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Anthony McIntyre  ⚑ Earlier in the year when my daughter had been visiting in Belfast, I asked her to drop in on old friends from Springhill.

Maria Bradley

After she called on them, she rang me to say she had bad news: Maria, my great friend, had died. I was stunned. She was only 41.

I had known her and her family since I moved into Springhill back in 1996. Her mother Lucy, brothers Billy and John. She was around 13 then. Lucy became a great friend to us, one of the best we could ask for in times that were not without challenge.

The family lived straight across the street from our home. They were there for everything. When our children were born and arrived home from the hospital, the first port of call was Lucy's. When it came the turn of Maria to gave birth she was over the moon with the arrival of 'Baby Jack'. Jack would often sit at the front of our house with my own son Ronan, on one memorable occasion eating ice cream together, an event we managed to snap.


While Jack was still a toddler, the first signs of illness were making their presence felt in Maria. She was losing weight at an alarming rate and was unable to hold food down. She felt she had a bug and told Lucy that the only food she could hold down was the soup I made for her. Still, there was no improvement in her condition. She grew weaker and her pallor was ghostly pale. When the bruising started to show on her body my wife said that was cause for serious concern. Her own father had leukemia, and bruising was one of the ways in which it manifested itself. Lucy sent for the doctor, insisting that he take bloods. By the afternoon he had returned with bad news. I can never forget Lucy arriving at my door distraught, banging it loudly, until I came out in grim anticipation of the worst news. The terrible words flowed from her tongue: My Maria has leukemia. Despite my best efforts she was inconsolable. Maria was admitted to hospital within an hour of the doctor leaving. 

I was in a state of shock. She was so young with seemingly everything to live for. Not long after giving birth, her life should have been joyous. Anytime I visited her in the City Hospital she was determined to not just fight but to win the battle. In our many conversations in hospital and at home she remained positive. Years earlier, I had a friend from prison whom I visited along with my mother in the same City Hospital while on a parole. He too had suffered leukemia but had survived so I was aware that it could be beaten.

After many rounds of treatment Maria rallied, her spirit indomitable, and gradually came back to health. We moved out of Springhill and down to Drogheda, losing touch with most people other than through Facebook. Two years ago when my son was heading up to Belfast I asked him to call in on the family. He met Maria who was delighted to see him. I had no reason to think she was anything other than leading a normal life. But illness again preyed on her and she eventually succumbed in April past. I spoke to her brother Billy about her final battle. It was harrowing. 

Remembering her on Christmas Day is poignant because for every year I lived in Springhill, apart from 1996 when I spent the festive season in Nottingham, I would call in on her and her family.

Like her mother and brothers, Maria was wholeheartedly behind the struggle of the Palestinian people, molten with anger at what was happening to them at the hands of the Judeo Nazis. Every time there was an atrocity, and there were many, I would find Maria and Lucy fuming at the TV screen. When we would do vigils at the bottom of the Rock in aid of Gaza, they would always donate. Maria hailed from a very strong republican family. Her grandmother had once famously confronted Margaret Thatcher as she toured Belfast city centre. So the identification with the Palestinians was as a result of shared experience of colonialism and massacre, one of which occurred in Springhill in July 1972. The victims on that occasion had been murdered by the war crime regiment, colloquially known as the Paras. The children of Gaza know the type. It is not possible for me to reflect on the life of Maria and not think of the ongoing genocide in Gaza.

Maria was a great friend for the entire time we lived in Springhill. To die at 81 is the culmination of a long life. There is nowhere else to go. But when a life of a dear friend ends at 41 it is so much different and makes acceptance that much harder. The terrible grief Lucy must be experiencing is unimaginable. 

Maria, so saddened at your death, so honoured to have been part of your life. 

⏩Follow on Twitter @AnthonyMcIntyre.

Maria Bradley

Anthony McIntyre  ⚑ Earlier in the year when my daughter had been visiting in Belfast, I asked her to drop in on old friends from Springhill.

Maria Bradley

After she called on them, she rang me to say she had bad news: Maria, my great friend, had died. I was stunned. She was only 41.

I had known her and her family since I moved into Springhill back in 1996. Her mother Lucy, brothers Billy and John. She was around 13 then. Lucy became a great friend to us, one of the best we could ask for in times that were not without challenge.

The family lived straight across the street from our home. They were there for everything. When our children were born and arrived home from the hospital, the first port of call was Lucy's. When it came the turn of Maria to gave birth she was over the moon with the arrival of 'Baby Jack'. Jack would often sit at the front of our house with my own son Ronan, on one memorable occasion eating ice cream together, an event we managed to snap.


While Jack was still a toddler, the first signs of illness were making their presence felt in Maria. She was losing weight at an alarming rate and was unable to hold food down. She felt she had a bug and told Lucy that the only food she could hold down was the soup I made for her. Still, there was no improvement in her condition. She grew weaker and her pallor was ghostly pale. When the bruising started to show on her body my wife said that was cause for serious concern. Her own father had leukemia, and bruising was one of the ways in which it manifested itself. Lucy sent for the doctor, insisting that he take bloods. By the afternoon he had returned with bad news. I can never forget Lucy arriving at my door distraught, banging it loudly, until I came out in grim anticipation of the worst news. The terrible words flowed from her tongue: My Maria has leukemia. Despite my best efforts she was inconsolable. Maria was admitted to hospital within an hour of the doctor leaving. 

I was in a state of shock. She was so young with seemingly everything to live for. Not long after giving birth, her life should have been joyous. Anytime I visited her in the City Hospital she was determined to not just fight but to win the battle. In our many conversations in hospital and at home she remained positive. Years earlier, I had a friend from prison whom I visited along with my mother in the same City Hospital while on a parole. He too had suffered leukemia but had survived so I was aware that it could be beaten.

After many rounds of treatment Maria rallied, her spirit indomitable, and gradually came back to health. We moved out of Springhill and down to Drogheda, losing touch with most people other than through Facebook. Two years ago when my son was heading up to Belfast I asked him to call in on the family. He met Maria who was delighted to see him. I had no reason to think she was anything other than leading a normal life. But illness again preyed on her and she eventually succumbed in April past. I spoke to her brother Billy about her final battle. It was harrowing. 

Remembering her on Christmas Day is poignant because for every year I lived in Springhill, apart from 1996 when I spent the festive season in Nottingham, I would call in on her and her family.

Like her mother and brothers, Maria was wholeheartedly behind the struggle of the Palestinian people, molten with anger at what was happening to them at the hands of the Judeo Nazis. Every time there was an atrocity, and there were many, I would find Maria and Lucy fuming at the TV screen. When we would do vigils at the bottom of the Rock in aid of Gaza, they would always donate. Maria hailed from a very strong republican family. Her grandmother had once famously confronted Margaret Thatcher as she toured Belfast city centre. So the identification with the Palestinians was as a result of shared experience of colonialism and massacre, one of which occurred in Springhill in July 1972. The victims on that occasion had been murdered by the war crime regiment, colloquially known as the Paras. The children of Gaza know the type. It is not possible for me to reflect on the life of Maria and not think of the ongoing genocide in Gaza.

Maria was a great friend for the entire time we lived in Springhill. To die at 81 is the culmination of a long life. There is nowhere else to go. But when a life of a dear friend ends at 41 it is so much different and makes acceptance that much harder. The terrible grief Lucy must be experiencing is unimaginable. 

Maria, so saddened at your death, so honoured to have been part of your life. 

⏩Follow on Twitter @AnthonyMcIntyre.

Anthony McIntyre Obituary

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