On Grief

Nana and I (aged 1) circa 1980

Today marks the 3 month anniversary of the death of my wonderful Nana. It is fair to say it has been a very strange and eye opening period of time for me and one which has taught me so much - things that I wish nobody ever had to learn - about grief.

Sure, I have lost people before. I think it would be highly unusual to reach the age of 40 without having had people in your life pass away (if you are in that position then, wow, you are lucky). I lost my Grandad when I was 16 and about to sit my GCSEs, I lost my other grandfather, who I didn’t really know, at 19. I shockingly lost a friend (he was 27) when I was in my early 20s. Other extended relations have passed through my 30s.

Then we lost my lovely father-in-law completely out of the blue 3 years ago. That was hideous and hard and we aren’t out of the woods (or anywhere near) with grieving that loss as a family (or individually) yet.

But nothing has hit me personally with anywhere near the juggernaut level of physical, mental and emotional impact that this loss has.

It has led me to dig through my (thankfully extensive) memories of her, question myself on big decisions and generally reflect on how lucky I was (we all were) to have her in our lives. People throw platitudes and cliches around in general after people die, about how nice the deceased person was, they laud them as a saint of some sort, it usually holds some grains of truth but also glosses over the flaws and imperfections that the person had. Ignores the things they did wrong, the people they angered. It’s ok, it’s one of the ways that we cope with loss. But when I say that nobody ever had a bad word or a snarky thought about my Nana I mean it.

I totally acknowledge that I can only talk about her loss and my grief from the perspective of a grandchild. Her first and eldest. Maybe I have rose tinted glasses. But I actually really need to face this, to write this, to process it. Because right now I am struggling and I need an outlet. These are my thoughts on my loss. I am sat at my kitchen island with a large mug of tea, (ironically) Funeral for a Friend on in the background (‘grieving me’ reverts to Manchester indie and emo very strongly, I have learned) and I am just going to write until something gives and I can feel some release. It might be a long read.

So, despite the vastness of the English language, I have found it hard to find suitable words to convey what my Nana was to us, her grandchildren. It’s actually not about suitability, its about worth. ‘Suitable’ words are ten a penny, but they are quite weightless, at the end of the day, and will never quite frame the importance of her to us, the extreme levels of love and warmth that she imparted, the huge amount of difference she made to our lives, especially when we were children.

For my brother and I in particular, Nana was, for many years, the person who looked after us every single day after school until one of our parents finished work. Her and Grandad’s house really was our second home, every single school holiday we spent most days with her and it wasn’t unusual for us to then stay with them over weekends too. We loved it. She used to put sugar in our tea (she wasn’t meant to - I grew out of that but it’s a legacy my brother never did) and allowed us to raid the biscuit tin (hers was ALWAYS full) freely.

I could tell you many stories about the silly tricks we played on her, the fun we had together, the fact that being sick and off school was actually a huge treat, because it meant a day at Nana’s, watching This Morning and drinking endless cups of tea. But these stories will only scratch the surface of the presence that she was in our lives, all knowing, all seeing, brimming with kindness. Ours.

I know that we (the first three grandkids - me, my brother and my cousin) were supremely fortunate to get two different and influential experiences with Nana, firstly as a continual caregiver when we were small, steady through our childhood, patient through tantrums, taking us on holiday with Grandad and then getting very little rest on what was, in fact, meant to be her break too, while we made memories and ran rings around them. She was a brilliant referee and peacemaker. She hated conflict of any kind.

Me, cousin Lianne and brother Andrew circa 1987

And then, such a valuable gift, Nana as our friend, ally and adult family member that knew us, inside out, our personalities, weaknesses, strengths and preferences, she knew it all, she loved us anyway. It was this version of Nana that I am very conscious I have lost. Someone who deeply knew me and what mattered to me, and what has made me who I am and who I could trust with absolutely anything.

I can say all of these things about my mom too - and it makes me freak out with anxiety on a whole new level when I realise (and type) that because I live 10,000 miles away from her and only get limited physical time with her (in the same way that I did with Nana over the last 6 years) I might be wasting precious time. I have very much battled with the urgent, visceral desire to be in the UK since Nana passed (I did manage to get back for 10 days for the funeral) and it is this angle on it all, the physical distance, that causes that. Knowing she was proud of me and the life I have carved out here, on the other side of the planet, doesn’t make me feel any easier about the distance right now. It is also really, really, hard being this far from my mom in her grief.

The last few times that I did physically see her, on trips back to the UK, Nana and I had some very pragmatic conversations about what would happen when she passed. She didn’t want me to ‘waste’ money coming back for her funeral, I told her (quite truthfully, and accurately, as it turns out) that there was no way I would be able to grieve if I didn’t. She still sought to reassure me that it was ok if I couldn’t for whatever reason. I am so glad we had those conversations, although at the time it was really hard and on the two occasions I specifically recall this happening I also remember that the goodbyes that followed were absolutely heartbreaking because we both knew that there was a chance it would be the last time. On the second occasion we were right.

If I can advise anyone of anything relating to future grief it would be to talk about it in this way - as hard as that was at the time it has provided a highly comforting safety blanket in the aftermath and although I will always feel like I had so much more I wanted to say, to ask her, to consult with her on, I at least know we had stared this in the face together and acknowledged it so that I knew her thoughts and we had a chance to eyeball that fear and know where we both stood on it.

At an outdoor production of Twelfth Night circa 2008

The other thing that has helped me and been a source of good comfort is a podcast that was recommended to me called The Griefcast. I have learned so much about the wide variety of reactions, approaches and impacts of grief from this and it really does make you realise that you are not alone. I have literally had this podcast on in the car nearly every day as I drive to and from work. Far from being upsetting it is a reassuring voice that has, on some days, enabled me to see the bigger (more terrifying) picture that we will all die and that the very human process of death, dying and grief should get more airtime and be less of a taboo subject.

The thing that I never anticipated about this kind of grief is that it can affect you physically. I have slept more since Nana died than I usually do, like a LOT more (and I am already, normally, an excellent sleeper and napper). I feel supremely exhausted all the time, like I never have before. I ache in places I have never ached - some of this is a physiological reaction to stress and anxiety which is affecting my posture and making me clench without realising it. My jaw is perpetually tensed and my teeth ache from grinding. Regular massage and exercise is helping a little with this side of things but I never expected it.

The anxiety and stress are partly driven by other things in my life, like work, where I hold down a fairly high pressured and fast paced job. The difference is that usually I am pretty resilient and able to cope with all of that - but at the moment I feel like I am missing a layer of skin or something, I am exposed and vulnerable and I don’t have the layer of enthusiasm and tenacity that I usually rely on to get me through. Small things, that wouldn’t normally bother me at all, have suddenly become overwhelmingly derailing, upsetting and unmanageable. That feeling is hideous.

A friend and colleague signposted me to this description of grief that seems to nail the whole process very well. The waves are still coming fairly thick and fast at the moment for me, but I can see and take some comfort in the knowledge that while they will still come in the future, I will get to a place where they come less often and are possibly smaller in intensity.

You really do figure out who your people are in this kind of situation and for me that has been something heartwarming to understand. Those that know me well (like she did) will know that I tend to wear my heart on my sleeve anyway - it is not hard to tell what mood I am in at the best of times. At the moment the people I spend most of my time with, my family, my team at work, my wider colleagues, are all handling this weirdly fragile version of me with a huge amount of tenderness, consideration and humour (which I need). For that I am enormously thankful and apologetic for the ongoing and erratic bursts of instability and occasional petulance that results.

If nothing else, I now have an idea of what direct, close, deep grief is like - and it really fucking sucks. But it hurts so much because they mattered and therefore we can choose to frame it as a demonstration to ourselves of quite what we have lost. It doesn’t make it hurt any less but it helps with accepting it and riding it out, instead of trying to contain or ignore it (which I am learning just exacerbates it).

And we must unfortunately accept that this will not be the only time we feel this way. In fact there will be more, different and possibly worse versions of this to come. That thought is both quite terrifying and weirdly life affirming.

I think this has helped somewhat. The writing it down, the getting it out of my head. I can take some comfort in believing that Nana knew she was loved very much and that she was not alone when she passed.

She will always be with me in many ways, as a guiding light and an example of how to be a kind person first (always) and as a warm memory of safety from my childhood. As a smart, funny, articulate crossword solver and as a regular confidante in my adulthood. I know she was so very, very proud of me because she told me. Next year I intend to begin the PhD that I have been thinking about for the last 10 years and I know she would have been thrilled to hear that news. She thought I could do anything. I want to prove her right.