Anthony McIntyre ⚑ This is the first Xmas day since I was an infant that is not also shared by my sister Lori.
Tom Hartley recently observed that:
| Lori Doherty |
She died in the summer after a long bout of cancer induced illness.
Lori was the second of nine children, four of whom are now deceased, Pauline, Rebecca, Martin and Lori. Against the order of things she survived her three younger siblings by several years.
As kids, sibling rivalry dictated the terms of the relationship, so while we didn't actually fight like cat and dog, the cat calling and dog whistling was intense. She didn't like being told what to do by her older brother. I didn't like my younger sister not doing what I told her to do. If she beat me at draughts, Ludo, snakes and ladders, even Tiddlywinks, a big brother's sense of threatened privilege kicked in and the huff prevailed. Our father, who was a wind up merchant, of course sided with one or the other to get the rise. He labelled me Onion Head and Lori became Buckets McGaughey. The taunts were thrown around like confetti. My mother was fed up hearing that Buckets did this or Onion Head did that, while my father revelled in the turbulence he had created.
Christmas Day was always special and a truce prevailed which lasted until Boxing day. Probably no different from most siblings at that age.
Then prison claimed hold of me for many years so the last Christmas Day I spent in the family home was 1973. We had gone on to lead very separate lives.
Lori married Paul Doherty, who most unfortunately died in tragic circumstances earlier this month. They were inseparable. I first met him in 1989 on my opening home leave from prison in August. Temporarily released on Friday I arrived in her North Belfast home on a Sunday, the first I had saw her in years. By now she was in Lori persona. Prior to my moving out of the family home to take up compulsory residence in one of Her Majesty's abodes - where people like me were sent but not Her Majesty's son or Jimmy Saville - she was always known as Dolores.
Lori and Paul developed what was socially in family terms an almost hermetically sealed privacy. They lived for each other and guarded their privacy with fortified resilience. I would meet her at funerals of other family members. In circumstances where death was preceded by a prolonged illness she and Paul would regularly be in attendance. By this stage our sibling rivalry days had long since passed and we would chew the fat without tasting the rancour of infant feuding.
I never questioned her privacy or wanted her to change it to accommodate me. How she decided to live her life was entirely a matter for her. When she died her siblings were unaware of the illness that was claiming her bodily territory organ by organ. She left very strict instructions with Paul that no one, friends or family, was to be informed of her death before a month had passed. None of us were at the cremation, she was ash long before we knew she had died.
I remember the moment that my sister Katie rang me to tell me she had passed. I was walking the dog, minutes form home, when the call came through. Katie and I would talk regularly, mostly about the woes of Liverpool, but when I saw her name come up on as the caller ID, I had this sense of foreboding that she was not contacting me to talk about soccer. It is just one of those inexplicable feelings we get, maybe the result of quantum physics, something Lori would have understood much better than I. There is no superstitious explanation that might explain that feeling. Like the rest of the family Lori was a physicalist, not given to believing there were explanation outside the laws of physics, chemistry and biology for our existence and the end of it.
Although momentarily jolted by news of her passing I was entirely philosophical about the funeral arrangements she had set in place. She lived life on her own terms and stuck with them until the very end. Not much wrong with that I felt. The way to go, Lori.
at our core, human beings can’t deal with death. It’s nothingness, it’s kaput, it’s over . . . We use our imagination to come to terms with it. We talk about going over to the other side or crossing the river.
A valid point but not an iron law of existence that I feel governed by. Death is the paradox that ends all life while at the same time being a crucial part of it. Only that which can die can ever have life. To be able to die is a vital component of life without which life cannot exist. Lori reached the age of 67. It could have been longer but it was a life authentically lived. She had to be able to die in order to have lived.
An intelligent woman, she had degrees in both law and physics as well as being a qualified chef. But in the end, above all else she was my sister. I don't mourn her passing in any sombre sense, preferring to acknowledge her life as filled with the meaning she put into it.
Eternal Dreamless Sleep, Lori.
![]() |
| ⏩Follow on Twitter @AnthonyMcIntyre. |























