Finite mortality
It’s a slightly strange day today and I apologise to you, dear reader (there is only one of you, isn’t there?) for unburdening myself upon you.
The funny thing is, I should be grief-stricken today. I should be crying into my keyboard, but I’m smiling. I’m not sad, in fact I’m happy.
Why the conflict, you might ask? Well, my Nan died at about 6.15 this morning. My family has just lost a generation and I no longer have any living grandparents. Dramatic, huh?
So why aren’t I weeping bitterly and raising my fists to the sky? Why are my tear-ducts unwavering?
The simple fact of the matter is that my Nan was 93, was increasingly infirm, and was in pain.
The confused, tiny old lady I saw in the nursing home the last time I was able to visit was not my Nan, it was a mere shadow of her. My Nan was a lively, happy woman with a lust for life and a “never say die” attitude - she outlived her husband, my lovely Grandad, by 20 years and only really started to become frail a couple of years ago when she had her first stroke. My Nan didn’t like moaning old people, and she didn’t like having to rely on anyone else, so I’ve not really lost her - she went away quietly a couple of years ago.
My Nan will always live on as a host of fond memories - memories of a loving, kindly woman with a heart of gold, memories of my Grandad constantly playing little practical jokes on her, memories of happiness.
What I say goodbye to today is her pain and discomfort, the strong laid low by time alone.
I don’t believe in any god per se - I am a sceptic and an empiricist at heart, but my Nan had her quiet faith. If she was right, she’s now in a better place and re-united with her beloved Jack. If I’m right, she’s no longer suffering and waiting for her health to fail, so we both win.
Goodbye, Nan.
I just shed my first tear.