Last week I said goodbye to my lovely Granny. She was 92, the wise owl of the family and a constant figure in my life. She looked after me as a small child, watching me take my first steps. She saw me through school, through college and into my career. She shared in the triumph of my music and the heartache of my illness. She gave me a steady supply of umbrellas, delighted in buying me warm coats and insisted on giving me ‘pocket money’ even in my thirties. I didn’t dare comment that something looked nice in a shop. If I did, she’d be determined to buy it in an embarrassing display of generosity. “Rather,” she’d say, with elongated vowels.
I said goodbye to Granny twice. The first day I was met with a feisty but incredibly poorly Grandmother I barely recognised as I tried to comfort her in hospital. We knew she was ready to go. So did she. I struggled with the memory of her angry words. Her agitation. Her suffering. But at least I’d said goodbye. She knew I was there. I think. Had I been a good Granddaughter? “I’ll say,” she’d have said.
She was still with us the next day. It was a crisp, frosty morning. The sky was a cool blue with the sun shining bright. Birds were singing. Purple and yellow crocuses had popped up in my garden like little jewels. Spring is hopeful. It’s about new life. But what about the old?
Granny became more peaceful. More at ease. I returned to the hospital and tried to be a gentle presence at her bedside. We reminisced about my childhood. I told her of my plans. “Good,” she said, with what I expect was indescribable effort. We held each other as her breathing became increasingly slow and shallow. Every so often her eyes opened, filled with recognition and love. It was a moment of rare connection. The sole focus of my attention was on being with Granny. Nothing else mattered. I felt grounded and calm as my heart was bursting with love and loss. When she was ready to let me go we shared some final words and one last kiss. I left her singing hymns and saying prayers with her eldest daughter, my Mum. She died peacefully the following day with her husband and three children holding hands around her bed.
