It’s funny how grief fades after a while and you completely forget just how intense it was to begin with. A lovely girl whom I just adore has recently experienced the loss of her Nanna (I think most of you know who I am referring to) and it’s reminded me of the immediate aftermath of my own Nan’s death.
Despite having three grandmothers (Dad was fostered) I only had contact with one of them, my maternal grandmother, throughout my childhood… And quite typically it was this one of the three who died first. Her death came at a particularly difficult time – July 2004. The previous November I’d been told in secret (by my mother who wasn’t supposed to tell me) that my parents were divorcing. Naturally, as with all secrets, the cat leapt out of the bag in December during the one and only parental fight my brother and I ever witnessed and by mid-January my Dad had moved out. Since that November I had become my mother’s support; I didn’t mind this or even realise it consciously at that time, but I was under a heavier burden than a 16 year old going through a family break-up should be: Not only was I my Mum’s best friend, but I was the only person she would talk to about what was going on.
Over the next few years I slowly built an emotional wall which I still have trouble circumventing. (It’s okay to cry now and it’s okay to show weakness. I don’t have to support anybody. I’m not taking responsibility for every body else’s emotional wellbeing. I’m just me. Mantras only help occasionally.) The event which I, in hindsight, believe to have really cemented that wall was the death of my beloved Nan.
In July 2004, my Nan came to stay with us for a weekend so that my aunt wouldn’t feel bad for leaving her alone to go on holiday with her boyfriend. Nan had been ill for a few months, but I’d never been told solid details and she hadn’t even been to a doctor about it, so I’d assumed that she had a cold or something. I’d only heard off-hand mentions from my Mum, I think, and I hadn’t seen Nan for a long time (far too long: three or four months. If I could change one thing.) Her appearance was shocking – my strong, jolly Nan had transformed into a frail old woman. She’d dropped four dress sizes within a few months; her skin was grey; her hair was limp and she smelled like death.
Over the next couple of days (Saturday and Sunday) I avoided her because I was so scared of what was happening and I didn’t understand it. (If I could change one thing.) When my brother and I were leaving on Sunday to spend a few hours with Dad, she told me quite clearly and purposefully that I should enjoy myself and shouldn’t worry because “I’ll still be here when you get back.” That sentence haunts me because I feel like it proves that she knew she wasn’t going to last very long. She knew, but we still didn’t realise.
By Sunday evening her condition had worsened to the point that my mother started calling NHS Direct, a 24 hour health and information helpline. The qualified nurse listened to the description of Nan’s symptoms and told us that as she was already sleeping, there was little point in waking her up to take her to the hospital and we should take her in the morning. I think you know where this story is going.
I was woken by my mother who informed me that she’d called an ambulance and I needed to wake up but that I shouldn’t go downstairs because I’d “only be in the way.” She woke my brother up as well, and we pottered about upstairs (getting dressed, brushing teeth) waiting to be told we could go downstairs. A while later — I remember it being as much as an hour later, but I can’t fit that into what I know of the day’s timeline — I was standing in the bathroom washing my hands when Mum came to stand in the doorway. I remember the image vividly: I turned to look at her and saw my brother standing in her bedroom doorway, then turned back to washing my hands. She told me then that Nan had died. I can’t describe how I felt in that moment. I have a very clear memory of turning around (Mum had walked off quickly, to go back to dealing with the ambulance people who were waiting for the coroner to arrive) and exchanging a very heavy look with my brother. His expression of shock must have been mirrored by my own.
The aftermath is a blur.
I remember events: I remember texting my Dad to please come over because Nan had died; he replied that he was already on his way. Mum had already called him. I remember when my aunt showed up later in the day, as soon as she could (she and her boyfriend were travelling home from their holiday when they received the call.) I remember that the coroner took a while to figure out exactly what was wrong with Nan, and that they were being extra careful because she had a lot of medication next to her when she died (painkillers for a severe knee problem, plus various other things I don’t know the specifics about.) I remember my aunt bursting into tears when we discovered that one of the lottery tickets in Nan’s bag had won £50; I remember the fish and chips we bought with some of the cash in Nan’s purse — “Nan’s treat” — and I remember getting rid of the sofa she had died on. (You don’t want to know.) I remember that there were wrapped Christmas gifts for me (and my brother) in her house and I remember opening them. I don’t remember what they were.
I don’t remember a thing about how I felt.
I remember facts: She’d died from a very advanced kidney infection. I remember that we told everybody it was a heart attack — Mum said it was easier than explaining, but now I wonder if there was an element of shame that Nan had died from something so easy to fix. I feel anger, shame, regret and grief that she had died from something so simple. If only I’d demanded that we take her to the hospital when I saw how awful she looked. If only she’d gone herself before it got that bad. If only my mum and aunt had been forceful enough to drag her to the hospital when she didn’t want to go! If only I’d visited more often and seen for myself. If only I’d probed for more information about the rarely mentioned illness. If only I’d looked up her symptoms on the internet. If only I’d insisted. If only. If only. If only I could change one thing.
A few months after my Nan died I had a dream. I never realise within a dream that I am asleep and dreaming, I always accept them as fact. This time was different. In this dream I walked into my Nan’s living room and saw her sleeping in her favourite armchair. In the dream I realised that this couldn’t be happening, because Nan was dead. I stood there, in the dreamed living room, and watched her sleep. I watched her breathing and I felt peaceful and happy because she looked healthy and serene. Ever since that dream, that is the memory I think of when I recall my Nan instead of the withered grey woman who had died on my sofa. It’s a dream I will remember and treasure for the rest of my life because it helped me to move on; to accept what had happened and to replace that awful, haunting memory with a calm and peaceful one. I am not religious or spiritual, and I am aware that people who are would consider that dream to be a “message from the other side”, but I don’t need it to be.
I think dreaming is the way I deal with death. After both of the dogs I grew up with died last year (Sadie in June, Peggy in October) I was completely unable to dream of them; I would wake up the instant I saw them because I knew it wasn’t real and I rejected the dream. It was something I found very upsetting because I couldn’t bear that my mind was rejecting them, avoiding them instead of accepting it. It took a long time but in late November I finally got what I was waiting for. I knew within the dream that they were dead, but I accepted it. That isn’t a memory I will treasure because there was no bad memory which needed replacing: Sadie was perfectly healthy the last time I saw her, and I’d said an emotional farewell to Peggy in August because I felt like I wouldn’t see her when I visited again in December. I pressed my face to her fur and breathed deeply – closing my eyes I can feel her fur and I can recall her scent clearly. That is the Peggy memory I keep close to my heart, along with the memory of Dream-Nan sitting in her favourite armchair, and the memory of Sadie sitting at my Dad’s back door joyfully inhaling the fresh outside air.
Death is painful and it is hard, but we all have our own way of dealing with the aftermath. I immediately reject everything (like dreams) that is going to upset me and try to soldier on, but eventually I am able to accept what has happened (and dream of it.) Some people can accept it straight away, and I envy them, while some reject it for even longer than I do (and I truly feel for them.) You truly don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone, and nobody can know how they’ll deal with that until they go through it themselves.
