A Good Innings

My Grannie died last night.  Well, this morning really.

She's been unwell for a long time.  About 9 months ago she started having problems eating, saying she felt sick all the time.  They did all the tests, there was nothing medically wrong.  The more she didn't eat, the worse she got, the worse she felt.  You couldn't tell her that by not eating she was making herself worse.  She didn't seem to listen, but now I realise that it was her body that was putting the stops on it, not her mind.

November/December last year she was doing okay, still not eating but in and out of a couple of different care homes.  All the family scratched their heads and wondered what more we could do to try and help.  We tried everything to no avail.

A few days before christmas she was taken into hospital and never came out.  They were going to re-do all of the tests, then she got some kind of nasty flu virus that was going around the hospital and had the whole place pretty much locked down.

Two weeks ago, the consultant told one of my uncles that "he thought" she'd had a stroke.  7 years of medical school and apparently matey boy couldn't be sure.

On wednesday of this week, I was out of the office all day and my dad called me literally as I was walking into a meeting at 10am.  "John has spoken to the consultant this morning.  He says she's got 2 or 3 days left at best." 

Somehow, I held it together through my 10am meeting.  I don't suppose I said much (I was only observing really anyway) but I didn't cry.  When I got into the car with my boss to go to the next meeting, I broke down a bit.  I've just cleaned out my handbag and realised that I've still got his hankie covered in smudged mascara.  I managed to play a useful part in my 2pm meeting too, I don't think they had any idea what was going through my head.

The drive back home was hard.  My boss tried to keep my mind off it or when my mind was on it to say the right thing.  He was good about it all.  Told me just to do what I needed to do.  Family is the most important thing.

The next day my dad and I drove up to Chester.  I didn't really know if I wanted to go, to lose the memory of the woman I had always known.  But then I realised, if I didn't go, she'd know.  I didn't want her to think I didn't care.

We went straight to the hospital and she was asleep.  Morphined up to the hilt to keep her comfortable.  She looked so tiny and frail, nothing like my grannie.  Someone else, with similar hair.  She was swollen and puffy from something or other.  The nurse, who was called Blessed, explained to us what was going on.  All the drugs she was being given.  Morphine for the pain, something-zine for nausea, an-azepam to relax her.  I don't suppose I'll ever forget that nurses name as long as I live.

I asked my dad how he was so calm about it all, he just said; "When you get to my age, you start to think more about the other person than yourself.  You don't want them to suffer.  A bit like you wouldn't let an animal suffer if it was in a lot of pain."

We stayed with one of my uncles and his wife that night and the next day, the four of us, plus another uncle and his wife went to visit.  She was sleeping when we arrived and another nurse explained that they'd just bathed her and turned her over so she was comfortable.

Within a few minutes she woke up.  The day before I was okay.  She was frail, but peaceful.  Awake, it was another story.  Not only was she frail and swollen, but she couldn't speak and to hear her even try was heartbreaking.  We all said hello and she tried to reply to us but couldn't.  Trapped in her own body.  She used to be so vibrant, so active.  She went on coach trips, painting classes...you name it, she did it.  She had a better social life than I did (or do, for that matter).

Dad nudged me and told me to go round and speak to her.  I couldn't though.  I managed a very weak "hello" and after that my voice just disappeared.  In that one second, the grief took everything from me and all I could do was stare.  I hate to think what must have been going through her mind;"Why is she staring at me?  Do I look that awful?"  I couldn't even manage to tell her that I love her.  I'll probably never forgive myself for that.  I know she knew, but that isn't the point.  I should have told her.

I probably only stood there for a minute before I had to walk away, I didn't want her to see me crying.   That was the last I ever saw of her.  I came home on the train hoping that she'd go soon.  Wishing, urging the universe to take her and stop that pain for her.

I went out to a work dinner on Friday night.  One of my colleagues lost his own grandmother on Wednesday of this week in a similar way, so I felt like he understood more than the others who asked.  Those that bothered to speak to me were very nice.  Those who didn't (but I'm sure had a good bitch behind my back along the lines of "why has she come tonight?  She's just had two days off, she can't be that upset") can pretty much fuck off.  I've got no time for them.

Knowing that the inevitable could happen at any point, my dad and three of his brothers (and their wives) were going to go out to dinner on Friday night and start discussing everything you have to discuss at these sort of times.  There is a fourth brother who refused to go.  He lives closer to the hospital than any of the others but he couldn't be fucked. 

They didn't think she'd make it through saturday so a few of them went and sat at the hospital for a few hours last night and at about 1am they got the call to say that she had passed away.

I know its for the best, I wouldn't want her to carry on like that.  Its no life for anyone.

She was 88.  That is, apparently, a good innings.  But I don't know what that really means.  I'd love to know who came up with that saying.  Which idiot thought it would provide any sort of comfort to the loved ones of the deceased.  It doesn't.  Its just some hollow cliche that people seem to throw in when they can't think of anything original to say, or can't bear the silence.  A bit like "there's plenty more fish in the sea" when you're dumped, or "we must meet up soon" when you bump into someone you used to know.  All meaningless.

I'm not really sure when the funeral will be.  Dad has lots of paperwork to sort out over the next few days and I guess we'll know sometime this week.  He said the hospital give you a little booklet with info on all the things you have to do.  I think that's quite nice, but a little odd.  Can't imagine the opening line of that one.

The picture below is of me and my Grannie 3 years ago on New Years Eve.  My cousin and I had nipped in to see her and she'd offered me a drink.  When I asked what she'd got, she replied; "Gin, Vodka, Whisky, Wine, Brandy, Sherry, Beer.."  I asked (and I'm not sure why!) for a sherry.  "Dry? Medium?  Sweet?"  If I remember right, she served it to me in a white wine glass.  I ended up quite pissed, quite quickly!

This is how I remember her:

I doubt that the recently deceased read blogs, but if you do Grannie, or even if the vibes are just out there in the universe - I love you very much and we all miss you.  It won't be the same without you, thats for sure xxx

Comments

[Daniel Hoffmann-Gill]

A fine memorial.

[Beth]

DHG - Thanks. Doesn't go an inch towards explaining how special she was, but it was good for me to get it all down. Sort of therapeutic.

[Dena]

Beth - she knows. You didn't have to say those words. She already knows.

I feel the same about some people I've lost in the last few years. The man who spent his lunchbreaks with me poring over college applications and degree options convinced me to go back to college but passed away before he saw me start my classes. I'm working on my bachelor's degree now and think about him all the time. Especially the time I promised him I'd meet him for lunch and never did, thinking I'd wait until he felt better from his leukemia treatments. I never got to say goodbye to him.
My grandmother died while we all sat around waiting for her to get realeased - she'd been admitted into the hospital for a simple procedure and ended up dying from some side effect of abdominal surgery. We're still pissed about it.
Then my boss, who'd been sick for so long, was given a few days and his wife told us to say our goodbyes. I'd learned my lesson earlier...to say your goodbyes if you've been given the chance. And I did. But my biggest regret was that I didn't touch his hand. To this day I wish I'd have touched his hand so he knew I was there. That someone was there.

But I believe they all knew. I'm so sorry for your loss, it isn't easy. Grieve in your own way and know that your grandmother knew you loved her. That's love - not having to say it out loud, but knowing it.

[peach]

I'm so sorry to read that about your Grannie, Beth. Thinking of you xxxx

[Beth]

Dena - Thank you. As you obviously know, its just so hard to wish you'd done things differently. I know she knows, I just wish I'd been more comfort to her,

Peach - Thank you xx

[Amber]

I'm so sorry to hear this, and I'm also sorry I can't think of anything to say to make you feel any better - there really is nothing. I will just echo Daniel, then: a fine memorial, and a lovely photo, too.

[ellie]

Big, fat, warm hugs to you, Beth.

She will have known ... do forgive yourself because she would have known.

She has a glimmer. I think she's proud of you.

[Here In Franklin]

You Granny's liquor cabinet sounds a lot like my mother. Cheers to her good life.

[Beth]

Amber - Thank you. I do love the photo, its the only one I have of us together too, so its extra special.

Ellie - Thank you. She always had that glimmer, bit of a wicked sense of humour and up until the end she was sharp as a tack. It runs on that side of the family I think xx

HIF - I had no idea until that night! I wondered whether she'd been running a little private bar for the other ladies in the complex in secret! Cheers indeed.

[Roses]

Many, many hugs my lovely.

It's so hard saying the final goodbye to those we love.

The good thing is that she knew she was loved and she'll live on in your heart. When you have kids, you can tell them all about her, how special she was, how much she cared.

[Beth]

Roses - Thank you so much. I hope she did know that, because she really was. She was too far away for me to see her that often, but I always thought of her and would send flowers every couple of months. I couldn't do much but flowers always made her happy.

[Gany]

Unfortunately, there is not much to say or do so I'll keep it short : Sorry about this loss.

[rashbre]

Your Grannie looks very happy in that picture. My thoughts for you during this difficult time.

[Arlene]

So sad Beth, she really looked much younger than her years in that picture. I struggle with the death thing, the world seems very cruel and pointless sometimes and with little comfort. But I do believe that your Gran knew you loved her very much and that you are very lucky to have had the time you did with each other xox

[Beth]

Gany - Thank you.

Rashbre - Thank you, and thank you also for your Twitter message.

Arlene - You're right, I was very lucky to have some wonderful times with her. Thank you for stopping by too, I don't think you've commented before so welcome! xx

[Blush]

dearest bethie,

i remember when my grandparents passed. in fact i only have one grandmother left. it was awful, mostly for my father. i never had anything to do with the unpleasantness...there is something inside me that says RUN everytime shit gets serious. so thats what i did. of course i was at both funerals...my pa-pa had several strokes, and was pretty much incapacitated, so at his funeral i was so happy to know that he was looking down on us from his horse in heaven where he was able to be bill collmorgen, not a skinny man in a bed.
my grandma had alzheimers. it was so scary. as her funeral i imagined her looking down from her kitchen (where she cooks everything from heaven-scratch) and actually being able to remember my name and everyone else there.
i may not be able to see them any more, but they still show up in my dreams, a warm welcome from the past.
i never knew your granny, but i'm sure she was a wonderful woman as seen in her granddaughter. just smile knowing shes in heaven doing her favorite things again, this time with no pain nor suffering.
hang in there bethie.
i love you,
molly