It's been nearly 3 weeks since my beloved Nanna died, and I have been an absolute wreck, curled up in the fetal position, sobbing, and barely capable of making a cup of tea, let alone turning on the computer. I knew it would be hard, I never imagined it could be this hard.
I wanted her to die at home - which is what she wanted, but she became disoriented and comatose, and the hospice nurse who had been coming out said she would be better off in hospice. When the ambulance came, and she was carried through the door for the last time ever, the anguish I felt was indescribable.

Hospice has a bed in the patient's room for family members who want to stay over, so I moved right in with her. I wish I could say it was an easy death - it was - finally, but it was heart and gut-wrenching at first. You know, death is like labor in reverse. The spirit struggles it's way out of the body. She would wake up, and reach out, all restless and anxious. I would be there and say 'I'm here, Nanna, I'm here', but it was as if she was looking past and beyond me. I couldn't look into her eyes - it was exactly the same feeling I had at the morgue when I identified my grandfather ( I wrote about in my first blog), but he was dead, and she wasn't. Not yet.

She was in discomfort, but unable to speak, or do anything for herself. I had promised her that I would not treat her except for pain when she got to that stage, and it killed me to keep that promise, altho' I don't think I could have lived with myself if I didn't. Because she appeared to be in discomfort, and restless, the hospice doctor gave me the choice - medicate her lightly, as they had been doing, or increase the meds, which would mean she would not wake up again (I don't mean euthanasia, btw - this is the difference between a tranquillizer and a sleeping pill - she got the sleeping pill). I chose the latter - I know she wanted it that way. I barely slept the four days I was there - after 2 days, the rattling started. I was terrified. They gave her drugs to minimize it through the syringe driver, but it didn't go away completely. Actually it slowly became a comfort, because it meant she was still breathing, and if she was still breathing, she was with me.

I kept holding her hands and rubbing her hair and telling her all the wonderful things she had done for me, and how much I loved her and missed her, but that she didn't have to hang on for my sake. The nurses, and doctor were concerned that I wasn't sleeping, so they insisted I take a mild tranquillizer. It was about 11 in the morning. I lay on the bed next to hers, and lulled by the gentle rattle of her breathing, fell asleep. When I woke up, there were nurses in the room. 'I'm so sorry, my darling', the one told me 'She's gone'. She listened with her stethoscope to make sure, but it was over.

The nurses quickly brought a towel to put under her chin ( I think it's to stop the jaw from slackening, leaving the mouth open). One nurse took 2 white flowers from the vase and placed them on her chest. 'Doesn't she look peaceful?' they asked.

How did I feel? - shock, numb. They left me with her, and I spoke to her and tidied the sheets, and held her hands. In between I called the family. All I could say was 'She's gone' in a dull monotone. I didn't cry, I stayed perfectly calm. I wanted her spirit to feel free to move on. I brushed her hair, but I just couldn't get it to look right. She was so beautiful, so fragile, so tiny, or at least, as the doctor put it, her overcoat was. The doctor said something really beautiful to me when we had the discussion about the level of medication. She said, remember, she's shedding her overcoat, it's like a cocoon, and the butterfly has to emerge, and fly off.

I stayed calm through organizing her funeral, I spoke, I did it all by the book. Everything went so calmly. Then after the funeral, when the last people had left, and everyone was done giving their condolences, it hit me. I have never felt such agony, physical, mental, emotional, spiritual, and I started to cry, and cry and cry. I'm still crying as I write - I don't know how to stop. I can't do anything to stem the flow of tears. The hospice doctor put it so well when she said to me ' she was your mother, your father, your grandmother and your best friend - you've been orphaned in one blow'. That's it - exactly. It's pathetic that at my age I should feel 'orphaned', but I do. I feel terribly, horribly alone in a desolate dark corridor that has no light at the end or way out.

I thought I was handling everything quite well, and I expected to go on as such, but it feels like half of my heart has been ripped out, and the grief is a raw, gaping wound that isn't healing. My head is perfectly intact and sensible - I know, I know, I know all the platitudes,and truisms. But try telling that to my heart. It just won't listen - it's this little child, crying pitifully 'I want my Nanna, I want my Nanna'. Suffering binds humanity - I've said this before, and my heart is with everyone, absolutely everyone who has suffered this anguish.

I'm trying to make sense of it all. What am I supposed to be learning from this, how do I keep my word to my grandmother to go on and lead a full life, when I can barely get out of bed. I owe her more than this. I owe myself more than this. Why can't I get it together? I honestly never thought it was possible to be so helpless in the grip of pain. You pay a very heavy price for loving someone so dearly