A beautiful story....

To Fiona, my sister and friend.

 
A beautiful story...

The story for you began  22 years ago, 26 November 1992. A story as individual as the son you brought into this world. The hours of labour that marked the beginning of something so wonderful it is indescribable. A story no mother can ever be actually prepared for.

 

 

A beautiful story...

when you delighted in first smiles and breathed in the sweet, clean baby smell as something precious; when you listened even while sleeping; when you experienced love like you never knew before. When you're only half a person and the other half lay sleeping in your arms.

  

A beautiful story...

Where tantrums were common, very common; where melt-downs were typical and life felt like it was no longer yours yet it was so complete;  It was a job with exhausting hours, no pay and no holidays. Yet it is animated, magnificent, heart-stopping even when the storm is raging all around. It is confusing yet awesome and inspiring yet it needs much desperate prayer. A story when Ryan hurt you hurt, when you sat all night nursing him until the feverish delirium passed, and you smiled through the tears the first time he went off to school, the first time he told you he loved you.

 

 A beautiful story...

When it all seemed so hard and muddled, when you cried and ached to do what was right for Ryan while trying to hold onto some piece of your self before you reluctantly let him go into the world that seemed to want to destroy and crush his innocence at the first step. You are only half of the story and you were the very best half you could be. You loved him well, you held your hands open and embraced the mess of life that raising a son can be.

 

A beautiful story... 

Began 22 years ago with a son so beautiful beyond description. The real mothering never really ends it comes in seasons and in the ebb and flow of life; from the messy hands, the sleepless nights, to the tear filled conversations over a broken heart, to the ache of unbearable loss, the real loving is endless.

From baby to boyhood to the threshold of manhood you clasped your arms around him, enveloped him in love and prayed you would never have to let go, that your best would not be extinguished by a cold and indifferent world.

It is not over, loves ties can never be truly broken, all hope can never be altogether lost.
 

A beautiful story forever woven together, you and your precious son Ryan.

 

A beautiful story..... 

Ryan John Girvan 26 November 1992 - 1 August 2014 

 

Winning Love

The day my best friend joined our family...please feel free to critique.


I was adamant there would be no more dogs in the house. I had already lost two: one was poisoned and the other stolen. Then there's the hard work that’s involved, despite good intentions and sincere promises from everyone else in the household, that had always been left to me. I reminded my husband that when our 2 year old German Shepherd had been poisoned I had literally carried him to the vets because he was too busy.  It was me who posted the ads and scoured the neighbourhood when our 1yr old pup, Gypsy disappeared. It was me who trained, fed, watered, groomed every dog we ever had. Me who sat up in the night nursing them when they were ill. Me who had the broken heart when the end came. Thus I was determined this house would never be home to another dog and for eight years I fought persistent petitions, cajoling, even bullying but I steadfastly refused.

One fine Saturday afternoon, my husband and I set off for a leisurely drive into the country. I thought I was being treated to tea at a country house when we headed off in a direction we had never been before and stopped at a garage to ask for directions.  So imagine my shock, horror that turned to anger as we rolled into what I, at first, thought was a farmyard but was actually Kennels. Two large, fierce looking German shepherds came tearing towards us as we parked.

With a pathetic grin Trevor whimpered:
 

 “It won’t hurt to look will it? We don’t have to buy

I just want to look that’s all, I promise”

 

“Promise indeed well go look for yourself mate I’m not getting eaten alive“. I muttered sitting in the car with a face like a Lurgan spade for a few minutes until curiosity got the better of me. A pup bounced towards us and I shook my head, “I don’t like it” and I meant it. There was nothing not even a flicker. My resolve strengthened. I sensed Trevor’s disappointment as I knew he needed me to sign the cheque. Turning back to the car I was met by another pup who sauntered playfully towards me with his huge paws and knuckled forelegs looking disproportionate to the rest of his body. His thick black and rusty tan coat shone and his eyes met mine and peered in to the very depths of my soul. Instantaneously my firmness melted.

 

I determined not to let Trevor see my weakness as I barked out my demands:

It would not be my dog, he would be totally responsible. 

 I would not have anything to do with it,

no training, cleaning, feeding… and so on I went.

Finally the cheque was signed the pup was mine, no, the pup was Trevor’s.

 

We left the kennels Trevor driving while I sat nursing a scared and nervous but adorable pup. On that journey the bond was made, Ricky (the 2nd), as my husband named him and in fact the only thing he ever did for him, became my pup, my friend for he had won my heart, he had won my love.