Yesterday, on a warm sunny June day my family (my parents, sister and two uncles) and I sat in a stiflingly hot hospital in Watford and watched my Nan pass away.
She was 86 and had had a stomach complaint for several months, which wasn’t taken seriously by her GP. They finally agreed to give her a blood test in April and made an appointment four weeks hence. Two days after the test she was phoned by her GP and advised to go to hospital. She took herself there, alone, in a taxi. Once admitted to hospital, further tests revealed that she had leukaemia. She was given chemotherapy tablets and was actually going to be sent home on Sunday afternoon until a specialist nurse and a social worker intervened and pointed out that even with support from a carer, she couldn’t look after herself. She was lucid and her mind was sharp but her body was failing her.
From Monday, her decline was swift. By the time my Mum and I arrived at the hospital at mid-day yesterday she was drifting in and out of consciousness. The doctors has decided that morning that there was nothing more they could do for her, telephoned my Uncle and advised him to come into the hospital as she wouldn’t see the end of the day. They removed her drip and gave her morphine and sedatives to make her more comfortable and we sat, watched and waited.
My sister and my dad joined us during the afternoon. We took it in turns to fetch drinks and sandwiches (from the incredibly inappropriately named ‘Spice of Life’ hospital canteen) for each other. We sat and exchanged news, chatting as though we were at a party at times. At intervals we would all fall silent and watch the tiny old lady groaning and thrashing about in the bed in front of us. Even at the end of her life, she was still fighting.
My Nan, had she known it was her in the bed, would have been completely and utterly furious. She prided herself on always looking her best, on being involved with everything and would have hated looking so out of control in front of other people. Small in stature, she was an extremely feisty lady, which caused problems during her life, for her and for us. It’s not appropriate to explore this now and the difficulties can’t and won’t be forgotten but yesterday, for one day, they were put to one side.
She would wish to be remembered as the lady that was whirled round the dance floor at my wedding to dh by the best man and loving every second. As the young girl that joined the Land Army during the Second World War, worked hard, dated soldiers and went to parties. The same young girl that, years later, recalled watching bombs fall on her neighbours in London. She was a wife to my Granddad, who she outlived by twenty-one years. A mother to three children. A grandmother to four children and a great-grandmother – or ‘Great Nan Win’ to R and G.
During the afternoon, she got weaker. At around 4.30pm her nurse gave her a final dose of morphine. She didn’t even flinch as the needle went in. Her breathing became more rattly and eventually she started gulping air in. The talking around the bed stopped. Instinctively, we all knew what was happening. Her breathing became shallower. My sister fetched the nurse, who checked Nan’s pulse and told us that she was going. She pulled the curtain around the bed, shut the door behind her and the six of us watched. At 5.40pm, she was gone.
My sister, ever the practical one, produced a pack of tissues and handed them round. I stepped outside to gather my thoughts and phoned dh, who had picked the girls up from nursery. I managed to tell him that Nan had died and couldn’t say any more. My Dad, sister and I went and sat outside, leaving my Mum and her brothers with my Nan. After a little while, we went back in and all said goodbye in our own ways.
We didn’t want to just return home immediately afterwards so my parents, sister and I went for a meal after we left the hospital. I had a gin and tonic – my Nan’s favourite tipple – which felt appropriate and we chatted about anything and everything.
It was a strange and difficult day and was not one I wish to repeat in a hurry – or ever again, although I am certain I will. Death is one of the inevitabilities of life and I guess the lesson to be taken from this is that life is short, amazing and precious and that we should make the most of it, for however long we have.