Today is a
year since my grandfather died.
It’s been 365
days. Some days it feels like much longer, some days it feels like it was only
yesterday.
Grandad had
been sick with cancer for about four years before he died, and it was probably
two or three years since we knew it was terminal, and eventually... that would
be it.
I was
nineteen when he first got diagnosed, and twenty one when he died. Losing
Grandad was really the first time that I had experienced death before. I’d had
pets die, a second cousin who I’d only met a handful of times, but that was it.
Even now,
there’s times when it doesn’t really feel real. I still go to refer to my
grandparents collectively- as Grandma and Grandad, and then I have to stop and
remind myself that “no, it’s just Grandma.”
It’s still a
slap in the face when I see get a card from my grandmother, now just signed “love
Grandma.” The hole is still there, and I imagine it always will be.
My Grandad
was always so proud of his grandchildren, and he helped define my childhood in
a lot of ways. We’ve always had a greater sense of family on that side- my mum’s
side, probably because we saw my cousins more often and because we saw my
grandparents less, it was always a treat to get together and spend time with them,
and they always made our visits special.
When I think
of Grandad, I remember the bone crushing hugs he would give us every time he
saw us, as a “hello” and a “goodbye”. And I do mean bone crushing, usually
uncomfortably tight that as children we just wanted to breathe, but once he was
sick, you longed that he’d have the strength to give you just one more.
The “goodbye”
hug was always accompanied by a wet kiss and a whisper. I can’t speak for my
siblings or cousins, but for me it was always “you’re beautiful” or “love you
lots”. Until not that long ago, my grandfather was the only person who called
me beautiful- which my lovely friend Julia has been determined to rectify ever
since I told her that about a year and a half ago, and she now makes sure I
hear it every opportunity possible. Including a YouTube video which is still
one (if not THE) greatest gift I’ve ever received.
Grandad
always told me I was his “favourite second-eldest granddaughter”
(conveniently), and he had this extremely comforting presence. I can’t describe
it, just that I always felt safe with him. Whenever he and Grandma came to
visit, we’d know he was here, because
there would be a whistle at the door. I can’t describe the whistle, my siblings
and I just knew it as Grandad’s.
Whenever we
came to stay, we got spoiled. Grandma would (and does actually!) make jelly for
us to have as dessert, along with yogos and cheese sticks/triangles (the only
cheese my sister would eat). we got to pick our favourite meals, and they always made sure to have lemonade (my
favourite) in the fridge.
I can’t even
tell you the number of second hand bookshops my grandparents happily took me to
every visit I had with them, knowing my love of reading. My grandma is a big
reader, which I’m forever thankful for because it was her that introduced me to
Anne of Green Gables, Trixie Belden,
the Tomorrow series (although that
was because my older cousin had read it in school), and all these classic books
I still love today. Grandad was less of a reader, but still happily came with
us, because it was spending time together.
And the
milkshakes. Oh, the milkshakes. Grandad had many gifts, probably more than I’m
aware of, but if there was one thing he could do, it was make a milkshake. When
we were going to stay at Grandma and Grandad’s, we knew that meant one thing
for sure- milkshakes for breakfast. He didn’t use a milkshake maker, or a blender
or anything. It was just him shaking a covered cup of milk and topping. And
they were light and fluffy and bliss.
After he died,
my cousin revealed he had never had one of Grandad’s milkshakes. The rest of us
all felt appropriate sympathy for him.
It may seem strange, and maybe you might try one and say that it wasn’t
that great, but we adored them.
One of my
favourite things about Grandad was how much he loved my grandmother. I remember
when he was briefly moved into a hospice between hospital stays because he was
too sick to come home, and he was devastated because he wouldn’t be home with
my grandmother ever again. He always said the thing he missed most was lying
next to her every night. They’d been married for 53 years when he died.
So, he died
Saturday February 25th, 2012.
As I said, we
knew it was coming. But nothing actually prepares you for the moment when it
actually does.
We had rushed
up to Newcastle not long before Christmas the year before, because the doctor
had told Grandma that was probably going to be it. So the entire family went up
to say our goodbyes. My uncle flew down from Queensland. On some level, I was actually really happy to
have all the family together, especially when I hadn’t seen my aunt and uncle
in a while, and it was my first time seeing my eldest cousin and his wife and
daughter since they had moved back New Zealand shortly before.
So we were
told on this day to say our goodbyes, which was the hardest thing I’ve ever had
to do. In the movies, it’s always this moving moment with big speeches and both
parties come out of the room at peace.
That’s a load
of crap.
In reality,
it’s super awkward. You don’t know what to say, you’re in a freaking hospital, and Grandma and mum had told
us before not to get upset because Grandad didn’t want tears.
Well, I am a
crier. I cry at everything. I cry watching The
Lion King, I cried just the other week (in excitement) after I booked tickets to
see Idina Menzel at the Sydney Opera House in June. So, asking me not to cry
when I think I’m saying goodbye to my grandfather? Not going to happen.
And then of
course, if you don’t come close to
crying, you feel like a horrible person. Why don’t I want to cry? Am I that
heartless? Why can I cry when Sirius Black dies in Harry Potter, but not when my own grandfather is about to die?
So that was
December 2011. That year, I finished my Diploma of Education. I’d dreamed of
being a teacher since I was seven and it was finally happening. And Grandad had
told that to every nurse, doctor, whoever that entered the room when I visited
him in hospital from the time he was first diagnosed.
I was lucky
enough to be offered a job rather quickly for 2012 in Quandialla- a tiny little town in Western NSW
(Quandialla is about an hour from Young, if that helps anyone). This meant for
a year, I would be living four hours away from family and friends- and I don’t
as of yet drive, so it’s not like I could make weekend trips back home to visit
Grandad.
We entered
2012 and Grandad was still with us. I was moving in January, so about a week or
so before I left I caught the train up to visit Grandma and Grandad. Some part
of me knew that this could be the last time I saw him, unless he was still
going to be here come April when I came home for school holidays.
I was doing
really well at keeping it together that day. And then when Grandad hugged me
goodbye- not quite as tight as he used to, and kind of awkwardly as happens
when one party in a hug is lying down- he whispered in my ear the usual. I was
beautiful and he loved me. And then he added that was proud of me, and I was
going to be the best teacher in New South Wales.
That was when
I lost it. I managed to hold it together until I left the room, but that was
pretty much it.
The last time
I spoke to Grandad was the Thursday before he died, the 23rd of
February. But honestly, I try and keep that day in January as my last memory of
Grandad, because on the Thursday he couldn’t stay awake for very long and wasn’t
really coherent.
I was super
excited that weekend, because the assistant principal at the school was going
to Sydney to visit her daughter and had offered me a ride so I could go home.
It was my first trip home since leaving, and I was really excited at the idea
of seeing my family and friends. I made plans with mum to go to the movies on
Saturday night and see The Vow and it
was going to be a great weekend.
That was the
plan.
It was
Saturday afternoon and I was hanging out in my room with mum, when my phone
rang and it was my grandmother. At the time I thought it was kind of a weird
conversation, but I didn’t really think about it. I answered, she said hello
and told me about a book she was reading that I was welcome to read after her,
and then she said goodbye.
About a minute
later, Grandma rang again, on mum’s phone. Mum answered and after a moment said
“it’s happened, hasn’t it?”
Then she left
the room.
I went and
immediately got my sister, who was the only sibling home at the moment, and we
just hung around outside mum and dad’s bedroom door until they opened it and
confirmed what I knew the minute mum left the room. It had happened. Grandad
was gone.
Not long
after that, I must have gone back to my room and cried, but I have no memory of
that. I remember feeling really numb. Five minutes ago, I’d been having a
conversation with friends on twitter, and planning to go to a movie that night.
And suddenly, I had one less grandparent.
I remember
being numb. I remember having a million different thoughts swirling around my
head and unable to really isolate any enough to focus on them. I remember
thinking ‘well, I guess we’re not going to the movies anymore’ and being
disappointed about that because I’d really been looking forward to spending
time with mum and seeing The Vow. And
then I remember feeling horrible for being disappointed about not seeing a
movie when this had just happened.
And I remember
staring at my computer screen, and watching the conversation continue on
twitter without me. People talking about completely normal things, the world
was turning, their lives were moving on as usual. And mine had completely
stopped.
I remember
pausing, because how do you explain what just happened? Finally, I typed “My
grandfather just died and I don’t know what to do.”
I sent the
tweet and shut down the computer. I am always
on my computer. It is my lifeline, my one item I would save in a fire, it’s
everything. But I couldn’t even think about tweeting, or writing or doing
anything in that moment. Because how could I just keep living my life as if it
was just any other day? It seemed wrong.
Eventually I
think it was Dad who came into see me. I was sitting on the edge of my bed,
staring into space. My throat was completely blocked, I couldn’t even speak. He
(we’ll just assume for the sake of this post that it was Dad, because again, I
honestly have no memory of parts of this day) told me that he was taking mum
and picking up my other sister from work, before taking them to meet my aunt and
uncle at Sutton Forest, who were coming back from the event they’d been
attending in Canberra to be with my grandmother. Then my aunt and uncle would
take them up to Newcastle to be with Grandma.
I remember
being slightly offended that I wasn’t invited to go up to Newcastle too, and
then again, feeling like a horrible person because that was really not what
mattered in this moment. I do
remember this part. Dad asked if I wanted to come for a drive, and I said no.
Frankly, I wanted to curl up in a ball and stare at the wall some more. That
sounded like a great plan for the next month at this point.
I think I was
in shock. Mum told me later my face was gray and they were a little worried
about me, so they insisted on me coming along. I barely spoke the entire drive.
I couldn’t even form words. My sister’s best friend was coming over to be with
her while we were gone, but I couldn’t bring myself to do anything after
sending that initial tweet. Because once the words were out there, it was real.
And I wasn’t ready for that.
After we got
to Sutton Forest and everyone left, Dad suggested we go into MacDonald’s and
have a drink. I wasn’t hungry or thirsty, but I had enough brain activity to
remember (thank you Harry Potter) that
chocolate is supposed to be good for shock (well, in Potter universe anyway,
and that’s good enough for me), so I made myself get a hot chocolate and
chocolate cake.
Dad went to
the bathroom while we were there, and by that stage it had been about an hour
and a half, and I thought I should call my best friend Kristel and tell her. As
soon as she picked up the phone I was in tears. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t
bring myself to say the words. They
literally got stuck in my throat before I finally forced myself to say them.
So, I’m
sitting in MacDonald’s on the phone crying. Dad doesn’t comment, and when we’re
leaving he asks if I want to drive (I’m on my L’s so- hours!). I have no idea why I said yes. And it was one of those moments
where I couldn’t believe it seemed like a normal day- but it wasn’t. In
hindsight, I guess Dad wanted to give me something else to focus on, but I
swear I could have crashed the car. I have no memory of that drive, I was on
complete auto-pilot. We decided on the way home I wasn’t going to go back to
Quandialla the next day, it wasn’t worth it when I’d have to come back somehow
for the funeral.
So when we
got home, I had to call my Head Teacher and the Assistant Principal and tell
them. I cried during both phone calls, and they were both understanding about it and
told me to take all the time I needed and not to worry about school.
And then I
called my friend Nat, because I’d been talking to her only that morning about
Grandad. And she left her boyfriend to come sit with me, which I appreciated
more than I think I’ve told her. And I talked. Somehow. Words still weren’t
really coming, but it was better than crying. I felt so empty and still numb.
But talking
helped to focus on and sort out the millions of thoughts in my head from the
time we got the phone call.
At some
point, I checked twitter, and I had heaps of tweets from all my friends sending
their love, prayers and condolences. Which helped and didn’t help. It was great
to know they were thinking of me but...
“I’m sorry.”
That’s the most
common response you get when someone dies. Or when something bad happens. And
it feels like the right thing to say... until you’re on the receiving end.
Do you have
any idea how insignificant those words are? “I’m sorry”
Why? You did nothing. You can’t apologise and
make it all better. Or the people who add a :( to an “I’m [so] sorry” (the “so”
is optional). A sad face emoticon does not even begin to describe how I’m feeling. Why is there no emoticon or
symbol for indescribable grief? For numbness? For feeling like you’ve been
kicked in the stomach?
I don’t mean
to sound unappreciative of everyone who sent me a tweet, or a message or a
Facebook post or whatever, because I really did appreciate them and it meant the
world to know that they were all thinking of me; but it’s just... the words “I’m
sorry” grate on me. Even now.
Now, I’ve
promised myself that when something bad happens to a friend, I won’t say “I’m
sorry.” I haven’t yet landed on an appropriate substitute, but I’m trying.
So that was a
year ago today.
That was an
incredibly hard week. Going to church the next day and seeing everyone- those
who had heard, and having to tell
those that hadn’t. Going shopping for something to wear to the funeral- because
I’d only intended to come for a weekend and had nothing appropriate with me.
That was the worst shopping trip of my life. You’re buying something for an
occasion that you don’t ever want to attend, and you have to make sure it’s an appropriate
colour and style, which isn’t always easy.
And then to
top it all off, it rained pretty much the whole week, which lead to flash
flooding in rural areas, including Quandialla, so I was just hoping I’d come
back to a dry house (I did, just FYI).
And now a
year later, I’m back home. Unemployed.
I’ve been
struggling for the past few weeks, between being unemployed and knowing today
was coming.
I decided I
had to write this, not only to try and get some closure on that day, but also
to really focus on my good memories of Grandad, and not of him being sick or
the day he left us.
I love you
Grandad. And I miss you.
 |
| Not a great photo, one of the last taken with Grandad before he got sick. February 2007. |
