I wrote this after coming back from my Nan’s funeral but never posted it. After posting a blog last night, I found it and felt it was time I shared those last memories of her with you. So this is for my Nan, who I miss dearly and talk to regularly, especially when it comes to cooking!!! I love you Nan.
I went home for my mother's 60th birthday in May, but I guess Nan had other plans for us. When I arrived on the Friday, although I was staying at Dad’s, we popped over to the hospital to see how Nan was feeling. She was diagnosed with breast cancer a couple of years ago, but at Christmas, they found she was now suffering from bone cancer. It had spread everywhere. After a few month of hospitalisation in her own home, she was transferred back into the geriatric annex of the local hospital at Easter. Mum had told me that she was really poorly and didn’t look herself much anymore. It’s amazing how, no matter how much you think you are warned, the shock of reality can be rather overwhelming.
When I got to the door, I reached out behind me and took hold of my dad’s hand. As I walked in, I scanned the room. My granddad was sitting next to the bed, looking sad and in pain. The person lying next to him felt a million miles away. I recognised my Nan instantly, even though she was but a shell of herself, looking more fragile and petite than ever before. I felt the tears filling my eyes. I took a second to hold them back, held onto Dad a little longer then called my granddad out of his daze.
As he looked up, his face was filled with a huge smile. He got up, shook my Nan, telling her I was finally here and gave me a hug. I then turned to my Nan. Where was the broad shouldered woman I had seen just a couple of month earlier? What happened to that strong lady who used to look after her 4 grand-children without any fear? Where was my Nan? Her eyes turned to me and it felt like she took a moment to focus and concentrate on who I was. Then, came the smile. She smiled and held out her hand, which I took into mine and kissed. I sat close to the bed, my head against hers, as we both rested on her pillow. I told her of my life in Devon, my work, and everything else I could think about. Even though she barely spoke, she showed her awareness of me by squeezing my hand, kissing it and pulling me towards her as I talked. I spend 2 hours by her side. Sometimes talking non stop, sometimes just sitting there and holding her.
Too soon it was time to leave. My dad had left and I was going to use my granddad’s car while I was in France. As my granddad made his way to the car, I stayed behind for one more hug, one more minute with my Nan. I had never felt such importance in those small instants of life than at that very moment. And I had come to accept that this might very well be the last time she would be responsive. The end was near. I felt extreme sadness, I didn’t want her to leave, not yet, I wasn’t ready, nor were the rest of my family. Yet at the same time, knowing the pain she had been in over the last few months, knowing how far from her old self she now was and how much it was hurting her to have people see her like that, I put aside my selfish thoughts and said just before I left: “Don’t worry about us, Nan, we’ll be alright. And we’ll look after granddad. You do what you have to. If you’re ready to go, that’s ok with us. We love you.”
As I talked, one single tear fell along her soft yet wrinkled cheek and she gave my hand a squeeze. I felt one tear running down my face, followed by another and could feel the flow of them rising to the surface, so I left. I didn’t want to burst into tears in front of her. The minute I was out of her room, the sadness overwhelmed me and I cried heavily for a couple of minutes. After composing myself, I met my granddad in the car, dropped him home and went back to Dad’s.
The following evening was my mum’s 60th birthday party. On their way over, my cousin, his parents and my brother popped to the hospital to see Nan. She had barely reacted to their presence. My mother and aunt were finding it difficult to relax and enjoy the moment. My brother, my cousin and I decided to try and keep it fun despite it all. We raised our glasses to our Nan and had a few very good laughs, trying to ignore the thin veil of sorrow floating over us all. We managed to have a good time and everyone spent the night at mum’s.
Even though visits to Nan were only allowed in the afternoons, my aunt had arranged for us to visit her on the Sunday morning. Both my cousin and I had to leave after lunch time. I had a plane to catch in the afternoon and he had to make his way back to Switzerland, where he works. We all drove together, still buzzing from the night before. As we approach Nan’s room, one of the nurse stopped us in the hallway. I had met her on the Friday and had told her I was only here for a couple of days. She said to me what they had told my cousin before she left for her mission in February: “Say your goodbyes, she hasn’t got long left. It could be a question of days.” We braced ourselves and entered the room.
The shock was indescribable. In the 36 hours since I’d seen her, she had gone from being responsive and somewhat alert to … nothing. Her eyes barely opened again, she wasn’t responding to us in any way and, no matter how much I held her hand, I felt no real response from her. She was slipping away. Right there, I turned to my aunt and said “Forget the plane, I’m staying.”
We called my mother and started to get organised. After going back to mum’s for what should have been lunch, we split up. My cousin and uncle left, as well as my brother. I took a moment to call work to inform them of the situation before Mum, my aunt, my step-dad and I went back to the hospital. I made a detour to go pick up my granddad and we stayed the rest of the afternoon at the hospital. I spent most of that time lying next to her, holding her hand and telling her how much we all loved her. Around 5, my mum accompanied her dad home and promised to keep him informed if anything was to happen.
Around 8, we went home for a quick break and returned within the hour. Around 11pm, we were wondering about going home. One of the night nurses came to talk to us and suggested that one of us could sleep with Nan – she had a spare bed in her room for such situation – or that, if we all wanted to go home, she would ring us if there was any changes. Nan had been stable all afternoon but they were keeping a very close eye on her. We all really needed a break. Spending this much time in a hospital ward, watching someone you love passing away does take it out of you. And since we were barely 15 minutes away, we gave them my mother’s and my aunt’s mobile numbers and left.
Sleep didn’t come easily. First I cried. Then I wrote. Then I cried some more. Finally, around 2.30am, I dozed off. A split second later, or at least, that’s how it felt, Mum was waking me up, telling me the hospital had called and that we should go now if we wanted to be with her one last time. Within minutes, we were dressed and in the cars. The drive down felt like an eternity. When we arrived, the nurse walked with us into the room. Nan’s breathing was very irregular and it felt like she was making a huge effort to get it going. The nurse explained that they had removed all IVs except for the morphine. But then, after a few minutes, the nurse noticed Nan’s breathing regulating itself. “She’s calmer; she can sense you are here.” She said before leaving.
It is strange the things you talk about in those situations. Stranger still is that I can’t really remember what we talked about. I just remember being there, holding Nan’s hand, surrounded by my family. By 8am, Mum had to leave. Although she was in two minds over going to work, she was struggling so much, watching her own mother die, we agreed it would be best if she went now. She only needed to do half a day’s work so we promised to call her if anything happened. After all, Nan’s status hadn’t changed since we had got there at 4.30am.
A little after she left with her husband, I noticed Nan’s hand had got really cold. As the nurse popped in to see if we wanted anything to eat or drink, I mentioned it to her. She felt Nan’s extremities and explained that her body was now only working on her vital organs. It was now a question of hours, not days, even though none of the medical staff would actually say that. My aunt text my mother and they agreed we would contact her if anything else changed. But Nan was hanging in there. Around 9am, we decided to go and get my granddad. I left my aunt with Nan and went to fetch him. The minute I explained what had happened, he had his coat on and was on his way out to the car.
Once back in the hospital room, I sat holding both Nan and Granddad’s hands. My aunt was trying to take her mind of things by playing solitaire on my phone. Around 9.15, she suddenly said “It’s over!?” We all looked at Nan. But she was still with us… Just. Her heavy and painful breathing had made way to a thin whispery breath. We called the nurse at once. This was it. She explained to us what might happen from now on. We called mum and my uncle who immediately jumped in their cars and started making their way back.
But Nan wasn’t planning on waiting. We sat around her bed, holding her hands, and, starting with my cousin who hadn’t been able to come back from her mission, we said goodbye to Nan from every one of us, reminding her how much we love her and how much we were going to miss her. As we finished with my granddad, she took one last breath and then, accompanied by her husband of over 60 years, one of her daughters and one of her grand-children … she just stopped.
