Our Kid
Only a fool thinks of death all the time, but you’re a bigger fool if you never think of it at all.

I learned young: you don’t back down, you don’t show fear, and you don’t fucking cry. Not even when they break your nose and your eyes start to water. Men don’t cry.

You push it down. Turn your head. Hide the pain. You head to the bog, turn on the tap, and take yourself anywhere they can’t clock you blubbing. If the tears fell in the playground, you were a mardarse. Mates took the piss. You might as well be dead if you turned on the waterworks looking for sympathy. Fuck that. I’d rather get battered. Often did.

Where I grew up, they branded you a pansy and you never lived it down. That’s what I always thought. So I steamed through life not giving a toss why people cried in public or humiliated themselves in front of everyone.

Then I saw the mask slip. I watched my old man bury his mother-in-law. Funny thing. They were closer than he and my mam ever were. He was a grumpy old bastard, always banging on about me getting a job, getting my haircut, whatever bullshit was going on in his life. He had a saying for every situation, always dishing out advice. But whatever. I worshipped the old man. He’d been through shit in his life. Still, he carried on. He brought my brother up by himself, did what he could, always kept his word, and never complained about his own hardships.

But that day, standing by the graveside, I watched his shoulders drop. I saw a tear roll down his stubble. It shocked me. I’ve never forgotten it.

I hear people complain when they split up in a relationship. I’ve been through it myself. Head in bits, wondering where it all went wrong. But they’re still out there. They’re still alive, laughing, joking, getting on with their lives, moving forward.

I thought I knew pain until my younger brother Anthony died.

I’d watched both my mam and dad pass away, but this was different. When my brother passed away in front of my eyes, I couldn’t believe it. I’d been there when he came into the world, and both my older sister and I were there with him the morning he died, along with my niece. The tears fell. I couldn’t help myself. It tore me apart. What could I do?

People tell you to keep busy, keep going. It’s a personal thing. Nobody really understands until it happens to them. I get that now from other people’s losses. You nod your head, say the right things, but it doesn’t really touch you inside.

When our kid died, my body changed. My heart felt heavy. I wake up and forget for a moment. Then it hits me like a kick in the bollocks. A reminder he’s gone. Never coming back. No second go. No more laughing and joking together. No fucking nothing.

Our kid never fulfilled all of his dreams, but he had five kids and travelled the world. He lives on in the lot of us. I’m still here. I carry on whether I like it or not. One day, my number will come up. But until then, I carry on.