Pictured: Gordon Daniel, my Grandad
I will never forget the week my Grandad died.
It was probably the worst week of my life, a tumultuous wave of emotions rendering me useless. Anger, devastation, sadness in its purest form.
I was battling one of the worst hangovers of my life when my Mum turned up at the door of my uni flat. I had no idea she was coming. She’d taken the wrong train, ending up in Leicester instead of Sheffield, but she finally made it to me, and all I could ask her, in my shock at her arrival, was: “Who died?”
“No one. Yet.” She’d said.
It’s almost funny, now. It wasn’t funny then. The way her face twisted told me everything I needed to know, and then I was sobbing while the sound of Formula 1 cars faded away in my despair. He was still alive, but he wouldn't be for much longer.
How on earth does one prepare themself for that?
The next day I was back home, having only been gone for two months. What waited ahead was an admin headache, trying to explain to my university why I was gone and why I probably wouldn’t be back for a while. Let me tell you, even when you're an emotional wreck, they will still ask for a death certificate, one final nail in the coffin. Excuse the pun.
The only beautiful thing that happened that treacherous week was the final smile my Grandad ever gave, and it was all for me.
“Jasmine’s here.” My Nan whispered, and his lips quirked up for us all, one final time. The rest of the week was spent watching a ticking time bomb.
My Uncle flew in from Australia, and we sat around trading stories. No one really knew how to cope, but we all managed for the most part. Squabbles broke out, people stormed out of the hospital, familiar faces returned to pray at Grandad’s bedside. That’s what happens when someones dying; you crack or you repent. A looming death is one cruel slap in the face.
And then he finally went.
We’d all whispered in his ear that, it’s okay, you can go. We didn’t want him hanging around for us, suffering for us. It was around 3am when we got the call. Me and my Mum were fully dressed for some strange reason, coats and shoes still on, sunken into the sofa. It’s almost like we knew. It’s almost like the dog did, as well, his head resting sympathetically on my shoulder. We met my Nan at the hospital, clinging to each other at his bedside. It was weirdly cathartic, knowing that he was at peace while we held one another. I finally got hold of my Dad and he knew, before I could even whisper the horrible words.
Then the grief hit, a ton of bricks. I was so drained that I got the flu, unable to move my broken body for a solid week. I’d wake up crying, my dreams haunted by the gut wrenching reminder that the man who taught me to ride a bike and made me cups of tea was gone. No more Grandad, no more singing Frank Sinatra, no more bedtime stories in Cloud Cuckoo Land.
The death of someone you love also comes, sometimes unfortunately, with a sick sense of relief. Relief that there are no more doctors appointments, no more falls, no more explaining who you are to someone that raised you. No more painkillers and carers and watching someone who has your heart wither away.
No one talks about it. It’s like it’s forbidden to discuss grief sometimes, to really feel a loss. Sometimes you feel selfish; I didn’t die, so why am I crying? Sometimes you feel silly; it’s been weeks, so why can’t I move on? Sometimes you feel ashamed; I didn’t even know them that well, other people knew them better. Sometimes you feel sorry for yourself; I had to sit there and watch them die and that was bloody awful (my Grandad’s catchphrase). Worst of all, sometimes you feel like you’ve been grieving for too long; he was 86 years old, what was I expecting to happen?
There is no right way to grieve, all of the above is so unbelievably valid, no matter how you think you should feel. Sometimes I think I’m over it, and then I find some tissues tucked in a pocket of a coat of his that I stole, and it crashes down on me all over again. I cry and I cry thinking about the way he was always blowing his nose. The silliest, most mundane things get you the most.
A year on since his passing, I still think about him everyday. I watch the videos of him singing, look at the old pictures of him in the navy and remember all the times he took me to feed the ducks - every time I see a swan, I still reminisce over the scrap we got into years ago at our favourite pond.
Grief isn’t linear; it is so, so cruel, therapeutic, gut wrenching, cathartic - sometimes all at once. No one has ever grieved how you have, and no one ever will. Its a beautiful thing, in a sense, such a complex and personal experience, one that can mould us and dramatically shift our perspectives on the way we view our own lives.
I urge you to connect with your loved ones, to connect with yourself, and just let yourself feel. Sometimes, we do stupid things in our process of grieving, say the wrong words, but in the end, you realise that a beautiful life must be remembered and honoured, or a complicated relationship needs to be mourned.
Grieving is shattering into a million little pieces, to be weaved back together again. Grieving is healing and finding solace in the emotions you feel that keep your cherished ones alive forever.
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