When Two Worlds Collide

For over seven years now, I have had the absolute honour of looking after so many families when they have lost someone they love.

I have seen all the grief, the shocked grief, the angry grief, the guilt grief (that one's always interesting) and the acceptance grief.

But that's the thing, I have just seen it.

I've been a grief spectator. People ask all the time don't we get sad? Isn't it so heartbreaking being surrounded by grief all the time but the answer is (mostly) no.

I have a front row seat to grief, but I've never been both in the play and in the audience.

Until now.

A few weeks ago my beautiful Nan passed away. She was just bloody brilliant. She was 89 and up until five months ago when she moved into a care home, she had lived at home filling her days with pottering about, shopping and being with her family. She loved us all so proudly. It of course wasn't a shock as such that she passed away, but I have written before about how when you are lucky enough to have someone for so long, you become almost complacent that they will always be there. So when it became clear in the days before she passed that this was the end, it did feel unexpected that this was suddenly happening.

I started to notice (because noticing is my thing) the unhinged things you do when someone you love is dying and you have the privilege of spending that time with them. From the moment she was admitted on the Monday, to the second she passed away on the Saturday, she wasn't alone for a second. So you start to live like normal in this abnormal situation. You are charging your phone in the plug next to the machine that's keeping her comfortable. You make playlists of her favourite songs so you aren't relying on the radio in case she passes away to a Car Craft West Midlands advert. And you sit and discuss your recommendations from the various vending machines like you have just discovered a new restaurant that must be tried.

But also, you pause. Like I said, she was never alone but also neither were any of us. We sat in this room that could have been filled with sadness but instead we filled it with conversations about wonderful memories, we asked each other questions about our futures, shared jokes and secrets and spent time together like we hadn't ever before. Every now and then one of us would burst into tears or the room would fall silent while we listened to her breathing. But then "normality" would resume.

And then, on that Saturday afternoon, she just slipped away.

She just stopped being here.

Whatever your profession is, if possible you always do what you can for your friends and family. Whether you're a hairdresser, teacher or a driving instructor, you are always going to do what you can to help out your own with advice or whatever. But when you're a funeral director, fortunately, your services aren't called on too much. Over the years we have looked after relatives and one of my best friend's parents, but I have always been able to be there and help and of course be sad for the immediates but I have never felt "in it" until now.

There are so many parts of the process in the bit in between. The limbo after the person passes away and the funeral. But I knew from the start what I could and couldn't be a part of. I knew I could do the booking of things and the arranging, but I knew I couldn't bring her in from the hospital, I couldn't see her before she was ready. I did do her hair and make up and nails which was so special. She loved being pampered although it felt odd her not asking me to add a bit more eyeliner. I had her favourite music playing and even though I have done this hundreds of times (and it is one of my most favourite parts of my job, I'm just a girl after all) it just felt so surreal. Painting her nails whilst Vic Damone sang away? Completely normal. Her not being a living person anymore? Not normal and not really ok to be honest.

But I did it, because I knew I could.

When she was in the chapel of rest I spent all the time possible with her, I would even take my laptop in there and do some work. I had my lunch, cups of tea and made sure she always had music playing. My Spotify algorithm is now ruined beyond repair but I don't care. Music was her thing. I was so lucky that I got to see her every day right up until the funeral, and I saw her as my Nan. The minute I walked into that chapel, she wasn't a loved one we were looking after, she was my Nan, who just happened to be at work. And to my husband, who is an amazingly talented embalmer as well as many other things, I will be eternally grateful.

My Dad and son came to visit her in the chapel of rest. Part of me was like a little kid excited to show my Dad what I had done at school, but as soon as he started to cry I fell apart again. Although he has said so many times since that she looked so beautiful and peaceful and I am pleased he knows I am actually good at my job.

Of course during this in between time, whilst I was grieving and surrounded by grief I had quite a few moments. Like when we had a call out a few days after she died and the caller said "My Nan has passed away" and I almost replied "me too!" and a week after when I stood at the catafalque and saw a row of adult grandchildren crying for their Nan I sobbed my eyes out. I must have looked so professional/empathic.

We took her into church the night before (Irish Catholic huns) and dear God (literally) she would have loved that. She adored her church, and it is stunning, so a sleepover there was so perfect for her last night here. And as soon as I took my tie off that evening I was simply her granddaughter again. Our brilliant team completely took the reins and orchestrated the most fabulous day for her.

My husband was the funeral director and seamlessly glided between checking his wife, stepson and in-laws were ok and running the logistics of the whole day flawlessly.

And there I was, in the Lidl over the road from the church, half an hour before kick off buying iced coffee and dried mango in my full regalia flanked by my son and his girlfriend, both looking equally powerful in their outfits. I felt like Maeve in Mobland.

I do need to acknowledge my outfit for a second. A beautiful, long black dress with a dramatic cape and a gold trim. I looked like Moira in Schitt's Creek and I loved every second I wore it for. I even added sunglasses for additional flair. It was giving "mysterious, but can she be trusted widow." And of course it was second-hand. My Nan was the charity shop queen after all.

Myself and my two cousins spoke at the church, just like we did at my Grandad's and it was so odd looking back at the front row like we did eight years ago and my Nan not sitting there looking back at us. The coffin is, in my opinion, the heaviest most tangible part of a funeral and you can't help but look at it and lose yourself in emotion. I've carried, dressed, sat with and closed hundreds of coffins over my years, but that one, that one was unexplainable.

At the end of the service at the crematorium, we chose to have the curtains open as we left. Our team, led by my husband all went down and bowed first, something we always do for our family funerals and it was beautiful. My parents and Aunt and Uncle went over first and left and when I went over, I broke down and sobbed, (which must have looked ever so breathtaking with my cape) then I left. I don't even know if I looked back but what I do know is that as soon as I stepped outside the crematorium, I felt ok. I have seen so many people do this, breakdown and hold the coffin and kiss the lid and talk to their loved one for the last time at the front of the room knowing everyone is sitting behind them but not caring. Then walk out and in an instant they are grand. It's not always the case but more often than not, I look at people and think how bizarre that must be. And now I can confirm it indeed is mental.

It's like my tears were luggage at an airport. You check in your bags and you have your passport and boarding pass scanned then off you go, feeling all light and content because you don't have to carry things anymore.

You don't have to worry about whether you've forgotten something or whether you're going to make it through security.

You've done it. You can breathe.

So when my two worlds collided, it was really, very strange. I am so, so proud of what I got to do for her, for all my family. But I am also proud that I let myself be a mourner, I let myself grieve and cry and fall apart. I didn't try and do all the things just because it's my job, I knew what I could do and what I didn't need to do. Because boundaries are so important, even when your world is flooded with grief.

Really, I just needed to be her Granddaughter.

Life will always be a little bit different now, we have already celebrated three family birthdays since she left, so have felt the knife in the chest that the empty chair at a gathering brings. But she is at other family gatherings now, that's what I believe anyway, with those that went before her. And maybe she will bump into Vic Damone, she would love that.

After she has reunited with my Grandad though, they have a lot to catch up on.