It’s been a strange kind of week, jellybeans. My Gran, who I love very much, passed away on Tuesday night. It was peaceful, and she was ready. Waiting, in fact- just hours before she died she half-jokingly gave one of the nurse’s in the hospital a serve for waking her because she was “half way to death and wanted to get there next time, thank you very much!”
It still hurts. It just… aches. Not because it’s unfair, or unjust or because she had more to do.
Just because I loved her, very much, and she and I understood each other. I respected her and admired her and she taught me a lot. And it hurts because she’s gone.
At the same time, it’s the oddest comfort. I’m watching grief unfold naturally, the way it should do… the culmination of a long, happy life, spent amongst loved ones and family and people who thought she was awesome. All of it- planning a funeral, clearing a house… it’s peace, as opposed to torture.
It’s… nice. A blessing I will take, if I can have it- bearing witness to a calmer, more prosaic form of mourning.
The funeral is tomorrow… same time, same place. Of course.
I’ll be fine… aren’t I always? Just another one of those things that must be done.
The same day my Mum phones me to let me know my gran has gone, I get sick.
My kids are with their nan. I lay down to sleep for an hour or two- I’m so tired.
When I wake up, I can’t move. I’m drenched in sweat, fever spiked but shivering and shaking and making tiny mewing sounds from the back of my throat.
I don’t remember the next few days- Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. I know my mum took my kids, drove me to the doctors, filled the prescription they gave me for the flu that is ‘going around’. I ended up in my mum’s house, soaking the sheets on her spare bed with sweat, too sick to move or eat or do anything except sleep and sweat more, buckets of sour-smelling liquid that keep me warm and freeze me at the same time.
I hallucinate. I see my gran, watching me from a corner. I have imaginary conversations with people, do things in my dreams which I then have to double check with my mother– is that real? Did that happen? And the answer, over and over, is ‘no’– I have done nothing but lay comatose while my imagination runs rampant, unable to slow down.
Mid-way through the first day of the fever, still at home, I beg my mother- in reality, not fever pitch- to please take down the photos on the wall, take down the photo of Tony, he is talking to me and will not leave me alone.
I’m feeling better… kind of. Waking up and discovering that you’ve missed three days- and still have grieving to do- is troubling and quite disorientating.
There’s so much ‘blog stuff’ that is meant to have been done, or that I should be doing right now- vlogs and posts and competitions and adventures I want to share with you guys. You’ll have to bear with me for a couple of days.
And, quite frankly, I’m too scared to open my email inbox. So if you’re waiting for one of those… bear with me, there, too.
It’s been a strange week. But December is, traditionally, a very strange month.