My gran died last night. I usually keep this blog focused on England and Ex-Pat issues, but today I’m breaking my own rule and writing about something personal.
My gran was never my gran to me – she was nan-nan. We called her that when we were little and somehow we never stopped. So if it seems odd for a 50 year-old woman to call her gran ‘nan-nan’ I’m sorry. It probably is, but it’s too late to change now.
She had been in a home for a few years as she had Alzheimer’s and couldn’t take care of herself. She was 97 and she died in her sleep, peacefully, without any pain. That’s as good as it gets for any of us, and yet it’s a shock anyway when it happens, and of course you wish you could turn back the clock and have more time.
But there are always the memories. Sunday teas and her amazing chocolate cakes; staying with her and granddad as kids and being allowed to stay up and watch ‘Match of the Day’; the way she used to sing ‘How Much is that Doggie in the Window?’ to me when I was little, complete with the ‘woof woof’ part; Christmases at her house; her love of Bruce Springsteen which continued well into her 80s and made her the coolest grandma anyone knew; and the way she had a picture of Bryan Ferry on her wall right up until she went into the home ‘because I like looking at him.’
I am 50 next week and for every one of those 50 years, my nan-nan has been there. I’ll miss her very much.