Cian Patrick
Earlier today, we celebrated the Mass of The Angels in Kilmovee Parish Church.
It was in memory of Cian Patrick Hunt who died on Saturday, October 6th, in his fourth day of life. Sadly in the past four years, Cian Patrick’s parents have lost two other babies so there was an added sense of loss in today’s gathering but strength too, in a church filled to over-flowing. It was wonderful to see so many people there, to offer support and prayer to this family. I asked the parents if they’d mind my sharing here the words used at today’s Mass. They said that would be fine so I hope these words offer some comfort to those who might have been there today and see them again and perhaps to parents out there, who may well have had a similar experience. May God offer strength to one and all and, may Cian Patrick together with all infants who have gone before us, hold us in their hearts and prayer. May they know too that they remain firmly rooted in our love and memories.
Gifts Table – Photo taken of Baby Cian Patrick in hospital, Teddy Bear given by Irish Air Corps in memory of Cian’s helicopter flight from Castlebar to Dublin, candles in memory of Cian’s deceased brother and sister – gifts from Féileacáin (group offering support to bereaved parents of infants), a cap knitted by volunteers in the Coombe Women’s Hospital and a blanket given to the parents by hospital staff.
Like all of you, I was deeply saddened when news emerged that all was not well for this little boy and his parents. Like all of you, I had looked forward to rejoicing rather than weeping, saying hello rather than goodbye, holding rather than letting go. Like all of you, I was aware of the losses endured by these young parents in 2014 and 2016 and hoped – believed that 2018 would tell a different story. Not one that would allow for any forgetting of previous events, but one that would offer hope and joy, peace and gratitude. So, like all of you, I was and am heartbroken.
In baptism ceremonies, we meet the baby and parents at the door of the church, it’s a sign of welcoming and of entering a new home and beginning a new journey alongside the family home and family’s journey. I’m the one who goes to the door to meet the family and we take it from there. Last Friday was different. Instead of me going to the familiar door of this church, I walked into the Coombe Women’s Hospital and, instead of me walking towards the family, David came to meet me. He told me things were not good and I was amazed at the strength of character displayed. He asked me if I’d baptize their son and, of course I said yes. Again, in the baptism ceremony, I usually ask the questions, but this too was different. “Have you ever done this before?” Amy asked me, and, in truth, I hadn’t. Neither had I cried before baptism. I know that some of the nurses saw me cry. They offered me tea and asked repeatedly if I was alright. I appreciated their kindness and was not totally shocked by my tears. I’d have been more shocked if I didn’t cry. This should not be happening. “Have you ever done this before?”, Amy’s question deserved an answer and I told her that I hadn’t, not like this anyway but that we’d do our best. She smiled. She wanted it done the best it could be done.
“What name to give your child?” I asked David and Breda. “Cian Patrick”, they replied. “What do you ask of God’s Church for Cian Patrick?” “Baptism”, they replied. “In asking to have your child baptized, you are taking on responsibility to show him the ways of faith, to let him know of God’s love, of Jesus’ presence in his life and of the gifts of the Holy Spirit. Do you clearly understand what you are undertaking?” “We do”. They did. There’s no doubt in the world that David and Breda know what it means to be parents. Repeatedly they’ve shown it through the years – not just with Amy and Seán but also with Sarah Anne and David Michael, whose memories are real and ever present and whose birthdays are celebrated with prayer, balloons and chocolate cake. They know what it means to be parents. Cian Patrick was baptized and, though none of us could hold him, the incubator was perhaps God’s hands around and beneath him – the stable of Bethlehem – a temporary home. Cian Patrick was anointed with Chrism and the waters of baptism trickled down his forehead with the words: “I baptize you Cian Patrick, in the name of The Father and of The Son and of The Holy Spirit, Amen”. I looked at Amy and Seán, I looked at Breda and David, I looked at Mary and Rita the two nurses in the room with us (Mary being his Godmother). I looked at Cian Patrick who could not have been any more surrounded by love as he was at that moment. Amy, we did it well. You and Seán were at your brother’s baptism. I was proud of you all, heartbroken for you all but glad we were able to have this moment. Precious Memories.
I was with David and Breda on Saturday when Cian Patrick was taken from the incubator and placed in their arms. His journey continued and his time with us grew shorter. I watched again the tenderness of parental love and marvelled at Breda as she took her son in her arms, I would think for the first time. There wasn’t a hint of self-pity but, instead, the cradling arms of a mother. Rita re-arranged the chairs and the parents sat side-by-side with their little son. An hour or so earlier, we watched Amy and Seán play with their brother “Round and round the garden …. one step, two step ….” They accompanied him on all his steps. We sang too. It was suggested I’d sing something and, when Seán was asked what I might sing, he said “The one you do at Christmas”. On an October Saturday we sang “The Little Drummer Boy”. I thought of Cian Patrick as the Little Drummer Boy, bringing his gifts to our crib but, later in the day, I thought more about it and realised we were, all of us, the Drummer Boy desperately wanting to bring gifts to Cian Patrick and He, THE CHRIST CHILD, accepting all we brought to him – from the Naval Helicopter Teddy Bear to the Green and Red cap and all else that surrounded him at that moment.
I thought of Michelangelo’s Pieta – that marble statue depicting Mary holding her son in her arms and at the rock of marble out of which that was carved and the artist’s ability to see what lay within and bring it to life. I left Breda and David. They deserved to be alone now with each other and their son. When I returned, Cian Patrick’s short journey had reached its destination. He died surrounded by love. Though our wish is that he’d have lived longer, he could not have been loved any more than he was during those days.
David shared a short video clip with me. He took it while Breda was holding her son. In a wonderful moment, Cian Patrick’s eyes open and he looks steadily at his mother and smiles. “That’s enough for me”, David told me.
“Then he smiled at me …… at me and my drum”.
“Then he smiled at them … at his dad and his mum” ….
