Ordinary and extraordinary right to her final breath

It was the first time in my life that someone broke the news to me of their impending death – and in such a stoic way. But Sr Loreto McLoughlin was a special woman on many fronts, and I was proud to call her my friend.

An educator, pioneer in social work and rural development, author, podcaster – she lived nine lives to the full. And even into her nineties, she was full of enthusiasm for the world around her.

When she asked me to drop in and see her in UHG a few weeks back, she was sitting up by the side of her bed, chirpy and friendly as ever as she told me in a matter-of-fact way what had happened over the previous few weeks.

Bottom line was that she had pancreatic cancer, and it was terminal; there was no way out. She’d been in some pain over the Christmas but hadn’t done anything about it for a few days – and when she heard the news, it seemed like the diagnosis wasn’t even a huge surprise.

She immediately decided that she didn’t want to undergo any treatment because it wouldn’t cure the problem and would only take from the quality of time she had left.

All she wanted was her dignity; to be helped with the daily tasks of getting up, washed, fed, and left in comfort – and maybe the odd little excursion to the Prom to look out over Galway Bay.

The decision to forgo medical intervention is one that people clearly make all the time, but nobody before had ever spoken to me about it – and with an air of acceptance and resignation, as well as gratitude for a full and long life.

But Sr Loreto hadn’t asked me to come down so she could talk about herself; as ever, her motivation was to highlight the work of others. And she wanted to know if she could write a piece for the Tribune on the work and the kindness of the staff at UHG.

She’d written a number of pieces for us over the years, so this required no deliberation. I told her she was pushing an open door.

I also promised to call to see her and we’d go for coffee, and that look out over Galway Bay from the Prom. We didn’t get to do either because, while she thought she had months, she only had weeks.

But even as she told me her news, she reflected on her faith, on her life, on the joys along the way; without regret for what might have been or fear for what was coming.