Sometimes you know. After the first few minutes when the shock wears away and you begin to wrap your head around the difference, you start seeing the similarities. You know. You just know.

Growing up in Catholic Ireland, I had a strong sense of what mothers looked like, how they acted, what they said. That’s not for a minute to suggest that all mothers are alike. They’re not. They’re all different, very different. Yet even in their uniqueness, there’s a sameness, albeit a very superficial one, to Irish mothers of a generation.

I brought this perception with me to Alaska. I had a list as long as your arm of things Irish mothers, in my limited experience, wouldn’t think of doing or saying or wearing. I had a yardstick against which I measured all mothers.

In my defence, I was young.

It was the mid-1990s.

I walked into the Acres Bar in Valdez with an Irish friend who was taking an impish delight in contriving to bump into my then-boyfriend’s mother. I had only recently moved down to Valdez from Anchorage and hadn’t yet met mom. I was a tad nervous as I didn’t have a great track record with boyfriends’ mothers.

The bar was relatively empty, with only a few stools occupied. I looked around to see if anyone looked remotely like what I was expecting and came up blank. The least likely candidate was sitting at the bar with a rum and coke, smoking a cigarette, and laughing heartily at something risque the bartender had just said.

That was my Donna, nearly 30 years ago.

Over the years, Donna became one of my biggest supporters. She said what she meant, and meant what she said. She didn’t do plámás. There was an openness about her that I found both intimidating and refreshing. She threw the L word around with an abandon I would grow used to, even if I was never entirely comfortable with it.

But her chicken liver paté and chicken enchiladas were to die for and she mixed a mean cocktail.

In some of my darkest days, my black period, Donna was the light in my life. More than anyone else, she could make me laugh when it felt like I had nothing to laugh about. She saw in me the person I could become. And she never, not once, lost faith that I would get there.

In her way, she taught me how to relate to my own mother. They were so very different and yet in many ways, so very alike.

I remember one Mother’s Day, Donna wrote to mam, thanking her for giving birth to me. With that shameless Americanness that doesn’t travel well, she congratulated mam on a job well done. My mother read it and handed it to me with an eye-roll, commenting on how peculiar Americans were. Only later would I realise she recognised in me the person Donna wrote about.

Years later, Donna messaged me on my birthday:

I would love you to pass on to your Mom my gratitude to her for the ‘loving labor’ that she endured 47 years ago.

This time, mam smiled and said to tell her she was welcome.

It is one of my few regrets that these two women never met. The older I got and the more I came to appreciate them as the strong, invincible women they were, the more I knew they’d have had a blast together. They’d have had so much to talk about because, in their own ways, both of them loved me and believed in me.

I never went to the West Coast without making a side trip to Palm Springs to visit Donna after she’d moved there. I enjoyed spending time with her. It was restorative. She was a tonic. We’d laugh. We’d tear the world apart and put it back together again. We’d reminisce about our Alaska days. We were in regular touch on FB and by email.

She was one of my most loyal readers and would always take the time to reflect or debate if something I’d written struck a chord. I started Any Excuse to Travel with her in mind. She couldn’t travel as much as she’d have liked and took great pleasure from travelling vicariously with me. If there was some place she’d like to see and she knew I was heading in that direction, she’d ask me to go see it for her and report back. At one stage, we even wondered if we could turn this vicarious travel thing into a business.

In February 2019, himself and I did a mini road trip, a goodbye tour of sorts (for me) that doubled as a debut (for him), catching up with my friends in California and Arizona. [It would be the last time I’d see my friends Johnny P and Art.]

Donna’s health had been declining; she wanted to meet himself while her git-up still had some go. We did as much as she could manage and enjoyed every minute of it. Himself passed muster. She gave us her blessing. I was happy.

I suspected this might be the last time we’d meet in person. I hate to have been right.

We spoke briefly a few days before she died last week. We got to say goodbye. I told her I loved her, the L word coming from deep within my heart.

I’m grateful for the twists and turns of fate that moved me to Valdez and meet Donna. She added a richness to my life by shining her light and teaching me how to live through the dark.

To borrow her birthday message to me last year:

I think of you everyday and a smile always comes to my face. Thank you for being the wonderful lady and friend you are.

Ar dheis Dé go raibh a hanam.