I have been thinking a lot about my grandparents of late.
Before my mum died she asked me to make sure that my grandmothers ashes got placed where she had wanted them to be, with her husband, my grandfather. I had my grandmother for 40 years of my life, most of that we lived together in various ways, and I adored her. Grandad died when I was much younger and his death was one of the most traumatic deaths I have known.
Back in the 1980’s ashes urns were not buried as a standard practice, the ashes were at times dug into the earth under the monument. It didn’t feel right then when the cemetery offered to have Nanas ashes put in the urn in the ground then, I had a strong sense she would rather they be turned through the dirt where grandads was. Maybe some part of their remains will touch one last time, maybe that’s just my hopelessly romantic brain. The cemetery said they would do that for us, pour her ashes into the dirt, I said, I’d rather do it ourselves. So, next week I take Nanas ashes and will, with the beautiful human I gave birth to, mix her remains directly into the dirt where my grandfathers were placed… with our own hands. The cemetery will place it’s monument then and my promise to my mum is fulfilled.
Running my fingers through the dirt where my grandfathers ashes have been for decades feels like it will be closure in some ways, let me tell you why.
When you are young, death is not something that you encounter all too often – if you’re lucky. My first experiences of death were with animals. Once when I was all of about 4 years old I remember the vividly the night I snuck out of the house to save every snail I could find from the torrential rain that we were experiencing – I collected them all up in the pockets of my big cloak and took them all back to bed with me, the intention being to put them back outside in the morning, but of course I fell back asleep and squashed each and every one of them. I never saw the result of it, my parents shielded me from the horror of the mess and mass death, while impressing upon me snails liked the rain and the best thing in future would be to leave them to enjoy it.
I remember a knock on our front door one dark, humid night and racing with all the excitement of a young child to open it, only to be met with a teary-eyed man holding the broken body of my beloved cat. I was quickly being shepherded away from the door when I started yelling at him and calling him a monster – my reaction was raw and I was too young to consider compassion or recognition of his already apparent state of distress nor the irresponsibility of my parents as pet owners. I know that they buried her but I wasn’t a part of that process. When my dog Gypsy, my best friend and companion from birth died, I was a little older and I knew she was sick and old and I knew the right and compassionate thing to do was gently end her life. I didn’t go with my parents when they took her to the vet – It wasn’t an option I was offered – but I grieved for her.
When my first human died, I was devastated. I was eight years old.
My grandfather was a man who spent the last part of his life with many regrets. He said so on his deathbed, but the man that I knew and loved, the man that loved me so much, was a very different man to the one that was around when my mother and uncle were growing up. By the time I came along he had mellowed and my brother and I bought him joy.
I was aware that my grandad was different, he always had been. He was slightly grumpy but beautiful when he smiled, he had a Japanese Happy plant that sat by his spot and every time he would swear at it, I’d giggle and the plant would appear to grow a new leaf. It thrived and was some kind of outlet for what I know now was his incredible frustration. His spot was a sunny one, the plant, his ashtray, room for his chair and a coaster for his beer glass. People didn’t often argue with him, he was well respected and a hard man in many ways but he had a softer side, he loved us kids very much. He was a meat and three veg kind of fella. He was good at delegating jobs and overseeing them too, especially when it came to Nana brewing his beer or my parents doing the work outdoors because he was in a wheel chair and he only had one leg. I’d sit with him when the district nurse came each day to change the dressings on his remaining leg, I’d hold his hand if he flinched – but he was a stoic fella, a mans man and it never really showed. It never occurred to me to shy away from the look of the gangrenous sores and weeping ulcers under those dressings or recoil from their smell. It simply was a part of life, a part of him and in my eyes it never made him any less of a person. I loved him.
I knew he’d been unwell, I’d witnessed him getting old and frail but the veil of childhood wonder meant I missed the glances that would have been exchanged when his wounds got increasingly worse, I wasn’t privy to any of the discussions relating to his deterioration so the day I got home from school to find that he had been taken to the hospital, I was shocked. I still then didn’t know he was going to die. I don’t think it actually occurred to any of the adults to tell me.
After a while of pestering, I was allowed to see him only once after that day. I was taken to the hospital, escorted up to his room and only as far as the door. I peered into the room, he was laying in a hammock, i spoke to him and made sure he knew I was there. I wasn’t allowed in. I went home that afternoon and drew him a card. The card was a get-well card with a picture of him in his hammock on the front. I still didn’t register that he wouldn’t be coming home. No one thought to tell me he was dying.
I remember very clearly the morning that the call came, to say he wouldn’t ‘make it’. It was early in the morning but we were all up. I remember sitting on Grandads side of the bed in my grandparent’s room, watching my Nana try to hurry and get dressed. She was of the old generation and getting dressed was with corset, suspenders, draws, singlet and stockings before she ever put clothes on. I remember she was crying so much she could barely see to roll up her stockings to get them on. Every time she’d look at me I’d look away, tracing the pattern of the doona cover with a finger. Her sadness was confronting, the emotion was raw and I wasn’t prepared for my emotional reaction to that, everything in me called out to be with him. That’s when I think I knew he was dying. That he would not be coming home. But I wasn’t told.
I desperately wanted to go to the hospital with them. I begged them to let me go with them. Didn’t they know that he needed me? He wouldn’t turn me away. He was my grandad. My mate. But it wasn’t a place for children and I was taken to my other grandparent’s house for the day.
I did not get to say goodbye.
His funeral was not a place for children either.
The day of his funeral I was dressed in my dark blue dress, the one with red piping and little tiny flowers all over it. My dad’s grandparents stayed at home with me that day and I sat on the lino on the kitchen floor and cried. I was angry that everyone else went to the funeral but not me. The day was a blur after that. People came and went.
I was in my late teens before I was able to talk to Nana and my Mum about his death. I learned many things then, that he didn’t want me to see him like that, that they thought they were protecting me. The 1980’s were definitely a time when parents were infallible and always knew best. For all the lamenting of the ruination of younger generations in modern times, we do listen to and respect children more these days I think. But back then, a bit like now really, they all did the best they could. I got to tell them about how scarred I felt by the entire ordeal and how much hurt and anger I carried… About not being able to say goodbye to him, hear his tributes, his eulogy that my mum gave… back then of course, nothing was recorded. I’m glad it’s a different world. The truth is, maybe all those words would not have had the impact I wanted to my eight year old brain, but being included – that feeling of inclusion, would have helped.
Usually I tell people this story because I’m often asked, what do we do with the children? I say, if they are old enough to notice someone’s presence, they are old enough to notice someone’s absence and they deserve to grieve and say goodbye. Children will only ever learn about dying and death but the example they are set. Let us all try to set good and healthy examples for our children. But right now, as I prepare to go and place my Nanas ashes with my grandfather, I acknowledge that this is the first time in that process that little eight year old me gets something to do for him after he died. My grief finally has an act of service to perform … for them both. That feels good.
One Response
I hope little eight year old Bec’s grief feels more “complete” now through this beautiful act of service for your elders. Thank you for sharing your wisdom and lived experience Bec.