who has been in the same hospital bed for more than a year, and who displays extraordinary resilience. I marvel at his fortitude and determination. I must try to hold onto hope, even if I have always been a glass half empty person.

Back to hospital I go

It’s been a while since I blogged, mainly because there was nothing new to report.

Now, however, I am preparing to return to hospital. I will be going in on Monday and will remain for up to five days while they try a different drug out on me. If that doesn’t produce the desired results, then I will be getting a high velocity spinal cord stimulator, which, the consultant assured me, can reduce pain by up to sixty percent. This is an electrical device that disrupts pain signals.

It’s a slow process, though, and may take a couple of months before it is put in place. If I do end up with the stimulator, not only will I be screwed (I have seven screws in my back), I will also be wired as well. When I die, I might as well be sold for scrap.

So, I’m hoping that the journey I am about to take will be the one that brings me some comfort and hope.

Upsetting my mother is what upsets me most

I have always been a hopeless actor and have never been able to disguise how I feel. One look at me and you know how I’m doing that day.

But you don’t have to see me to know how I am. My voice is a giveaway too, certainly to my mother. Every day I phone her at a prearranged time, and even when I try to sound chirpy and cheerful, as if the pain isn’t killing me that day, she knows straight away how I really am. She can tell immediately whether I’m having a good or bad day. 

I hate that, because I hate upsetting her. Many days I haven’t wanted to make that phone call because it ends up with the two of us in tears. My mother has enough on her plate without my pain adding to hers.  

It’s bad enough that chronic pain has consumed my life for the past two years, but I hate how it impacts on others too; above all, how it impacts on my mother.

I wish I was a better actor or, better still, that the pain would ease. Then I wouldn’t have to dread phoning her on my very painful days, like the one I’m having today.