She is the last of my grandparents to die, and the
one that I was closest to in my youth. This was not a result of any
particular compatibility of personality or interests; rather, she
lived nearby and looked after me a lot when I was little and my
parents both worked. My other grandparents lived further afield; her
ex-husband not too far away, in a neighbouring borough, though he was
frail and largely housebound, while the other set of grandparents
lived in Spain when I was born, then County Durham a few years later
– both a long way from London.
My London grandfather I barely knew, which became
a regret once he died. His long illness made it no surprise that he
was the first to go, when I was about 14. My other grandparents I
spent time with intensively, when I saw them, and I suppose I had
most in common with my other grandfather – curiosity, an interest
in technology, that sort of thing. I didn't see them that often,
though.
My grandmother who died recently, however, was a
very from me, as a person. My mother's generation were the first in
their family to have a higher education (so far as I know), very
London working class, and while my upbringing was complicated,
class-culturally speaking, enough of the trappings of middle class
culture were there that I get the feeling there was some tension. My
parents both enjoyed (and still enjoy) fairly intellectual
discussions on a range of subjects. Both university-educated, though
my mother was still doing her first degree when I was born, both
intellectually curious, albeit with different focuses and subjects of
particular interest. My grandmother was never stupid, and she wasn't
indifferent to learning, but I never saw in her the hunger for
understanding that I see in both of my parents, and in myself.
Still, she made a major contribution to my own
development in that dimension. She tolerated, and did her best to
answer, all my expressions of curiosity as a child. Most importantly,
she taught me to read. Not that I understand she had any intention of
doing so, and I gather that modern educational policy in this country
would say that she did wrong by doing so, but I'm glad of it. So far
as either myself or my mother is aware, she never did anything
systematically to help me learn to read. She just read to me where I
could see the book as well. Children's books, not much text and lots
of pictures, apparently I worked it out as I went along and was
reading quite competently before I arrived at school.
Writing took me a fair bit longer. I like to think
I've gotten pretty good at it.
I understand that the funeral will be a sort of
nothing-in-particular service at the local crematorium. Odd bits of
religious elements, and others not. I look forward to it and dread it
in equal measure; that side of my family is relatively large, and I
don't see many of them very often, so there's potential for
awkwardness (along with some specific reasons I won't go into in a
public blog post). However, I don't see them very often, and it's
nice to do so, though this might be seen as a sad reason. It's an
opportunity to grieve, and to express solidarity.
I don't grieve that much, though. I've been
grieving for years. You see, for several years before her death, my
grandmother had vascular dementia. Unlike Alzheimer's, or at least
the stereotypical media picture of that most well-known form of
dementia, this doesn't cause memory to rewind, for people to become
unstuck in time. Rather, it affects ones cognition, and coordination,
and ability to form new memories. It's not usually complete
anterograde amnesia, it's more that it takes repetition for things to
stick – or at least, that's how it happened for grandma. You could
sit with her for an afternoon and have the same conversation several
times, and on the third or fourth go around she would realise that it
was repetition, that she remembered some of it. Last time I saw her
was a couple of years ago, and I understand there was some
degradation since then, but I never felt like pressing for details.
By the time she died, she had become quite
distressed and confused. In the end she was sedated, having become
unable to swallow, and died in the usual manner once that step is
taken. I was told when she was put on ongoing sedation, and I know
what that means, so it was no surprise when I was told that she had
died, pretty near exactly on the schedule I understand applies in
such cases.
My grandmother was no saint, goodness knows. She
had some attitudes that were common for someone of her background, of
her time, and though they moderated it would have been amazing if
they had faded completely. She certainly tried to do right by people,
especially family, but she wasn't selfless when it came to everyone
else (nor always when it came to her family, but who is?). Nor was
she any great villain. Her attention in my early years did a lot to
make me who I am, though.
So, why I am I writing this on my Quaker blog, you
might ask. It's a very good question. I could segue into some
religious observations, rehash my thoughts of what happens after
death, generalise it into some sort of lesson. I'm not going to do
that, though. I'm sharing this here because it's the best place I
have to share it, because I am writing from the heart. I'm not sure
whether to tag this as written ministry or as deliberate writing, so
I've tagged it as both – truthfully, it is a bit of both.
I'll miss my grandma, but that's nothing new. I've
been missing her for years. I expect I shall cry at the funeral, or
while reminiscing with my mother before and after. I've cried a
little already, but not much. I don't know that I will cry very much,
because in a very real sense this isn't a new grief.
I share this with you all purely in the spirit of
sharing, in the confident belief that sharing makes us all better,
helps us all to understand. I do not ask for sympathy or condolences,
though I won't refuse them.
This is the end of a story, a messy, drawn-out end
that has finally concluded a messy life, but I know I would prefer a
messy life over a tidy one. It's a story that's unique, and I haven't
(and won't) tell it all; it's a story that's fundamentally the same
as every other. Her story and mine share huge stretches, but they
aren't the same story.
She was there for me, even though we never really
understood one another.
Goodbye, grandma.
