For my Mom: Goodnight Irene

Posted on May 15, 2015 by davemcneilly

Mom      

McNeilly, Irene Anne (nee Phillips)

Irene left us on Tuesday night, May 12th 2015, after 79 years of life. Today it’s a beautiful day outside, and our Mom is gone, and these two realities are irreconcilable. But, it’s time to say good-bye.

Irene leaves our Dad, her husband John, on his own for the first time in 57 years. We, her kids, are now without the one person who always stood by us, through the thick and the sometimes thin. We so wish her grandchildren could have known her longer, but they did have enough time to know her well. She loved all of us, and we knew it.

Mom was born May 16th, 1935, and came from a huge rollicking family of 10 brothers and sisters, the Phillips clan from Edmonton, whose lineage pre-dates Canada as a country. Her dad started out as a fur trader and trapper in the NWT, and was a veteran of both Great Wars. Her mom was a solid mix of Prairie German Diedericks and Schwickraths, an iron fist in a soft velvet glove. Visiting the Phillips’s was never a quiet or dull affair, and as Mom told us, you learned quickly to speak up, eat fast, and hide your beer under your bed.

We were so lucky to have had Edith and Mona, Irene’s best friends from childhood, with us during her final week, laughing, singing, crying, and forever putting to rest the notion that Mom was an angel. Mom, we hope the extra prayers we snuck in cancelled out some of that rebel Catholic bad behaviour. Stuart, Marna and Glenn, Jean and Jason, Bob and Teresa: you kept us strong. And Dr. Sanghera, we bow down to you.

As a resident of Burnaby for 53 years, we’re sure Mom would agree that her taxes paid were well worth the care she received from the Palliative Care Unit 2D at Burnaby Hospital. Hugs to everyone who works there, and our thoughts are with the other families we met on the ward, almost all of them battling cancer, the scourge of our lifetime.  We. Despise. Cancer.

We’re left with treasured memories, scattered pictures, and the collective love of our family and friends, and while we will miss Mom forever, she built a foundation that will last.

So goodnight Irene, we’ll love you always, and we’ll see you in our dreams: John, children Dave (Joanne), Donna, and Jim (Ann), grandchildren Janine, Lauren, Adam, Liam and Emma. Cheryl sends her love, as do your surviving brothers and sisters Ron, Margaret, Marna (Glenn), Bob (Teresa), and Wayne (Jean), and Edith and Mona, your sisters in spirit.  And from the myriads of nephews and nieces and friends, we say farewell on their behalf.

For anyone who knows us, you’ll find it fitting that we’ll be getting together at Burnaby Me&Eds for a farewell party for Mom. If you want to make a donation in Irene’s name, we couldn’t think of a better place than the Palliative Care Unit 2D at Burnaby Hospital.

And Mom, if we ever get to see you on the other side, we’re going straight to your bed and grabbing a cold one from underneath it.

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How Did It Get So Late So Soon?

Posted on June 12, 2011 by davemcneilly

Some people leave indelible memories of time spent with them.

Patty Hickey was beautiful in high school, sexy and confident, so of course she should have been completely intimidating to the boys her own age, who adored her.  And I was one of those boys. But she was funny, intelligent, and down to earth as well, and my awkward attempts at small talk eventually became conversations, teetering at the fringes of friendship.

We hung out a bit, mainly in the halls and foyers of Burnaby Central, ran into each other on some weekends, and I lined up with all the other boys hoping to get her on my dance card at grad!  I had fun with her at the aftergrad parties, crossed paths a couple times over the summer, and came across her once in awhile in the library, pub and cafeterias of SFU, talking I’m sure about courses and studying and music and parties.

And then that was it. We didn’t ever say goodbye, or wish each other well, but one day I didn’t see her again.  And thirty years went by.

And now I’ve just found out that Patricia Joan Delesalle died last week.  Delesalle, nee Hickey.

And I discovered that she suffered a tragedy a year ago, a parent’s worst nightmare.  Patty’s 16 year old daughter jumped out of a moving vehicle that Patty was driving, and died.  Maybe they were arguing, maybe not, but I have a 16 year old daughter, and I would never get over a loss like that.  I’m horrified to imagine how the event must have replayed itself over and over in her mind, the slow motion, the what-ifs, the inevitable ending.

I wish I’d known about this when it happened.  Patty lived only 10 minutes away.  I like to think that I would have called her, to let her know that I cared whether she was doing okay, that the impact she made on me decades ago resonated still.  Maybe my reaching out would have been a futile gesture.  She might not even have remembered me. That’s a risk I’d have taken, on the slim chance that she did.  But I didn’t know, and I didn’t call.  And I’m profoundly – unexpectedly – heartbroken.

It’s the finality of it.  I didn’t know I should have called her, and now I can’t.  And it’s crystal clear that Patty and others who were once the most important people in that crucible of my high school life are now in their fifties, and if Patty Hickey can somehow be dead – god, it’s impossible to say that – then so could any one of them.

And I’m not ready for this, the deaths of my schoolmates, or terrible tragedies that might strike them or their children.  And I’m sad that I’ve let some of my friends slip away out of my life, that I’ve become unaware of what they’re doing, what their kids are doing, how their lives are going.  I need to fix that.

And I’ll mourn Patty’s death. I’ll remember the small piece of her life that I shared a million years ago. I’ll hope her family and friends will be okay.  And I’ll look up those other old friends, and Patty will have impacted my life yet again.

” To my sweet little David, you just made my school year. Your handsome face in the halls brightened up my days. Hope to see you at the SFU pub again.” Love, Patty       

1978, BURNABY CENTRAL ANNUAL

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