My mother rang late last night to tell me that my grandad had died very suddenly in the night. (The time difference meant that although she was calling in the morning as soon as she could, it was very late here.) She had the strained calm of a person trying not to fall apart; she was with my nan and the rest of the family were on their way. I have no doubt she broke down the minute they arrived. On this side of the world, I had to break the news to my sister who could tell something was up the minute she saw me on the phone. I cut mum off with promises to ring straight back as Kara was waiting for news that couldn’t be mouthed in a telephonic aside.
What do you say to someone at a time like this? I was in shock – that lip-numbing experience where all you can think about is how cold you are – and she was almost in tears already. I wanted to make her sit down and tell her calmly that he had been found in the morning having had a sudden and massive heart attack in the night, that it was quick and he didn’t suffer, but that he had passed away. At the same time, I wanted to tell her as soon as possible and all the above would take time, she would get more worried, and then the news would be worse. I also knew that she wouldn’t sit down even if I told her, that she would get angry and demand to be told straight away, and then she would be grieving and angry and that would make it worse, too. It’s strange how so many thoughts can be in your head all at once and and make sense and a decision made so quickly. Perhaps I could have handled it better, because I simply couldn’t wait and just blurted out “I’m so sorry. Grandad’s dead.” Way to be sensitive, Sven. Tears, hugs and consolation ensued.
We rang mum back and spoke to Nan. While I was on the phone I realised that I had never heard her cry before. In 29 years, I’ve never seen her upset like that – she was always the one with the hugs and the sympathy and the 101 ways to cheer you up. I never want to hear that again: the sound of a heart breaking. Kara spoke to them both and while she was on the phone, I cleaned up. Seriously, I got up and made sure that no one wanted water (more crazy high-speed rationalising: I thought about tea but at 11pm I thought a stimulant was the last thing we all needed) then I killed mosquitos, put cream on bites and wiped kitchen counters. When the phone calls were finished, more hugs administered and tears shed, I suggested that we should all go to bed. There was nothing we could do, people had work tomorrow and we could ring in the morning for an update – it would still be the same day in the UK. All the while I held it together, telling everyone I was fine and staying strong for Kara, and it wasn’t till I had brushed my teeth and was absent-mindedly pouring my mouthwash that I almost started crying.
In bed, James said he would stay awake until I fell asleep, which I told him was sweet but unnecessary. He was so sorry and I was too, but it’s no one’s fault; it’s just sad. It will happen to us all one day. Those words actually came out of my mouth. James didn’t say anything but there was a moment of quiet amazement at how cold I was. We often laugh at how my heart was removed and replaced with swinging brick, but I think we both imagined that it was just an affectation, that when something truly awful happened I would crack up and break down. Well here it is, the truly awful, and I’m as hard as nails and cool as ice. No close family has died since I can remember – this is the first grandparent to pass away since I was too young to recall – and I thought that being spoiled by longevity and good health meant I wouldn’t know what to do when the inevitable finally happened. I thought I would be an hysterical mess, an inconsolable bundle of grief. Turns out I was wrong.
I did cry that night, lying in bed when I caught myself with an empty mind. I don’t know why I was crying – there was no one thought that started it off. It was actually the lack of thoughts that ended up with me silently shaking the bed till James rolled over and hugged me. And that’s the way it is: I’m fine and stoic and reasonable while I have things to think about, but when I’m stacking the dishwasher or putting the pots away or hanging out the washing and I forget to concentrate, the tears surprise me and I have to remember that if I start crying, everyone starts crying. It’s not that I’m dead inside: this is just the way I deal.
