When I was a little girl I would often wake up early on the weekend. Well before my late-sleeping older brother and similarly snooze-inclined Mum. After the time I managed to cut myself so badly I needed three stitches on my ankle I wasn’t really allowed to get out of bed before Mum was up to supervise, but there was one exception – slipping into bed with my Nan.
I would sneak out of the room I shared with my dead-to-the-world brother and head up the hall on tiptoes to push open the door to my grandmother’s room. Then I would slide into bed next to her and snuggle up close.
“Sarah,” she would murmur in her disapproving teacher tone, “your toes are like ICE.”
I would wiggle around a lot, trying to find a safe spot for my feet, but by the time I was settled the damage would be done, and she would be awake.
We would then have lovely long chats about all sorts of things. She would tell me stories about my grandfather, who died before I was born, and about my mum as a little girl. She would regale me with the gossip from parties and the silly things my grandfather’s best friend did.
She had tales of her brothers’ practical jokes and the time her father killed the family’s pet duck and made her mother roast it for dinner, and she would patiently retell, over and over again, my favourite stories: Especially the ones about the family pets. (Almost all of them cats.)
I learnt a lot from my Nan in those early morning chats. She would always listen to and consider all my curious questions, and give me honest answers where she felt she could, and we would talk about all sorts of things lying in bed together, her long fingers stroking my forehead and playing with my hair.
We never stopped having those morning cuddles, Nan and I.
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I sat with my Pop for two weeks and held his hand while he died last year. I grew up with him and we loved each other best. Before that I held his hand through 10yrs of Alzheimers. I don't know if I would have taken any of that away, as he was not less, he was just different. In the last couple of weeks, I couldn't wait for him to die. And I say that openly and selflessly and with all the love and courage in my heart, death was long, and there was nothing glorious in that moment. BUT, Euthanasia is practiced in this country. It is not spoken, but it is understood. When the palliative care doctors came to talk to me and check that "we were on the same page" I gave permission for them to take my beautiful grandfather gently towards his end. I do understand the ethical conundrum that chases a legislation of such a thing. After the experiences of family I've had, the question should be posed. If this right exists what if for a moment we assume evil and not good, what are the implications then? What crosses my mind is the Bajau people who come to sure and lay the old and dying on the rocks and build a hut over them where they pass or the Inuit whose old and dying simply wanders out into the snow. Quite possibly our medical system has taken whatever dignity out of dying that their was. But, I do know, all the palliative care staff I ever met were all about acting in the best interest of the patient. And possibly they have enough distance to see clearer than we do. Thank you for sharing Sarah-Jane.