Edith

As you travel on life's little journey you gather more and more memories. More dates to remember, more photos, more people to add to your address book. Unfortunately, the circle of life being what it is, you also start to lose people too. This weekend marks yet another anniversary.

After my Mum died, understandably I was devastated. I felt like a leaf on top of a madly rushing river. Pulled this way and that by the tide but no control over where it took me or what I bumped into. One of the many people who tried to keep me sane during the following weeks, months, years was my Grandma (mum's mum).

My Grandma was an amazing woman. In fact the whole of my maternal side is full of strong, amazing, selfless and wonderful women - it's quite something to live upto believe me. But for now, let's return to Grandma.

Her life had been far from rosy. Her first husband was a violent alcoholic who broke most of the bones in her body in his drunken rages. Back then society was less supportive. It was just after the second world war and many women had lost their husbands. The general consensus was that my Grandma should be grateful - at least he had come back! And so she continued to take the knocks for more years than she should have done.

Because of his drunken behaviour, my Grandma had to bring up her kids with no money (it went on booze) as he would spend his wages before he came home and then take it out on her when there was no food to cook! One day she even came home to find that he had sold every stick of furniture in the house just so he could buy his latest fix. 'Even the children's beds' she told me once in disgust.

Grandma spoilt her grandchildren rotten. Birthday's, Christmases and special occasions were something to celebrate. My Grandma could put on the best spread at a party so I'm sure it must have killed her not being able to provide a decent meal for her children. It must have broken her heart not being able to buy them proper presents for their birthdays.

Eventually she got rid of him and married the man who to all intents and purposes was my Grandpa. A lovely, kind, gentle man who cherished her and would have wrapped her in cotton wool to protect her from the East wind if he could.

But Grandma's knocks in life had not ended. In January 1996, my Mum was diagnosed with breast cancer and then in November 1997, her eldest daughter, died from the dreaded C. My aunt was a Matron and kept her illness secret from the family. She didn't want any fuss, didn't want to be treated with all kinds of drugs and so she kept quiet. To this day, I'm not entirely certain what kind of cancer she had but I think it was lung. This was a devastating blow. I cannot imagine anything worse than having to bury your own child. It goes against the law of nature. Parents are not supposed to outlive their offspring. Grandma did not let this break her.

Nor did she let it break her when in 2001, my Mum also lost her long battle against cancer. And this was despite my Grandpa's Alzheimers taking hold with a vengeance. Talk about timing. On the morning my mum died, my Grandpa (the gentle, lovely man) descended into the worst part of Alzheimer induced confusion. He accused Grandma of lying about about mum's illness so she wouldn't have to spend time with him. And then to top it off, he threw his zimmer at her. She was 82, frail with acute Angina (and though we didn't know at the time, riddled with bladder cancer) - the eternal creaky gate. So as well as dealing with everything else that day, we also had to contend with getting my Grandpa out of the house and into a nursing home so he could no longer be a threat to my Grandma. I've got to be honest it was pretty damn horrific.

And through all of this, my Grandma remained strong, brave and dignified. This is just a snap shot of the woman she was. Of the woman I adored. The woman who became my second mum. The woman who in so many ways read from the same page as me. It was amazing how in tune we so often were. So now you have got a glimpse of her we'll return to 3 years ago and the anniversary in question in this blog.

Once again, the Hospice had become a refuge for my relatives. Grandma had been taken in for some respite. She had finally been diagnosed with Bladder cancer after years of being fobbed off with tablets for cystitus about a year earlier. By now my brother was living in Newbury and I was still in London. We had the routine down to a T. When Grandma was taken in it was my cue to pack a bag and keep it in the boot of my car.

So when the phonecall came in at school telling us that we should probably get ready to say our goodbyes, I took to the tarmac (again) collecting Lenny on the way. Once again, we arrived at the Hospice and were shown through by the amazing staff. As we rounded the corner I stopped dead. Oh my God I thought she's in the same bed as mum was. It probaby seems like such a selfish thing to think of at such a time but all I could think was 'Bloody hell, I'm gonna end up there too'. Swallowing my fear, I walked to the bed.

It really was like de ja vu. A frail lady who looked vaguely like my Grandma lay there twitching on the sheets. She seemed to realise we had arrived and once more I was able to tell a wonderful woman I loved her. She seemed to understand and at that moment that was all that mattered. The twitching continued, as did the moments of lucid speech. After several hours Len and I decided we could take no more and we left my Uncle and Aunt there.

It probably sounds awful but I just couldn't do another bed side vigil waiting for someone to die. It is draining and awful and exhausting and the harsh reality is they no longer know you. They no longer recognise you. They no longer call your name or ask how your day was. I squeezed her hand, told her I loved her again and then had to walk away.

Yet again, true to the tradition of the females in my family (we are a stubborn, strong lot), Grandma didn't die that night. She held on til May 22nd. Lenny and I weren't there. We had made a joint decision that we would return to work and just wait for the news there. And this time, I didn't feel guilty. I'd done all I could. I'd told her I loved her. My Uncle and Aunt were with her. She wasn't alone.

And now I'm carrying on her tradition. My Granmda kept a blog but back then it was called a journal or a diary. She even started to type it up on her typewriter. It makes fascinating, funny, tragic and inspiring reading. And that's something else I'd like to live up to.....I can only keep trying.