I was 13 when my Nan moved in. I loved my Nan. She was absolutely wonderful in every way. And what’s more she looked like Nans should: slightly plump, white wavy hair, rosy cheeks and a big smile. She spent her time doing what Nan’s (of her era) should: talking about the war, eating boiled sweets and sewing. She had an uncanny ability to make pretty much anything out of scraps of material. And I mean anything … When she had some fingers amputated and was told she was too old for prosthetics she simply went to her “rag bag”, dug out some leatherette, some old tights and some ribbon and made herself some fingers that she could tie on each morning. Best - Nan - ever!
But that was only half the story. Incapacitated through heart-problems, riddled with arthritis and fighting the slow but inevitable decline of terminal cancer, she had to come and live with us. At the time, it seemed like the only option. But that option was far from easy.
There were better years and worse years but towards the end, looking after my Nan was a round the clock activity. Mum and I would take it in shifts to “sleep” on the floor next to her bed so we could bring her drinks, help her to the commode, pass her drugs and say something vaguely encouraging when we were alert enough to do so. She wanted to stay with us not go into hospital. We wanted that too. But the pressure was relentless. Most of the time she was wincing in pain. On the rare occasions she went to sleep, she snored like it was an Olympic sport. Sleep deprivation was the order of the day for the whole family. And that took its toll on everything.
Mum became a virtual hermit. She convinced herself she couldn’t leave the house. She was sure there was no-one else with whom to share the strain … not that she ever asked for help. I struggled to keep my studies going. I’m sort of intelligent when you get down to it but my grades belied that fact quite spectacularly. The school never asked why.
And then there were the arguments. Those moments when, like all families, we just lost the plot with one another but with a whole new dimension added in. It was usually over something trivial. You know the kind of thing: forgetting to put the watercress out for tea or some similar crime. That would descend into a screaming match full of vitriol. “Well, we will all be better off when you’re dead, won’t we…?”
A thick black blanket enveloped the family for a while. Tiredness and guilt led to depression. And the hardest thing was: no-one knew. On those rare occasions we went out socialising, we pretended everything was fine. I don’t know why we did that. Pride, maybe? Shame? A collective assumption that no-one really wanted to know?
Just occasionally, though, there was a little light. To this day, I don’t imagine she knows what an impact she had on our family but a lovely lady from the local church popped in once a month. We weren’t a regular church-going family but were definitely on the fringe. And she reached out to us. An hour a month. It was a beautiful oasis.
She’d pop in and we’d make tea. We’d talk about things in the outside world. Talk about church. We’d break the routine. Best of all, we’d laugh. Laugh about stupid, insignificant things. We’d remember that life was more than an endless round of drugs and drudgery. She focused us on something – someone – even more precious than my Nan. In small ways, she pointed us to Jesus.
When the end came, the emotions were mixed. Overwhelming grief at the loss of someone so precious. Relief that the pain was over for her – and over for us. And confusion … how would we ever get our life back to something approaching normality? Could any of us even remember what normality was? But we made it through.
There are many moments in my past that I consider a privilege. There are many moments in my past of which I am ashamed. Caring for my Nan falls squarely into both those categories. If I had my time again, I’d definitely do things differently. But I wouldn’t miss out on the chance to support her in her final years. A wonderful opportunity to serve. A brilliant opportunity to grow. And for that, I thank God.
