51 years — assembled by the people who were there.
Joined1975
Last Day12 · VII · 2026
Years of Service51
Cat. № WW-2026 · 12 Contributions
Enter the gallery
Wall text · Curator’s note
Fifty-one years as a midwife at the Rotunda. Four children, eleven grandchildren, three great-grandchildren. A record of a life lived mostly between two AM and six AM — assembled by the people she handed out the door.
Assembled 12 July 2026 · The Agnes Archive
I
The Plaques
Wishes & remembrances
12 Contributions from the people who were there.
II
Featured Plaques
Pinned by the curator
Two voices placed at the front of the room.
Acc. № 2000.01·Plate I.1·Featured citation
“You came in on your day off in 1986 because you didn't trust the registrar with my twins. You were right. He was useless.”
My two boys are forty this year. They are doctors now, both of them — one in Galway, one in Boston — and every Christmas I make them tell the story of how Mrs Callahan, who was meant to be at her own daughter's school nativity that night, walked into the delivery room at half eight in the evening and said, "I'll be having these now, thank you, Doctor." They were born by ten. You drove home to Rathmines in the rain. I have not forgotten. I will not forget. Ninety, Agnes. Christ.
Bernadette O'Halloran
Mother of twins · Delivered by Agnes on 04/11/1986
2026
🙏Grateful
Acc. № 2001.02·Plate I.2·Featured citation
“Sixty-four years, Agnes. I have not, in any of them, won an argument.”
I have, however, eaten extremely well, slept on the better side of the bed, and learnt — slowly, over decades — to put the kettle on without being asked. It is, on balance, the best deal I have ever made. Happy ninetieth, my love. Yours, in the kitchen, with the kettle on. Frank.
Frank Callahan
Her husband · Married 1962 · 93
2026
💗Heartfelt
Acc. № 2002.03·Plate I.3·Featured citation
“I trained you, Agnes. I am ninety-six. You are ninety. You are catching up, but you will not catch me.”
I remember the morning you came up from Cobh on the train — September 1956 — with one suitcase and a packet of Marietta biscuits your mother had pressed on you "for the journey." You were nineteen. You were terrified. By Christmas you were running the third floor. By March you were correcting me, gently, on the question of breech presentation. I did not mind. You were always right. Many happy returns, my dear. Imelda.
Sister Imelda Burke
Her tutor at the Rotunda · 1956 · Now 96, Sligo
2026
🥹Nostalgic
III
The Collection
In order of arrival
Read in order, or wander. Either way, mind the brass.
Acc. № 2003.04·Plate II.1
“Mum. You delivered, conservatively, two thousand babies. You raised four. I am, statistically, the worst of them. Many happy returns.”
I am fifty-eight. I have been a GP in Cork for thirty-one years. I still ring you when I have a difficult presentation. You still answer on the second ring. You still know the answer before I have finished the question. Last week it was a forty-three-year-old primigravida with a transverse lie. You said, "Tell her to walk. Then tell her again." She walked. The baby turned. I have your handwriting on the prescription pad in my drawer. I am keeping it. Love, your worst son.
Dr. Eoghan Callahan
Eldest son · GP, Cork · 58
2026
😂Funny
Acc. № 2004.05·Plate II.2
“You delivered me in 1971. You delivered both my daughters in 1998 and 2001. We are three generations of your work. Thank you.”
My mother says she remembers you most for the calm. She was twenty-three, terrified, alone — my father was a sailor and not home — and you sat with her for the eight hours she was in labour and you told her, at one point, that she was doing the bravest thing she would ever do and that nobody but you would ever know about it. She has told me this story every birthday of mine for fifty-five years. I told my daughters. They will tell theirs. The bravest thing, Agnes. You said it. We have kept it.
Niamh Lynch (née Brady)
Delivered 1971 · Now 55, Dún Laoghaire
2026
💗Heartfelt
Acc. № 2005.06·Plate II.3
“Great-Granny. Mum says you have delivered more babies than the number of people in our school. I do not believe her. I will believe you.”
I am six. I am writing this with help from Mum, but the spelling is mine. I want to know: did you ever drop one? Mum says no. Dad says definitely not. Granny Maeve says you would not have. I think you would not have. I love you. Tomás.
Tomás Callahan
Great-grandson · 6 · Helped by his mother
2026
😂Funny
Acc. № 2006.07·Plate III.1
“I was the new staff nurse on your ward in 1992. You took one look at me and said, "You'll do. Stop apologising."”
I had been apologising, I now realise, for being twenty-two and being there. You did not let me apologise for either. By the end of my first month you had me running the triage. By the end of my first year you had taken me to one side and told me, plainly, that I was good at this and I should know that. Nobody had ever said either of those things to me. I am, today, the matron of a unit in Limerick. I run it the way you ran yours. Stop apologising. I do not. Love, Cat.
Sister Catherine McGrath
Staff nurse, 1992 · Matron, University Hospital Limerick
2026
🙏Grateful
Acc. № 2007.08·Plate III.2
“You delivered my eldest in 1984 in a snowstorm. The road was closed. You walked the last half-mile.”
The road from Drumcondra was shut. You parked the car at the Tolka and you walked, in your shoes, with the bag, through eight inches of snow, and you got to the hospital twelve minutes before the head crowned. My wife is gone these eleven years now. She told the snowstorm story at every dinner party we ever had. She would, if she were here, ring you on the morning of your ninetieth and read it down the phone to you in full. I will do it on her behalf at half past nine. Have the kettle on.
Donal Murphy
Father · Eldest born 02/02/1984 · Drumcondra
2026
🥹Nostalgic
Acc. № 2008.09·Plate III.3
“You were my consultant in 2003 when I came over from Lagos as a junior registrar. You told me on day one to call you Agnes. I never managed it.”
I am, today, the head of obstetrics at a teaching hospital in Manchester. I trained, in part, in your unit. I trained, in larger part, by watching you. Once, in late 2004, you stood in front of an arrogant senior consultant who was about to make a serious mistake and you said, very quietly, "I think not, Mr Donnelly." He did not. The mother and child went home well. I have used those four words, in your voice, on three separate occasions since. They have worked every time. Many happy returns, Mrs Callahan.
Dr. Ifeoma Adeyemi
Junior registrar, 2003–04 · Now head of obstetrics, Manchester
2026
✨Inspirational
Acc. № 2009.10·Plate IV.1
“Mum — your handwriting is in every one of the books on the shelf in the front room. I have started copying it.”
I am fifty-one. I have your hands. I have, increasingly, your voice. My daughter has noticed. She has stopped pointing it out. I read your notes in the margins of the cookery book — "Don't bother with the cream. He'll only complain." — and I hear you say it, plainly, in the kitchen, in 1989, with Dad in the next room not complaining. I miss you, Mum, even on the days I see you. I think that is the deal with mothers. Ninety. Christ, Mum. Ninety.
Aoife Callahan
Daughter · Solicitor, Dublin · 51
2026
💗Heartfelt
Acc. № 2010.11·Plate IV.2
“There is, in the staff room, a brass plaque above the kettle. It reads: AGNES CALLAHAN · 1956–2007 · "HOLD THE HAND. COUNT THE BREATHS. SPEAK SOFTLY. BE USEFUL." It is read, by somebody, every day.”
We have, today, four midwives on the ward who were delivered by you. Two consultants who trained under you. One porter who remembers carrying your bag to the car park in 1998 and being told, sharply but kindly, that he was not to lift it again because his back was already gone. He still talks about it. We have hung a notice on the noticeboard for your ninetieth. It has been signed by sixty-one current staff and, so far, eleven retired. There is more space. We are leaving it up another week.
The Rotunda Hospital · Maternity Floor
The Rotunda Hospital · Sixty-one signatures, and counting
2026
✨Inspirational
Acc. № 2011.12·Plate IV.3
“Granny — you were the only one who never asked when I was getting married. You asked what I was reading.”
I was eleven. We were in your kitchen. You were peeling a pear with the small brown knife. You said, "What are you reading at the moment, pet?" and I told you, and you nodded, and you said, "That's a good one. Keep going." I went on to read a great many books, Gran, and to write a few of them, and I have never once been asked, by you, about a wedding or a baby or a job. Only the books. Thank you. I do not think you know what that did.
Maeve Callahan-Nguyen
Granddaughter · Writer, Brooklyn · 42
2026
🙏Grateful
Appendix A
The ledger, in numbers.
51
Years of service
12
Contributions to the wall
3
Featured plaques
Wall text · A letter
A note from her eldest grandson —
Gran. Ninety. We did the maths.
You were born in Cobh on the twelfth of July, 1936, the year the King abdicated and your mother said the world had clearly lost its head. You started at the Rotunda in October 1956 and worked your last shift on a Wednesday in March 2007 — fifty-one years, one day off in 1972 for your own wedding, and the famous Tuesday in 1986 when you went in on your day off because Bernadette O'Halloran was having twins and you didn't trust the registrar.
We have, over four months, written to every person we could find. The babies — most of them now in their fifties — wrote back. The mothers — most of them now grandmothers themselves — wrote back. Three of your old colleagues wrote back. Sister Imelda, who is ninety-six, dictated hers to her niece, who has never seen so much handwriting in her life.
We have not put them all here. We have put a dozen. The rest are in the green folder under the hall table, where you will find them when you go looking for the good tea on Sunday morning.
Ninety, Gran. We did the maths. It's a great number.
With our thanks12 July 2026
· · ·
“Hold the hand. Count the breaths. Speak softly. Be useful.”
Agnes Callahan · pinned above her desk in the staff room · undated
