RADIO REVIEW:WHAT WE didn't read in last Sunday's papers in the excerpts of the extraordinary interview with Nuala O'Faolain on the Marian Finucane Show (RTÉ Radio 1, Sat) was Finucane's lengthy introduction.
Here is a snapshot: "The certainty that we all have in this life is that we will die, though I suppose most of us don't realise it, that either we will die or those that we love will . . . What you will hear from her is one person's experience, her experience of facing death. It's honest and it's stark."
We don't often willingly talk to loved ones who are dying about that invisible door in the corner of the room. Nor do we expect the dying person to force us to face it. Last Saturday, as we lay in bed contemplating a new day, Finucane and O'Faolain - who are friends - did both.
O'Faolain spoke about her terminal cancer diagnosis, her fear of death and how she will die: "It seems like such a waste of creation that, with death, all that knowledge dies." But she also tapped into the collective fear of another modern-day bogeyman: cancer. This is a more tangible enemy and, arguably, worse.
I did wonder whether O'Faolain has the will to write. I do hope so. Music does still bring O'Faolain joy and she requested Albert Fry's Tráthnóna Beag Aréir. "We'll find it," Finucane said, her voice faltering. And she did.
Why do this interview? O'Faolain said she did it partly for those who came to know her, but she also took her diagnosis personally: "The world said to me 'that's enough of you now' . . . The world turned its back on me."
It was not always easy to hear O'Faolain sobbing. It was upsetting and, at times, felt voyeuristic. (The media tributes also poured in, pushing Patrick Hillery's death off some front pages.) But without ego, there would be no interview, nothing to inspire, no personal becoming political, no passion and, most importantly, no fight left. What's more, O'Faolain said three times during the interview that she had been "lucky" in her life, and to die surrounded by family and friends.
But it is true that she is not alone in her swirling quicksand of grief. Nor is it unusual for a life to be cut so tragically short: the Victorian idea of beautiful death - an elegant Dark Victory exit, where light fades on cue - rarely, if ever, occurs.
On Monday's Morning Ireland (RTÉ Radio 1) and Lunchtime With Eamon Keane (Newstalk), Nell McCafferty raised the question of euthanasia and consensual use of morphine. (Sometimes a less official form of death with dignity.) Still, she told Aine Lawlor: "I have been assured by the nuns who helped looked after my mother that, when my day comes, they will prize my fingers off the headboards." McCafferty did not agree with Saturday's Marian Finucane switching to "banal tributes" to president Hillery from Bertie Ahern, Mary McAleese and Mary Robinson. They were banal, but the State broadcaster should absolutely have paid its respects at that time.
On Newstalk, McCafferty said of O'Faolain's interview: "It was like listening to an animal in a forest." She said her former partner of 15 years was not being self-indulgent: "She was fulfilling the duty of an artist, of a writer, of a thinker . . . Nuala was not looking for thousands of people to bear her on a shield towards her death."
Teri Garvey told Monday's Liveline (RTÉ Radio 1) she was in "injury time" with her own terminal cancer, but still takes pleasure in the mundane. "I want every last minute," she told Joe Duffy. "Life is terminal." She had asked for one month's notice from her doctor, if possible. He recently called her to discuss a scan. She feared the worst and, afterwards, sat down and cried. "Life can get very sweet if you think it's limited," she added, stoically.
On Tuesday, Henry McKean filed an illuminating report on Moncrieff (Newstalk) about young offenders, whose lives had little chance to begin with. Fr Peter McVerry said he could tell whether a child would end up in prison at the baptism. This was less an exercise in social profiling than an observation of a lost community that the Government conveniently forgot.
A man in his mid-20s, now a heroin addict, came alive when talking about a Fás course in car mechanics, but it was short-lived - funding ran out. So back to joyriding. "When you come out of jail, there's jack s*** for you to do in this community," he said.
McKean also asked an 18-year-old if being in trouble made him macho and gave him status among his peers: "You like to think you're the man?" McKean asked, boldly. The teenager replied: "I am the man. I am the boss. They call me Don Corleone." Vox-popping has served McKean well. A robust questioner, he pushes effortlessly for answers. He established an instant rapport with all his subjects using a simple and all too uncommon method . . . by showing and giving them respect.
His report ended, suddenly, with a message. "They're not dirt," one mother said, "they're sick and they need help." Perhaps this broke another taboo: that lives so broken and damaged are full of unrealised beauty, and deserve to have their true value restored, too.