I think I must have known. I mean, it wasn’t rocket science because by then you were already on the palliative care ward, but I guess I’ve always had quite an innate sense of timing. Sometimes, when it’s been ages since I last looked at the clock, I can guess the time to the exact minute, and I can put the timer on the oven for 40 minutes, sit on the couch, and know to get up and go to the kitchen, for it to have just 00:01 left on it. So what I’m trying to say is I guess I sensed your time of departure too.
The two or so weeks prior had been hard. We knew you weren’t coming home from the hospital, but I couldn’t really compute that. You exceeded the doctors predictions for a bit, because you responded well to the antibiotics, but I couldn’t grasp how you could be sat in the bed and reading a magazine, us chatting a bit through you lip reading, but that soon you’d be gone forever.
When you started getting worse, and weren’t conscious for hours at a time, I felt guilty that sometimes I’d try to read a book, or that I’d scroll on my phone. I knew I should be taking in every moment, but it’s hard, when nearly every part of you was already gone. I spoke to you, but I knew you couldn’t hear me.
I’d been with you every day since you were admitted, and just weeks into a new job, it was chaotic, working 8-4 and then with you 4:30-10:30pm every evening. I spent 14 hours straight in your tiny room one Saturday, because you didn’t want to be left alone, and no hospital staff ever came to check on you. I cried every night when I got home.
It’s such a shame you died there, in that big damp, dark, and crumbling building. I’m quite convinced you could wake up from lifesaving surgery in the Royal Hospital, and still feel a bit miserable when you realise where you are.
On the 4th August, with my brow tint and lash lift booked weeks in advance, I was an hour late to see you, so Martin sat with you instead. I’m so glad I didn’t cancel it. It’s not cheap, and you can’t get your lashes wet for at least 24 hours afterwards, so I knew you’d be so pissed off with me if I spent my money and then ruined them by bloody crying about you. Every time I could feel the onset of emotion rising from chest, I shut it down quick, your shrill fume in my ear.
On Thursday 5th, I arrived on your ward and thought, you really are having the last laugh aren’t you. I’d stayed with you till 11pm or so the night before, waiting for you to be wheeled onto the palliative care suite, and when we got to the room, I thought, how very strange that this will be the last room you’ll ever exist in. I said it to Martin on the way home, again holding back them tears again to ensure maximum last liftage. But when I got there the next day they’d bloody moved you to a different room! It kept me laughing I guess.
I sacked off being vegan for the evening and picked up a subway for my tea. I got our favourite. It felt right. 6 inch Italian, toasted, chicken, pepperoni, red onions and mayonnaise. I ate it in your room, you fast asleep, me trying to zone out watching tiktok, but the signal was shite. It really infuriated me, thinking about someone being at the end of the life, but not having strong enough wifi to watch their favourite film for the last time, or find out what happens at the end of a series. I also hate that they’ve painted it green and put some paintings on the wall, as though it's going to soften the blow that you know you’re going to die.
I don’t know if you knew I was there, but I was. After days of trying to come to terms with your impending exit, I took a video of your room, and you, breathing peacefully in your bed. A reminder of your alive existence, knowing that although you would no longer be here on earth, I could always see you as being here.
As uncle Paul got there, and we swapped, for him to be with you through the night, I managed to wake you up. He told me not to at first, but there was no way I was leaving without saying goodbye. I waved, and mouthed bye, and you gave us both a big, lovely, and dreamy smile.
When I got to the car that night, I said to Martin, “I’m ready for her to go now.” My manager had told me to have a lie in the next day, so I was woken up by Uncle Paul at 8:20, when he rang to say you had just left us. Martin and I came to the hospital, but I didn’t go in to see you. I knew I never was going to. I don’t care about the fact that it’s you, the thought of a dead body creeps me out. I don’t even want anyone to see me dead. Like someone could poke you and you’d never know.
Anyway, Martin sat with you for a while, the star he is, and he prayed for you, while we got some leaflets, and found out more about the business of death. In the days after, Uncle Paul did all the difficult admin, and I just did 8K walks with the dog, listening to podcasts and sweating out my grief in the sun.
We waited for your sisters, Auntie Pat and Auntie Ev to arrive, and then we all went back to yours. It was pissing down. Like full on pissing down in a way I’ve never seen it do in Early August. It made me smile, like the world was crying for your passing. I took a video of it bouncing off the street. Some more family came and we laughed and joked about you, all sat round with a cup in hand. After that we went home for a bit, watched telly in bed, and then we went to M&S Gemini, and had a cup of coffee. I bought an iced bun too but didn’t eat it. Then I went a bit wild in the aisles, and bought myself some new loungewear and some lavender scented items to help me try and get some sleep. I thought to myself, well if you can’t spent £70 in M&S when ya nan has just died, when can you?
I left the iced bun in the side of the car door, and I Martin didn’t ask about it for a while because he thought it may have meant something symbolic as the used by date was the 6th, the day you died. To be honest I’d just forgotten about it. I know I’m weird but I’m not weird enough to remember you with a decaying iced bun.
I knew then, that night, I’d write this. I started writing the words in my head then. I knew I’d include the subway, the rain, and all the mundane details. They matter to me.
I also knew then, that I would be ok. That I would keep moving forward. I didn’t know how it would look, but i knew it would happen. I made a commitment to do more things, to do new things, to do them now while fit and well, to aways be grateful, and aware that things can change. Since then i’ve done Moel Famau, I’ve been to a string quartet performance, a concert, cinema and even london on my own. I’ve started latin & ballroom dancing again (I bought myself some shoes from the same shop on London road you used to buy my dance ones from, and I even got the sparkly silver ones like I used to have) and I’ve even recently just started learning to drive again.
I wish you were here all the time. Wish we could just do things together. For the first few months I felt like you were everywhere. I mean you are, bloody hell my Facebook memories are filled with you in August time. But I feel you everywhere, every time I’m in M&S, or a charity shop, or just town in general.
Back in May, Martin, Harvey and I went to Porthmadog for my birthday. One morning, walking back from the beach I got a bit upset, saying how much I wished you could be here. We used to go most years when I was a kid and they are some of my best memories. Later in the day I went into the town centre to let Martin finish off some paperwork he had to do, and as I walked into a department store, I saw a woman who looked JUST like you. I’ve never seen anyone who looks like you. Not to say you looked particularly different to anyone, but Martin always says I think everyone looks like everyone.
This woman was in the same monochrome polka dot blouse you had, with a bright pink jumper over the top, black pants and sandals. Her arm was linked to another woman, who was helping her walk in. She had glasses and grey curly hair. She couldn’t have been more you. Later, I saw her again the café, leaving, and as she walked past I smiled, and she gave me a big kind smile back.
It was an amazing moment, and a reminder that you are still here. In them charity shops, carrying your plastic bag for life, your black handbag still draped over the dining room chair, in new brighton, on the 1 bus to Ellesmere port. And in my heart forever more.
Miss you forever old gal xxxxxxxx