I'll start this post by saying that my best friend, Jayson, left for Paris on Sunday morning and I was very uncertain about how I would feel about him going away. Those who know me will know that we dated for three years, and there wasn't a day that went by without us talking. Obviously, with him going abroad, I wasn't expecting a message. I thought I'd find it hard to cope, or miss him terribly - but as it turned out, there were more important things to think about. My Grandad was taken into hospital on Monday afternoon because he was struggling to breathe, so I started spending a lot of time in hospital with him. (Jayson texted me at least once every night, so that made life less stressful than it could have been.)
My Grandad had a condition called Angina, which was caused by passive smoking (whereby you don't actively smoke yourself but breathe in the harsh chemicals from the cigarettes other people are smoking. I like to call it "smoking by association"). We thought Angina was the reason he was struggling for his breath - and we were partly right - but none of us could have guessed the extent of the problem. A few weeks ago, he had been hospitalised in Nottingham, where he was treated for external Shingles. My family didn't find out until yesterday, but Shingles had activated another virus; one which covered the walls of his lungs and chest. Coupled with his Angina, and his age, he didn't stand much chance of fighting it off. Grandad died on Tuesday evening, aged 81, surrounded by his family. Me, my sister, my Dad, my Uncle, and my Uncle's wife, were all present. My cousin Kim and her husband, Michael, were just a few minutes too late. While Grandad was alive, I never said goodbye. I felt guilty about it for a few minutes until I realised that I was there at the end; I never left. No need to say goodbye, and no need to feel guilty.
He looked peaceful, almost like he was sleeping. My Dad is devastated. He's only 41 years old and has lost both his parents. If you read my blog often, you'll know that he was planning a trip up to Banff this year to commemorate 10 years since my Grandma's death. Instead of being a chance to remember my Grandma, it will now be a bittersweet trip - considering my Grandad wants us to throw his ashes up there. To be near my Grandma. Well, half of him. He wants the other half in Blackpool. As you can tell, he loved the seaside. He used to tell me and my sister than when he died he'd reincarnate into a seagull and he'd let us know it was him because he'd poo on us. You'll also know that I used to be scared of the big grey chimneys in Derby Hospital, next to the mortuary. Although I still find them eerie, they won't remind me of my childhood fears anymore, or my Mum's illness, they'll remind me of Grandad's life.
The things I want to remember about Grandad:
- How he slapped his leg and laughed when he found something really funny.
- Him calling everybody, everywhere, "duck," however inappropriate.
- How he treated everyone with the same courtesy and respect.
- His love of photography, family, animals, and the occasional fridge magnet.
- How he'd tap my arm when I hugged him.
- How he'd draw a picture of his budgie on every card he signed.
- How proud of me he was! When I used to run, and play football, he backed me all the way - running after me with a camera on sports day at primary school. He even used to keep the little poems I wrote for him. If it weren't for him I'd never have been published in any book.
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