In the death of another, I grieved myself
In honour of National Grief Awareness Day (US) 2022
My Granddad wanted to be buried under a tree. He’d come across the idea during his travels. In his words, it would keep him shaded in the summer, and in the Autumn, the fallen leaves would blanket him in warmth. I cried when he told me that. I couldn’t imagine my world without him. Three years on from his death, I still can’t.
The truth is, when he died, I lost all sense of self. If I was white water rafting through life, it felt as though I’d hit the steepest stretch of rapids, surrounded by jagged rocks and low branches. And just as I found myself in peril, someone had come along, yanked off my life jacket and helmet, and shouted ‘ha!’ right in my face.
Not only had I lost my hero, I’d lost all capacity to cope. My sadness could no longer be cured by a trip to my Granddad’s bungalow to watch Food Network re-runs with a cup of PG Tips, curled up in my designated armchair. I couldn’t be comforted by his warm pat on my shoulder and a trip to the garden centre, if not mostly for the lemon drizzle cake. Instead, I felt absent.
30 August 2022 is National Grief Awareness Day in the US, established by Grief Specialist, Angie Cartwright, to educate people about the grieving process and all its painful realities.
But I think one aspect of bereavement isn’t spoken about enough: loss of identity. Not only do I miss my granddad, but I miss the person I once was, the person I was when he was alive. The good granddaughter, carrier of bags, and master of all technology.
Despite our seventy-year age gap, our connection always ran deeper than words. Deaf since the war, communication wasn’t always easy for my granddad, but we fumbled through, with patchy lip reading and our own special brand of sign language. He was my best pal, my go-to hype man, and the one person I believed really understood me. I know: Cue classic misunderstood writer violin.
In the best way possible, he didn’t care about my achievements. He didn’t brag to his friends when I graduated university or secured my training contact as a solicitor. Instead, he’d tell anyone who’d listen about how quick I was in Morrisons. That’s right, the weekly food shop. No, I’m not joking.
“Our Amy knows where everything is. She flies off down the aisles, and we’re eating eggs in the café in no time.”
He wasn’t wrong. Working from the same shopping list every Saturday morning year after year does make for a supermarket connoisseur. But he’d also tell neighbours that I was kind and caring. He’d say I was a good person, and scribble in birthday cards that he was proud of me. Despite being surrounded by wonderful people who also cared about me, as you might expect, no-one else in my life held me in such high esteem.
If you’re one of the lucky ones, who has someone that believes in you so unconditionally, after a while, your own expectations start to shift. You wonder if you could be as great as they insist. You challenge yourself to meet that standard. Their view of who you are shapes the person you become, reinforces your value system, and defines how you see yourself.
But losing such a crucial figure brings a special type of loss. Without him, who the hell was I?
I felt astray without this man. This man, who turned twenty-one in Hong Kong, and was fined by the Navy for making it back to the ship late and drunk. This man, who watched Danish detective shows, slept mostly upright in a chair, watched the Russian news at 4am, would eat anything, and loved to reminisce about characters from his youth. This man, who handled a police dog named Judy, half Alsatian, half wild-dog, lost all notion of faith up the hills of Jerusalem, confronted police corruption, played pool with a German war veteran while holidaying in Austria, and was accidently shot through the leg with a harpoon by a fellow British ship. Who was I without his stories? Who was I, if not his granddaughter?
Being thought of so highly by someone so extraordinary is person-building. I wish there was some golden wisdom I could impart about overcoming grief and finding myself, but it’s a work in progress. All I can do now is try to embody his legacy. Now, every time I make plans with friends I think of my granddad and his Friday night club. I think of how ten of them would hit the town, and stumble home at 11pm to a full English cramped around the kitchen table of his mother’s house. I think of the merriment, bacon fat, and occasional incident involving a fish tank, Babycham, and sea-less sea legs. I think of his tales of piano-playing under street lights, and dancing home in the dark. It reminds me to have fun. It teaches me not to let time slip by unnoticed.
As he lay hospitalised with bowel cancer in June 2019, we were given the news his death was imminent. As my family surrounded his bed, chatting in a futile attempt to distract ourselves, out of the blue, my granddad yelled: “Bon voyage!”. The bay fell silent. But inside the blue shadow of his dignity curtains, we fell about laughing. It was several more days before he died, but in that moment of reprieve, I had no idea I’d also be saying a dramatic bon voyage to who I thought I was.
Just beyond the advent of his ninety-seventh birthday, I’m still floundering to figure out who I am without him. But with every small gesture, and each day I embrace still being here to tell the tale, I reckon he’d be proud of me. And I know for sure he’s keeping cool under the shade of his tree.
Dedicated to Ronald Histon.
20.08.1925 - 30.06.2019
Beautiful piece Amy! It brought me to tears. While I am lucky to still have my mom-mom, she has Alzheimer's and forgets who I am. I feel very similarly about her as you do your grandfather. Always my biggest supporter, believing in me so much. Your writing is a great way to keep his memory alive.