Its ten years since 8 year old me watched my grandad faid from this life. Laying on his hospital bed, wires all over him, beeping sounds all around the critical care ward. He lost the fight for life on the 25/08/2001 following a fall down the stairs at his nursing home. A inquest lead to a day in court to determine if it was an accident.
As a child i didn't understand my grandad at all. He had dementia and always called me "fatty", aged 8 i didn't understand he was ill, I always thought he was an evil bastard, who couldn't be bothered to remember his grand kids names.
My mother, me and my brother were his only visitors for the last few years of his life.
I always remember the long walk off the main road, past the tennis court id later use with school. To an old Victorian mansion, a lovely big garden stayed untouched and lifeless. Up the 5 steps at the front you were greeted by a white double door, a small hallway and a book all guests must sign on entrance. To the side of the desk were stairs, the same stairs that would later end my grandfathers life. Through the door in front of the desk, you were greeted by the smell of hospital food, medication, old people. To the left lead you to the main office, the living room, the toilet. To the right you would find the main living area, the kitchen/dinner, the TV room/conservatory and the lift.
For the first few years i remember finding grandad swift in the main living area, sitting by a lovely little old lady called Meriel.She never got any visitors and i always wished she was my grandma, she was lovely with silver grey hair, a heat warming smile and a positive out look on each day. I would sit and chat with her, often to avoid the horrid bitterness i received from my grandad, but also because i loved the little lady so much, a feeling that was shared by my mother and brother, we would sneak her in sweets every month, she a diabetic, it was naughty, but it honestly was the only pleasure in the life of a lady who didn't have a life...
In the later years, grandad or swifty as he was to me, as i was never close enough to him to think of him as any thing else, was always found in the little living room. You walked in the door to a room of old decor, a larger window on the far side of the room, opposite was an old Victorian open fire, the type with green tiles around and coal inside it, complete with a bucket and spade for decorative purposes. I never remember it being used for heat reasons.
There was an arch which led to the bathroom i think, but I'm not sure. My grandad had his own room upstairs. Through the door a window faced you, a brown, old wardrobe was filled with a few clothes. A single bed pressed against the wall and a few family photos spread across the walls, along with drawings my brother and me had left him, on one of our visits.
Back in the living room,5 chairs would line up across the right wall, then the arch would break up the line, followed by a step, the fire and a few more chairs up on a raised stage type thing. Swifty was always on the green, old chair nearest the window or some times two chairs up if he fancied a change.
Mum would always walk in first, Me and Ricky would hide behind her in case we got hit or abused. He had the same blank expression each time which turned to confusion when my mother started speaking to him. He would call her Bridget (her sisters name) and look towards us as if we were strangers, to him we were. I was fatty and my brother was "him". He would be told our names over and over, mum even left a photo of me and my brother in his pocket and glasses case, complete with our names and ages, so he could remind himself whenever he liked, to no avail. A photo i later found and put in his coffin.
We would play domino's every single time, suck on mints or worthers, every time without exception. Try and jog his memory, talk about our days at school and generally feel uncomfortable in his presence.
I never new my grandad outside of that care home. The care home was my grandad. I never went to the park with him, shared an ice cream, hugged him, laughed with him. He didn't see me grow or see us as newborns. He didn't share in our excitement or wipe away our tears. We have no mutual memories. He didn't show us affection or acknowledge us as his relatives.
All of which hurts. All of which makes me side with my late grandmas theory of him being an old drunk with no emotions. But my grandma was also very bitter and divorcing him didn't help her views on him improve. I suppose he did teach me to be strong, to understand that some people in life, no matter how much you wish they would, will not be nice to you.
My mother remembers him differently. She remembers going to church every Sunday after her parents divorced, He was Irish and divorce was unheard of, so my grandma kept up appearances for the kids sake. They had 5 children together, wile my grandad was well off for the time, he spent all his money on drink and left my gran to raise my mother and siblings on next to nothing. My grandad was an alcoholic of no fixed abode, spending later years crashed at my mum and dads before i came along, before being moved to the nursing home. My mother remembers a funny, sly man. Once refusing to show the police what was in his pocket, they brought him back to my parents home, explained they needed to see what was in his pockets to be sure it wasn't illegal. She opened his jacket and found a bag of apples there. He had led the police on to save his apples. They all found the funny side of it, thankfully!
I no little about his childhood, other than he is one of 13 brothers and sisters. He has a twin sister, also Bridget and they were raised on a farm in Ireland. He lost a few siblings as babies, but the rest remained in Ireland, with one of his brothers later moving to London. We keep in touch with 2 of his siblings. One of them coming to his brothers, ex wives funeral the other week.
My grandad to me as a little girl, was a scary, complicated man. I always wanted him to know who i was, not to even love me, but just to know my name. It was a tricky concept as a child that somebody couldn't understand who i was. I drew pretty pictures and left him school photographs, why didn't he remember me? Another thing i found hard was the nastiness, I'm sure that not every person with memory loss, calls there grandchild "fatty". That's nothing to do with memory, that's hatred.
I remember the long walk into hospital with my mother that day. Id lost my other grandad just weeks before and was now walking down to potentially lose the other. Through the card operated door i was met by my uncle, aunt, cousin along with her mother & father. I remember not seeing my cousin in years and sat talking to her briefly about my 8 year old life, before being taken across the ward by my mother and her brother.
At that moment i had visions of my life 50 years down the line, walking with my brother to see my dieing dad, not a nice thought.
The white curtains hung floor to ceiling, suspended by metal bars around his bed. He had a yellow neck brace on that forced his, now purple cheeks, up and made them puffy. The nurse kept sucking Flem off his chest via a tube stuck down his throat. He was lifeless, he couldn't talk, move, eat.. i doubt he could even hear. He has massive head injuries.
I remember hearing my mother say how weird a fall could land him in the state, but years of alcohol abuse couldn't even get him to the doctors!
Staring at my now defenceless, vulnerable grandfather,I could see how little, lonely and ill he was. All my past anger, upset and doubts washed away like waves on a stormy beach.
It didn't matter about the past, who i new, what parts i didn't know. What id seen, what i hadn't seen... I was just glad id stuck with it, carried on seeing him even when my dad didn't want me too. He was an evil person, a drunk, ill, silly man but i only know that because i went to see him week after week. When it was raining, when i was hungry, when i was upset or missing other fun things that i had the option to be doing, i was there with him, getting to know the him i knew. It may not have been a nice him, but it was all i knew of him and never getting the chance to meet my dads mother made me determined to see him till the end, to have some memories, all be it not very nice ones, even at the cost of my own sanity.
They turned off the machines, my uncle cried for the first time in his life.
My mum took on the roll of funeral arranger. Stress in itself. My grandad owned part of the farm he grew up on in Ireland. It had to be sold to his sister, his share of the money divided by 5 kids and the rest used for the funeral. The funeral was partly state funded. All i remember is sitting in the church, looking at the cross and crying. I also clearly remember the whole family standing around the grave as his coffin was lowered to the ground, in the Irish part of the cemetery. His favourite shoes, along with flowers were thrown in on top of the coffin.
In the ten years that have followed, iv come to turns with the man i knew, i understand he was ill. Iv learned to live with that and also learned more about the real him before illness took over.
We visit his grave every 6 months, birthdays and special occasions. We decorate it with flowers and plaques and i reflect on the man who wasn't, the man who was and what he meant to me. My grandad.
May he continue to rest.in.paradise for many more years to come.
