A Eulogy for our dad, Tom Meagher
For those unable to attend the service on June 8th 2021, we share the tribute that was read by two of his children, Kate Goodin and George Meagher.
Dad was clear that he didn’t want a eulogy as part of today’s service. He said that grief can form a pair of rose-tinted glasses, which often leads to shortcomings being overlooked. He felt that you deserved more than to hear a few minutes of us gushing over him. Luckily, he acknowledged that his wishes are merely wishes, not all of which can be fulfilled. So as we enjoy the opportunity to remember dad’s life in today’s service, we can capture the spirit of his request by firstly being reminded of some of his deficiencies.
The primary grumbling about dad concerned his sartorial choices. For such a handsome man, he took astonishingly little interest in appearance, and my mother and sisters long fought an uphill battle in influencing his wardrobe. We were not above hiding some of his worst offending items, though he was stubbornly attached to others. The infamous leather jacket became a symbol of protest, and he took great joy in the pain it brought us all.
Golf was another weakness of his that afforded us a lot of quality time together. He had an acceptable swing by the end of his career, but there was a moment where it was quite unsightly. One summer in the early 2000s we were playing at our favourite course, St Enedoc, in Cornwall. We were playing behind two rather abject golfers, and dad quietly said to me “I hope to God my swing doesn’t look like that” as we watched one tee off. I reluctantly informed him that his swing was a carbon copy. This single comment was the catalyst for two decades of dedication to a game where he took great pleasure in doing whatever it took to not look like that man in Cornwall. I suspect that I look back upon this passion rather more fondly than mum.
It would be wrong to place undue focus on these tales. Dad was blessed with an enviable mix of talents, and he grew up in the ideal environment to enjoy these gifts to the fullest. His parents, Niall and Do, were known for their profound interest in people, as well as their wide range of passions: sport, arts, music and as well as their work. Dad was fortunate to inherit all of these qualities, part of a rich mix of what made them both so very special.
His upbringing was a hugely sociable one. Growing up with his three brothers Joe, Tim and Hugh, his dear Daly cousins, and an army of school friends, Dad was constantly surrounded by people, which brought with it the possibility of some competition. His competitive streak features in so many tales from his youth, be they about violin recitals in Cork, squash and tennis with friends, or even a simple social bike ride that transforms into a ferocious race. He loved the competition, and all-too-often, he won.
This competitive edge never came with a steely glare; he was all about fun. In all things. He brought levity to so many occasions, and didn’t take himself too seriously if the situation didn’t require it. His sharp wit took some keeping up with, but his ability to joke and laugh made his company easy to keep, and a delight for us all.
This playful sense of humour, his sporting and musical gifts, when added to his warm nature, were the ideal cocktail for a burgeoning social life which flourished in his college years. While he threw himself into his tennis and choir at UCC, it was his ability as a social organizer that became legendary. He would corral droves of university friends to the holiday house in Guileen for a long weekend, which often included swimming in unimaginable temperatures, rugby in the garden, and any other game he could think of. These groups would often return to the family home in Rushbrooke, where Niall and Do loved welcoming the masses.
Alongside all these social and extra-curricular activities, Dad remained immensely driven and studious. He quickly realized that his ability to work hard would be as important as any of his natural gifts for him to succeed — and this became one of his core principals. This wasn’t just a lesson he would apply to his own life, however. He was always more interested in the paths of others than his own, and loved hearing people’s plans, sharing his ideas or advice for them, or simply offering gentle encouragement.
Dad found his calling in medicine, which, after family, became his great love. He took a huge pleasure in helping the Stoke Mandeville Radiology Department grow and develop. He felt privileged to be working with a team of wonderful individuals doing a job he truly enjoyed (and evidently did so well) and always went to work with a spring in his step. Many of you will know how hard he worked and how willing he was to go that extra mile. He introduced many initiatives, some of which were ground-breaking, particularly around the imaging of TIAs.
In his usual unassuming fashion, he described himself as a generalist, but had lots of special interests. One was in the imaging of those with spinal cord injuries. He took on the clinical directorship of the National Spinal Injury Centre at Stoke Mandeville between 2003 and 2007, though still made time for his much loved general radiology. His interest in development and research extended to individuals, and it’s clear from the numerous letters we’ve received, what a difference his mentorship, support and encouragement made to so many, and how greatly his calm, good humoured presence has been missed by his hospital family since his retirement last year.
That’s not to say he was unanimously popular — immensely principled Dad wasn’t afraid to firmly resist a decision he felt was wrong. His own strong work ethic, and passion to do the very best job he could, meant he found it difficult when others didn’t share this approach, which he wasn’t afraid to challenge, and meant he sometimes upset a few people along the way. He’d probably admit himself that he could be a little blinkered towards what he considered to be the best solution to a problem, and could run away with it without a need to wait for others to get on-board. Despite this tendency, he was a much-respected colleague and leader within the department, and his warmth and sense of fun was far from absent at Stoke. A few years ago, he took on the mantle of writing colleagues’ leaving poems, which he described as “doggerel” (he shared many with me and I can confirm that they weren’t!) and had such fun in their composition and delivery.
Unfortunately for his children, Dad’s love of productivity was, at times, in conflict with our more slothful teenage ideals. During these years, he would take great joy in dramatically waking us up if we attempted to sleep-in, with continuously evolving methods, often involving water, noise, light, and always with a big grin on his face and trade mark twinkle in his eye. Of course, he would have been up since the early hours, making his daily to-do list, most of which he would have achieved by the time we surfaced. He was an early bird in every sense of the word, and we’d have to frequently tell him events started or finished at least half an hour later than was accurate, to avoid arriving or being collected embarrassingly early.
Dad loved to plan and strategize, and took particular pleasure in plotting family holidays (usually at least a year in advance), which he’d cram full of tennis, cards, and long, hot, early and uphill bike rides. Like his own father, he loved the water, and was always on the lookout for a good snorkelling spot, or body-boarding beach — his lurid turquoise and purple sleeveless wetsuit graced many a Cornish beach, and I can still clearly hear his infectious yelps of enthusiasm when he caught even the smallest of waves.
Family was Dad’s number one priority, and he always put us first. As a father, he was magnificent. Empowering, encouraging and above all, tremendous fun. Many happy childhood memories involve sprinting around the garden attempting to solve cryptic treasure hunt clues set by Dad (often far too sophisticated for the hunt’s participants), or being cheered on by him to race the tractor in the fastest possible time. He celebrated our achievements, and supported us through any challenges — which in my case meant sacrificing evenings or weekends to work through simultaneous equations and Latin verbs, which he’d do with an interest I found baffling, and a patience and kindness that made me desperate to achieve, so as to share any small victory with him.
Perhaps his proudest moments, though, were when any one of us did anything that he felt showcased a quality we’d inherited from our mother, who he adored and admired completely; he told me recently that she was his “greatest gift” to us, and reflected that he knew immediately that she was special, when I quizzed him on their very prompt engagement. It was only on their honeymoon that Mum really discovered his competitive streak — Mum herself is a very good sportswoman and was confident she could hold her own when Dad challenged her to a game of table-tennis, and she did, losing only narrowly. When she triumphantly commented on how close it had been, Dad grinned and informed her that he’d been playing with his left hand.
They made an exceptional team, and the greatest possible parents. She, and all of us, will miss him more than this small tribute can express, but we will love and remember him always — he will live on in all three of us, in his beloved granddaughter, and hopefully future grandchildren. We feel immensely lucky to be your legacy, Dad, and will do our very best to make you proud.
