Five: Siblings
Visiting Fionnuala’s grave around her anniversary hits a bit differently.
The barely risen sun casts a pale glow over the graveyard. Breath is visible in the cool air.
Freshly laid flowers lie on the graves around in preparation for Christmas.
And of course, there is the excitable four-year-old who comes to say happy birthday to her sister and stays to explore the neatly laid path around the graves.
The familiar twinkle of Christmas lights indicates another year has rolled on since we lost our first daughter; stillborn on December 15 2016.
It’s been an unsettling time of year since then, but this year even more so.
We were joined by our youngest, Meidhbhín, almost a year ago, and despite having had no illness to date, she gave us the scare of our lives a few weeks ago.
After a day at Disney on Ice, while waiting in the car park of the SSE Arena to leave, Meidhbhín spiked a temperature and took into a febrile convulsion.
It only lasted maybe three minutes, but for that time, watching her unresponsive in her mother’s arms, it was like being back in the consultation room at the Royal, panic rising.
Thankfully, after being checked out at the hospital, all was fine and we could go home, unscathed bar the residual effects of the panic.
At one point during the ordeal, Muireann, realising something was wrong, cried out Meidhbhín’s name.
Since her little sister was born in January, notwithstanding an early settling in period, Muireann has been hugely protective of her.
She has grown into the role of big sister so much that she now speaks about Fionnuala almost as if she is another little sister.
But if things had been different, Muireann would have been the little sister, playing Meidhbhín’s role of being guided by her, learning from her how to stand, to talk, to walk.
Watching their relationship grow over the year has been a genuine joy. The rest of the Covid-frantic world merges into the background noise as you watch them chuckling together.
But with little prompting, Muireann makes space for Fionnuala as well.
One night recently, she had gone up to bed. There was a howling wind outside, rain spattering against the windows.
We heard the footsteps on the stairs and Muireann reappeared. Her little doll she keeps close to her in memory of Fionnuala was sitting on the sofa. She’d left it downstairs.
“I need Fionnuala to keep me safe,” she told us, before retreating upstairs holding her tightly.
As Muireann and Meidhbhín both grow, and their personalities start to shine, you wonder if the dynamic would be different if they were a trio, not a pair.
Would Fionnuala have been the sensible eldest sister? What would their little rows have been like? What would their big rows have been like?
Tension over clothes is already spilling over. The other night Muireann tried to squeeze herself into Meidbhín’s coat, the coat that used to be hers.
A lesson in the ruthlessness of time.
While myself and Colleen were in the hospital with Meidhbhín, Muireann sat in the car with her granny Madeleine, her godfather John-Finbar and his girlfriend Emma.
Thanks to the staff at the SSE, she had been able to watch Disney on Ice for a second time with her granny, and been treated to free chips and sausages and a brand new Elsa doll.
In theory, it was the day of her life, but the relief on her face when we slipped Meidhbhín back into the car seat next to her was palpable.
“I think we should drive the car now Daddy,” she said — her way of telling us it was time to go home.
For the first ten minutes of the journey, Meidhbhín made those inimitable initial sounds that babies that age make. Muireann copied every one, which made Meidhbhín laugh.
The interlude continued for about ten minutes, until we hit the Westlink and the pair succumbed to the sleep that had eluded them all day.
It was hard not to imagine Fionnuala, sitting in the middle of the back seat between them, enjoying the display of love and relief from her little sisters.
Five years on, her influence on our family is as strong as ever, and will grow alongside her sisters.
