Coming to terms
“Grief’s a pressure cooker if you don’t deal with it. One day, you simply explode.”
I came across this quote a couple of years ago while reading Jessie Burton’s The Muse. It immediately struck a chord with me because I knew it to be true, because I had experienced the explosion she spoke of just over a year earlier with the death of my Nan. Three and a half years have gone by since then, and even now I’m not wholly used to the idea of her not being here.
Nan was seventy-six when she died. Not fantastically old by today’s standards, but old enough for it to not be a huge surprise. Her death was an event I had been quietly dreading for years, because I knew the day when I would have to face it was drawing ever closer. Her health wasn’t great, despite her many claims to the contrary. Every time I rang and she didn’t pick up, the possibility that she was lying dead in the flat would flash across my mind. She lived on her own, and I hated the idea of something happening and there being no one there to find her. Thankfully, that didn’t happen.
The day Nan went into hospital, I was on holiday. I rang her from the airport, knowing she’d be thrilled that I was going away. I knew something was wrong when my uncle answered. He told me Nan wasn’t well and he was taking her to the hospital. Later that night I had a phone call from my Dad. I was seriously considering coming…
