Saint Dymphna and Dennis O'Neil

My parents left New York City shortly after their whirlwind courtship and marriage in June of 1942, a few months before the bombing of Pearl Harbor and my father’s subsequent tour of duty in Japan. I’m stating this for time reference and because there was no other compelling reason for them to leave the city other than my father’s wise premonition that if they did not get away, they’d “end up just like the rest of them” meaning their own families who were from opposing religions and Irish demographics, and the fact that they were a miserable, screwed up lot. My parents broke their respective generational curses before such a thing was ever in vogue.

Dennis O’Neil was my great-grandfather, on my mother’s side. I learned of his existence long after my mother’s death, while researching her family. At the time, I had no one to ask about my mother’s family except her youngest sister, who knew less than had uncovered in my research. I was thrilled to find him, promptly lost him again, and have been searching for him ever since.

I’ve probably written about him before, but Dennis O’Neil was born around 1862 to John O’Neil, a New York City police officer, and one of two possible mothers, who may be the same person (I have some work to do there). In 1880, he was apprentice to a jeweler and married my great-grandmother in 1892. They had five children between 1893 and 1899, with the oldest only surviving a few years and my grandfather’s twin brother was either stillborn or died shortly after birth. Dennis’ occupation on several of his children’s birth certificates was ‘Optician’, not unusual for the time as jewelers often made prescription eyeglasses during this period. By all appearances, he had a stable position in a skilled trade, and they should have been comfortable enough, financially.

Sometime after 1899, and before 1910, Dennis disappeared. I’ve not been able to find his death certificate, or grave location. My great-grandmother is buried in a family plot, with an impressive headstone, with her children (including my grandfather), but Dennis is not with them. I’ve given it a lot of thought over the years and have three theories.

#1. He “went out for a pack of cigarettes” and kept going, adopting a new identity along the way, either intentionally or because an unknown mental illness.

#2. He was institutionalized for some unknown mental illness (bipolar disorder, depression, addiction, and schizophrenia are evident his current descendants), died there, and was buried because he left his wife and family destitute and without an income.

#3. He committed suicide and because of this, could not be buried in the Catholic cemetery with the rest of his family.

Option #2 is the most likely, but I doubt I’ll ever know. What I do know is that something tragic happened, and the effect it had on his family had far-reaching repercussions down the line. My great-grandmother and her children bounced around for several years between her parents’ home and later with her brother who also looked after one of their sisters. In 1910, she was working as a domestic servant. Her daughter and youngest son, ages 10 and 13, were in separate orphanages and her oldest surviving son, age 16, had entered the seminary.

I think about Dennis fairly often, and when I do so, I fire up the internet and have a look around for him. This time, though, something completely random prompted me.

I’m taking an academic tarot course (because I’ve never done so) and because of this, decided to begin what is known as a Decan Walk, through the minor arcana, directed by the elemental energies connected to each 10-day period of the zodiac. The project will take me an entire year to complete with the intent of developing a deeper and intimate understanding of the timing and astrological connections to the cards.

We are in the first decan of Taurus, which is represented by the Five of Pentacles. The visual of the Rider Waite Smith version of this card is one of unmistakable despair. Two apparently homeless souls are barefoot in the snow outside of a church, whose stained-glass window beckons the light and warmth and hope that wait for them inside. They only need to look up and see that help is right there, but they are so wrapped up in their misery and discomfort, it’s not obvious to them. Will they see it in time? Or will they freeze to death in the snow?

On the same day I began the decan walk, a friend mentioned Saint Dymphna in connection to a counselling outreach program he is planning as part of his work as a newly ordained Liberal Catholic Priest. I had never heard of Saint Dymphna, so I did some research and realized that she is the patron saint my family needed. I’ve had this weird crossover of eastern and western Christian mysticism going on lately, so why not petition an obscure Irish saint whose Pagan father tried to marry her when her Christian mother died? She’s the patron saint of nervous disorders, mental disease, depression, and domestic abuse. That pretty much covers all my historical family bases.

I’m not making light of this. It’s been my life’s mission since 1998 to find out what happened to Dennis O’Neil. Or at least where it happened, and when. His death dealt a hard financial, and likely emotional blow, which reverberated in different ways throughout those affected. Later in life, my great-grandmother lived with her only daughter, who never married and became a professional secretary in the 1940s, even owning a home. Her need for independence is obvious in her life story. I wish I knew more about her.

The oldest son became a priest. I don’t know much about him, other than my aunt’s account that he wasn’t very nice to my grandmother so for that reason, I don’t like him.

The youngest son, my grandfather, suffered with undiagnosed mental illness his whole life. He’d routinely disappear (he likely had a second family as the facts have later confirmed), leaving my grandmother to cope with three children on her own, only to reappear periodically and upset the balance. My mother and her sisters all grew up to be strong, independent women, thanks to my grandmother’s resolve. She died quite young, in her mid-forties. My grandfather died in a care home of some sort many years later. I didn’t even know he was alive until my mother received the letter that he’d passed away.

Apologies if I’ve told you much of this story before, but once I get caught up with this O’Neil family, it’s hard for me to extrapolate myself. They are the only line of my family to have come to America before the 1900s but researching the name O’Neil in New York City is an Irish needle in a massive haystack.

I digress. I’m spending the first ten days of Taurus contemplating the best way to ask Saint Dymphna for help and guidance in finding my great-grandfather. It could be that I should leave well enough alone, but I don’t think so. He’s been lost for such a long time, and I don’t believe it was his fault. He was a defective link in a defective chain. One that my father was determined to fix, and my mother agreed.

I’ll ask her to look after my grandmothers and their daughters as well, as they bore the brunt of the mental illness that claimed the men they loved.

 This is for you, Dennis. https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=p1owepW6vSo

If you’d like to know more about Saint Dymphna, whose name means ‘little poet’, or ‘poetess’, you can start here: St. Dymphna - Saints & Angels - Catholic Online

If you would like to know more about my ancestral connection work, my Daoist path, or my other offerings such as tarot readings, spiritual guidance and mindset coaching, you can find more detailed information by using the drop-down menu on my website: The Mystic’s Parlour (the-mystics-parlour.ghost.io)

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