That nothing lasts forever is an unavoidable reality. Growing
up with my grandparents, enjoying my Nan’s cooking – Sunday roasts, apple pies,
sponge pudding – watching films and reading books with my Grandad, listening to
their endless words of wisdom and passing idyllic childhood days in the country
park fishing and walking along the cliffs, I never could have imagined that
that would one day be lost forever. People who are with you from birth are part
of the fundamental landscape of your life and a world without them is
unthinkable. And yet since their passing, I have felt no lessening in the
strength of their presence; I can still imagine their voices, see their smiles,
remember their facial expressions and mannerisms. I can anticipate their
reactions or advice for any problems I may have. This has led me to the
conclusion that there are two facets to our relationships with people: their
immediate physical presence, and a greater intangible presence, which lingers
long after they are gone. When someone touches your life and offers something
real and unwavering in a world of temporary friends and endless acquaintances,
it changes who you are. That person becomes part of who you are and will stay
with you forever.
When I heard that my Grandad was in the operating theatre to
have surgery on a broken hip bone, it was a bolt out of the blue. When he later
struggled with his rehabilitation, we doggedly insisted that he would be ok
once he was home. But the twist of fate that led to his fall pulled
him down a one way road and there was no turning back. Every day of our lives
we play games of sliding doors; we make turnings, running into chance or brick walls. Every day of our lives we spar with fate and I look
back to key encounters in my life and imagine where I would be had I dodged
them by a fraction of a second. I will never know if my Grandad would still be
with us had he not fallen that day. My Nan was soon to be struck down by
illness and I can’t help but wonder if it was part of the Masterplan. Either way,
a thousand days of nothing are sometimes just a countdown to that one day where
our lives will turn 180 in a matter of minutes.
Two weeks after my Grandad entered hospital my Nan went to
visit – as she did every day for four months – with their 60th
wedding anniversary card: he didn’t know the day. When he died my Nan wrote to
him of their “golden years”. I’ve never known a couple so steadfast. They weren’t
overly affectionate but through the years they demonstrated the real meaning of
love: taking the good with the bad, supporting each other through thick and
thin, being comfortable in each other’s presence. When my Grandad passed away
in December my Nan had plans to move on and live on elsewhere but just four
months later she was gone too. Devoted couples passing within weeks or months of
one another is far from rare. The University of Glasgow published a study on
the subject in 2007 and found that for many, losing a beloved spouse
represents losing a connection to this world – I sometimes wonder whether my
Grandad’s last months triggered this reaction in my Nan but this is one
question that will remain unanswered.
But despite all of the uncertainties and existential
questions that arise from bereavement, one thing that I remain sure of is that
comfort is there in the knowledge of enduring love.
