Rest In Peace, Nanny

Earlier this month whilst looking over the Pinkun messageboard I came across not one, not two, but in fact three posts related to the death of a poor cat. Only 8 years old. Now like my mum, and my dear nanny before her, and in fact much of my family – I've grown up with cats. Absolutely love them, so I have the deepest sympathy for the loss of what I’m sure was a much-loved member of a caring family, but if an 8 year old cat gets recognition upon their death three times on the most used forum of a Premier League football club – then the least my 81-year-old nanny and the greatest woman I will ever know deserves is a dedication on my own blog. A statement that could never annotate the full measure of just how special she was, but one that I feel at least deserves an attempt.

Cutting it fine is an understatement with regards to the death of my Granddad and my expedition to America. Two days before I took flight, not to return for a further four months and a half, was my granddads’ funeral. For six or seven years prior my Granddad had been extremely ill, looked after by my Nanny to the maximum that she could possibly muster, before Granddad eventually had to be taken to a care home. Even then she would take any means possible to visit him on multiple occasions each and every week without fail, even though he was barely able to put together a sentence let alone hold down a conversation, and was left to the confines of his bed for much of this period, such was the extent of his illness. But never did that put Nanny off, and day after day she’d get herself to the home simply to sit there and give Granddad some company. He was helpless, there was no way he could show gratitude or repay her for such overwhelming commitment. Something tells me Granddad fought his illness so strongly and held on for so long for Nanny, perhaps the only way he could give something back, perhaps…

Between Granddad and having all the time in the world for everybody she cared about, Nanny led a life most 80-year-olds simply couldn’t manage. My sister said to me she has been described as the only person who’s grandmother goes out more than her, and that’s probably not far from the truth. Somehow she managed to uphold a life full of days out, seeing friends and maintaining herself as an invaluable member of her local community – where there seemed to be barely a soul who wasn’t aware of who she was. All this came without any sacrifice of time for any of her children or grandchildren. I don’t know how she found enough time in the day.

The day before I was due to fly back to England, I lost my passport. Now that’s a whole other story, which I won’t go in to, but I ended up needing to get through to somebody back home to pay for an emergency passport in order for me to get home. Now, of course, the majority of my family was un-contactable, as always, except my Nanny. My nanny would do absolutely anything for me, as she would for our entire family, so it goes without saying that she didn't hesitate to pay whatever it took to get me home. Not only did she then refuse to allow me to pay her back, she duly gave my sister and two cousins the equivalent to make-up for it. She never tired of spoiling us. This was the single last thing she’d be capable of doing for me whilst she was still at her home. For by the time I was back, I had to face to fact that she herself was very ill, and had gone into hospital. There’s no doubting that 81 years of age made her old, but for somebody so healthy and active, 81 years still didn't seem anywhere near long enough.

When we visited her in hospital, Nanny would tell us of the times she used to play with us as kids; how she trusted we’d look after our uncle when he needed it for which she had been pivotal and had been an outstanding mother; how pleased she was to see my own mother take on the Nanny role with my nephew that she had performed to such an immaculate and unrivaled standard. I told her she would live until she was at least 90, she smiled. Knowing she wouldn't  but never letting it on to us. I told her I’d buy her lunch from the little café up the city I used to meet her at whenever I was back from university. She’d treated me to it so many times, it was my turn. I brought it to the hospital, she ate it all. It was to be the last one she had. Soon after she began becoming too tired and drowsy from the painkillers she was on to be able to make sense. That was until the day before I returned to university again. The last time I was to see her. She had perked up, she made sense, she was awake the whole time, she looked better than she had done for weeks. I’m glad I got to see her like that for one last time. I told her I’d be back again soon, I wasn’t soon enough. But maybe that was for the best.

55 years my Nanny and Granddad had been married. Fifty-five years, and somehow she had managed to hold herself together at my Granddad’s funeral. That’s probably the strongest mental strength I’ll ever see. She introduced everybody to everybody. Up and down she went, making conversation, holding the whole thing together. She made Granddad’s funeral quite an amazing thing for me. Somehow she’d turned what should be the saddest of days into a celebration-of-sorts. I felt I needed to hold it together myself for her funeral. If she could do it for Granddad, I could do it for her. I just about managed it, with difficulty.

My nanny will always be more special to me than I can ever put to words. I thought I’d be able to get up and say something for my Nanny at her funeral when her time came. I was wrong. But then I never expected it to be this soon. I hope this goes some way to providing a reasonable dedication to her, even if it falls far short of just how incredible she really was. Rest in peace, to the most special woman I know – a sentiment shared by a lot of people if the number of people that came to her funeral is anything to go by.