Grandma: a lesson on grief

Nobody likes talking about death, even though it is the most inevitable thing we have in this life, perhaps. We are all destined to die.. but I guess it's at what point, and in what way; the mystery of it all, that really makes it scary. It could sneak up on us at any moment, even when we are not ready. Of course, everyone dreams to die of old age, when their life is done and dusted, and they are ready to go. And yet, we have new born babies... life barely begun, who leave this world far too soon. Men and women at war, small children suffering with disease, car accidents and starvation and terrorist attacks. It is heartbreaking.

When I think of a sudden death, I think of my Grandmother, my Dad's Mother. I had before her time was up some experience with death, as is normal I suppose. I met death when I was just a small child. My Grandfather (her husband) died when I was just 4, from cancer. I guess you could say we could see it coming. I could only process as much as a 4 year old child could process in this situation. I lost our family dog (and a goldfish, I won't forget), and I cried for days. One day, I walked out onto our back paddock on our property to find dead little bunnies scattered all over the grass. The mixture of shock and grief, utter disgust and pure sadness was, for some time, almost unbearable. But kids are surprisingly resilient, so I bounced back with just as much joy and energy for life as before. My Aunty died on Christmas when I was in Grade 6, from cancer. Being older, I was able to process this more, and therefore had more grief. It was a hard time. I lost my Nana, who was in her 90's, which was a surprise and also not, in a way. She had lived a good life. I have also lost two Great Uncles (one who lived in Australia, and one who lived back in Italy) and my Great Grandmother from Italy, who lived to over 100 (impressive as heck) and the distance really cut deep for those. Distance and death are not an ideal combination. You feel even more helpless than normal.

As far as I'm aware, most of these deaths had some lead up to them, some sense of warning. They were old and had lived a long life, they were sick, they were weak and frail. I had some time to prepare. I knew where this was all going. But, with my Grandma, this was not the case. One day she was here, and the next day she was not. She was so full of life, and never complained of feeling unwell. She seemed so energetic, without a worry in the world. I just didn't see it coming.

I remember the day I got the phone call. I was living in Sydney, in a seperate part of the country to the rest of my family, at the time. I had just finished a long day at work at a cafe, after a long week of dancing. I was walking down the street with some work friends, as we were going out to a picnic gathering in the park, when my phone rang. My Dad's Caller ID lit up on the phone screen; a picture of us both together. I smiled, and I picked up the call. My smile almost immediately dropped, when I heard the lump in his throat, the tears he was holding back. And then he told me the most heartbreaking thing I have ever heard in my life thus far: that my Grandmother had no brain activity, and was on life support and soon, she would be lost from this world. Gone forever.

Nobody got to say goodbye, truly. But, as I can now see, I felt so much guilt for just not even being there. I was so far away, so distant and so out of touch. Why didn't I put in more effort since moving away? I hadn't even seen her since Christmas. Suddenly my mind was running a million miles an hour: when did I last text her? When did I last call her? What did I last say to her? When did I last thank her? When did I last say I loved her? When did I last hug her? What does her voice sound like? What does her face look like? What does her hand feel like in mine? What does she smell like? I was grabbing for pieces of her, trying not to let her slip from my memory, all I had left of her. As I sit here and write this, years on, my throat tightens and my eyes sting with tears and my lungs are heavy with grief.

I broke down into uncontrollable tears and shaking. I think I was screaming and shouting; it felt like I had been stabbed in the gut. I was in so much pain, physical and mental and spiritual. I wasn't in control of my body anymore. I was spiralling. I couldn't breathe. I felt so sick. I was cold and hot simultaneously. My heart felt like it was about to burst out of my chest, and smash into a million tiny pieces. I couldn't walk. I couldn't talk. All I could do was cry, and cry and cry. And scream.

And then, the following days, it was like the most epic mood swing of my entire life. I was so crabby, and negative. Sometimes I would be so bland, so lacklustre, no emotion whatsoever. Then, I would have sudden waves of immense pain and suffering and sadness, a deep depression taking over me. I couldn't eat. I didn't want to do anything. I just wanted to go home. And I did. And it changed me.

The funeral, I was hoping, would be cathartic. The final release of emotions. It wasn't. Years on, I am still grieving her. I think of her at least once a day. I still often cry over her. I see her in many things: in gingerbread cookies, or potato salad. In pantomine plays. In forget-me-not flowers, my favourites. In Shaun the Sheep. In bookstores. In fine china. In tea. In green fields. Whenever I think about travelling. In my Dad. And on my phone (a photo of her and I has been my phone screensaver since the day she died in 2015).

My Sister and I sang at her funeral: two songs from musicals, apparently what she wanted from us. It was the hardest performance I've ever done; I could barely keep it together. Seeing all those she had touched, but had left behind, broke my heart. And finally, when her coffin was put into the ground, it really hit me like a truck filled with emotions.

Grief is a funny thing. It sneaks up on you. One minute you will think you're fine, but you're not. Like I said, years later and I still cry over the thought of her. Sometimes, you can try all you can to move on, but your heart just held too much of that person, and the love is too big. That's how I see it: I loved her too much. She was so important to me. I hope she knew that. I have so many regrets, about not doing enough to show that to her. I really hope she knew it anyway.

I will miss her telling me stories about when I was a child. I will miss all the excursions we went on together. I will miss her home cooking. I will miss the sleepovers. I miss her warmth. I miss her little chuckle. I miss her support, and nurturing, and love. I will always miss her. And I know that's okay now. I was trying so hard not to miss her, but that wouldn't be right. It would be a terrible thing to not miss her. That would mean I did not love her as fiercely as I did, as I do. I hope she is proud of me. I hope she can see me, somehow. I hope she can hear me talk about her. I've learnt so much about her since she has gone, that has made me love her even more, if that is even possible. I thought I would lose her when she left this Earth; I actually gained so much more of her, in a very interesting way. I wish I had been able to talk to her about the things I know now, while she was here. How amazed I am by her grace, and gentle nature, and positivity, despite it all.

Grief has a negative connotation to it. Do not forget that grief is just a human emotion that makes us just that: human. Alive, with emotion, with feeling, with the capacity to love deeply. For connection, for family and for friends, for people who mean things to us. To lose means we had something to begin with. And isn't that special? Isn't that just the best?

It is painful and it is hard. It is still so hard. But would I trade this pain for all of the love and joy we got to share together? Absolutely not. She is worth it. She will always be worth it. Love is worth it.

So, this piece I dedicate to all whom I have lost. May you never be truly lost, for I carry you in my heart always.