the private nature of grief

i have never dreaded routine calls home so much. simple questions - the painful sensitivity of simple questions, have you been able to get through to your grandma?

today i received even more bad news. not the worst news, no, not death, but on the cusp of. i don't know which is worse, the waiting, the thinking that you could do something - perhaps hop on the next flight home, to see the soft familiar face fitfully asleep, unable to eat or drink or even acknowledge you're there.

i finally get through to my grandma's house. she is still asleep. the family has gathered around, the daughters and sons have taken their leaves, dutiful, always around, so subdued, so quiet, so sensitive.relatives are flying in. i spoke to my uncle today, usually exuberant, but today he spoke so quietly i thought i woke them up from sleep. he said, a little strained, guarded, that she was not in much pain, because she was sleeping. my godmother said the same too. the d word was never spoken, as if to say it were to make it a reality.

it is hard. i want to shout that it's unfair, it's so unfair that i may not get a chance to see her again. grief is very private, it is hard to grieve in company - you fear setting off this unassailable chain reaction, the fear of making a bad thing worse. but grief is uncontrollable, as i struggle for words to my godma and uncle, i just simply don't know what to say, and said just that. i trip over my words, measure my breathing, trying to keep it all in.

yet when you're grieving, you want someone who knows exactly what you are going through, what you feel, someone whose sobbing shoulders you can sob into. and this is why, ultimately, i know my mum, my uncles and aunties, they will all be fine. for me, i seem to have to be content with standing in front of an urn to pay my respects. i struggle to type now, as i think, i see my grandma smiling back at me, smiling from her picture on the plaque.