I was quite young when Granda Lynam died. He had Parkinson’s Disease for
many years, so that is how I mostly remember him — the illness, the
frustration, and the laughter in between.
As a child, I tried so hard to understand what
he was saying, leaning in, willing the words to make sense. But they didn’t,
and I would feel frustrated and uncomfortable in my childish way. Now, looking
back, my heart breaks a little for him. How much worse must it have been for
him — a man who had so much to say, trapped in silence?
I was fascinated by him in other ways, too. Like
how he’d spend ages carefully piling peas onto his fork, only for them to
tumble off just before reaching his mouth. He’d roar laughing and start all
over again, like it was the best game in the world.
And then there was his walking — or should I
say running. He’d set off down the road at a brisk pace, which would turn into
a trot… and then a full-on run he couldn’t control. We’d dash alongside him,
ready to help. One day he veered straight into the ditch. We hauled him out
while he shook with laughter, which only made it harder for us because we were
in bits laughing too.
Granda loved music and drama — maybe that’s
where I get it from. Anytime there was a local show, he’d “volunteer” the
entire family. Any protests were met with the same line: “Of course you will, you will.” The original Mrs. Doyle!
Recently, a cousin shared a piece written by
one of Granda’s close friends, describing him as a gifted storyteller, the kind
of man people would gather around, hanging on his every word. Hearing that
nearly broke my heart. To think that someone so full of life and words ended up
locked inside a body that wouldn’t let him speak… it’s cruel beyond measure.
I wish I had tried harder to talk to him. To
find a way through the silences.
All I can hold onto is this: I took his advice. I take my place on the stage whenever I get the chance. Maybe that’s how I keep his voice alive — by using mine
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