Retirement is not something I ever seriously considered, even when the years started to creep up on me. Observing colleagues nearing a certain age mark off their remaining workdays on the office calendar as if the end could not come soon enough intrigued me. I loved my job and knew I had chosen the perfect career – nursing. I wanted it to go on forever. From the bedside I moved to the community then up the nursing hierarchy into policy and management and government. Finally I secured a dream job in an international organisation.
Just when I thought I had it all I was diagnosed with aggressive cancer. My near perfect world was destroyed, knowing my life was about to implode. Devastated, I was unprepared. No retirement programme could have forewarned me about what lay ahead. I still had more work to do, ideas to realise, projects to be brought to fruition and staff to develop.
It happened so quickly that I didn’t even manage to make it to the office in Denmark to say my personal goodbye to colleagues who had almost become family. My grieving would have to be endured at home and alone.
The early months were consumed by hospital trips for cancer treatments, seeing oncologists, having the horrific radiotherapy burns dressed and then there was the second round of surgery. Coming to terms with my disfigured post-surgery body was hard. I felt sorry for myself as well as angry.
Bereft at the premature loss of my beloved career yet determined not to give up on life, I gradually reignited an interest in reading. Books became my new addiction
Eventually the therapies finished, but my energy levels were abysmal. Permanent tiredness and an inability to concentrate diminished my long-held hope of returning to work. The potential risks to my health from the excessive work-related air travel forced me to accept that early retirement was my only viable option. That prompted my return to live in Ireland.
Bereft at the premature loss of my beloved career yet determined not to give up on life, I gradually reignited an interest in reading. Books became my new addiction.
Listening to Joseph O’Connor sharing his Diaries on RTÉ’s Drivetime reawakened my love of the written word. I enrolled in an online course in creative writing at a London college. I enjoyed it and did the second one. The wealth of material from my personal and working life, it was suggested, could become a memoir.
I attended writers’ festivals and readings whenever I could. I learnt that UL, under Prof O’Connor, ran a one year’s Masters in Creative Writing. As well as the focus on developing writing skills, other modules focused on American literature, poetry, feminism and migration. A chance meeting with Joseph convinced me to apply for a place. The upside was that I might be accepted; the downside was that it would be hard work, very hard work, no quarter given. Work has never frightened me. Late hours in the office, deadlines, overseas trips to war zones, I could take it. Or could I, a cancer survivor, retired and by now in my late sixties?
An office colleague once told me never to say something was impossible until one had tried it. However, would I be setting myself up for failure? Oscar Wilde said he could resist anything but temptation. Never one to turn down a challenge, I applied.
I was offered a place, partly because as a mature person my contribution would be different from the younger students. Indeed, that year Age and Opportunity, which promotes the over 50s reaching their full potential, was funding the Bealtaine Bursary to support an older person’s attendance on the UL course. I applied and was fortunate to get it.
I plunged in. The other students were welcoming, but I felt I stood out. I was 40 years older than many of them and out of my comfort zone. However, I was determined to enjoy the experience. Occasionally I sensed that some, intent on making a career out of writing, were puzzled that a blow-in, who had already had a successful career, was exposing herself to such stress. The majority were kind and incredibly helpful. However, taking a Masters, without a first degree in literature, meant that tutors and students spoke a different language. What were the characteristics of a second person point of view? God only knew – and all the others.
I had my weeks of deep depression, and on several occasions, I was on the point of throwing in the towel. I tripped over and concussed myself; I broke a wrist and had to type with one finger. Many experiences in my life had been emotionally or physically dangerous. I had dealt with politicians and corruption. I had been in the middle of power politics. I wanted to turn this material into a memoir, but creative writing did not seem to teach me how to turn facts into interesting writing; it had different rules. Writing of my past opened old wounds. A manager entering the humanities, I was a fish out of water – and Joseph would have slain me for using that cliche!
The reading required was overwhelming, two or three books a week on top of the effort of the writing and critiquing exercises. I thought I could write grammatically and knew where to place a comma. I thought I could set out a reference. No way. Back to school. There were rules called MLA. To ignore them was not acceptable. However, it was fascinating. I was reading material and thinking of concepts that were all new to me.
The course has altered me. I read more critically now and with greater understanding of what has gone into a piece of work. Nothing worthwhile is achieved without difficulty
For every emotional low, there was a high. I completed my first term satisfactorily; more than satisfactorily. Then the pace toughened. Reviews, essays, presentations and deadlines followed inexorably. I suspected some students knew just what they could ignore, and took short cuts. But that was not my way.
Would I do it again? I don’t know. I am glad I did, relieved that I let nobody down and am so grateful to Joseph O’Connor for giving me the opportunity to participate. He didn’t have to. The course has altered me. I read more critically now and with greater understanding of what has gone into a piece of work. Nothing worthwhile is achieved without difficulty. This was eminently worthwhile, but I could never have imagined the stress and emotion involved.
Would I encourage others in retirement to take on a massive challenge? Why not? It shows that you are still alive and it has given me the skills to write with confidence. The bonus is that I now have a memoir in progress.
Ainna Fawcett-Henesy was the Bealtaine Bursary Award Recipient 2015 on the University of Limerick's MA in Creative Writing programme
The Age and Opportunity Bealtaine Festival takes place each year throughout Ireland celebrating creativity throughout our lives. Among this year's literary highlights are a celebration of Limerick women writers and activists, centered on Maeve Kelly, Paula Meehan's Geomantic Poems set for choirs by composer Sean Doherty and commissioned works from Ron Carey and Gus Cronin. For further information, check www.bealtaine.com
