IT’S 8.45am, Notre Dame University, South Bend, in my son’s off-campus student house. On waking, I look up at my sister, who’s sitting up in bed and gazing around as if she’s just been told the punchline of a joke she doesn’t understand.

IT’S 11AM, Chicago Union station, and my sister and I are sitting on a stationary train, about to depart for Notre Dame University, where we’re to attend my son’s graduation ceremony.

TOMORROW, my younger sister and I will travel to Notre Dame University for my son’s graduation. But today, we’re on the train, heading towards Hotel Lincoln, Old Town Chicago, and my sister’s tapping in unnerving fashion on her iPad, giving me a beady look from time to time. Not quite the stink-eye but almost.

I’M COUNTING down the days until my trip to Notre Dame University, Indiana, where I’m to attend my son’s graduation.

CORK airport, 2.30pm, and, as expected, the rain has travelled for hundreds of miles against prevailing winds especially to decant itself on top of my mother when she disembarks the plane.

My daughter ended up in hospital this week. She’s home now. Singing her head off in the shower as I write. Pissed off that we’ve run out of Pantene conditioner — but singing all the same.

IT’S 6.30pm, and I am sitting at the table in my friend’s kitchen, trying to ignore Doc, her newish rescue dog, the size of a wart-hog, who’s eyeballing me from across the room.

WE’RE about to make a road trip to my sister’s house in Sligo, to help revive us after recent hospitalisations.

IT IS seven days post-op, 10pm, and I’m in the upstairs bathroom trying to fix a raised toilet seat to our existing one.

FRANKLY, I don’t think being in a state of denial comes naturally to me. But you don’t get better at something by not doing it, so I’ve been practicing assiduously for two weeks.