Gran has passed. Sasha, my therapist in rehab, took me upstairs. As we sat down in a private meeting room, I read the expression on her face, her sombre body language, the slow desperation oozing from her pores as she undoubtedly wished she didn’t have to reveal the truth to me, not knowing she already had, non-verbally, and so I alleviated her distress and said: “this is about my grandmother, right?”, she nodded, “She’s passed.” I said quietly, looking directly into her eyes, I could see she was glad she didn’t have to say the words. The muscles in my tender throat contracted, I felt a lump slowly start to form, my eyes welled up with tears and I looked out of the open window, listening to young children playing joyfully in a distant school playground, as my mind envisioned Granny Moo – the woman who made me spaghetti bolognese with rolled-up slices of ham on the side of the plate, or plates of cheap Richmond sausages with a smiley face drawn with ketchup, who proudly announced the birth of a new calf with a beaming smile the likes of which only appeared upon her face at such occasions, who stood in the doorway of the kitchen with a nice grey blazer and a red ribbon on her breast for her trip to the hospital for a blood transfusion the last time I saw her; alas, the next time I see her she will be lying lifeless in a coffin.
No more shall I walk over to her house with a tray of her lunch (with Saphy eagerly leading the way knowing the scraps are coming her way) to find granny snoozing in her big comfy armchair with the television blaring out some inane nonsense and gently wake her by placing my hand upon her shoulder, seeing her eyes slowly open and recognise me and spot the tray of food and an inordinately subtle smile quickly cross her face before she returns to her military style frankness and sets about moving the side table closer to her so she can start her meal, no doubt checking the clock to confirm it is sufficiently close to 12:00, otherwise making a funny and somewhat passive aggressive comment on the tardiness of lunch service, or if it is adequately on time straining to find an excuse for why she was asleep, claiming to have no idea why she is so tired, whilst I strain a smile and concur with whatever odd reason she comes up with, knowing she will say and do anything to avoid confronting the truth that she has terminal cancer, an aggressive form of leukaemia, that’s slowly destroying her blood inevitably leading to organ failure, though no one could prophecy it would be simultaneous lung and kidney failure, at least granting her a quick and painless death, with little to no suffering, in fact only the day before the nurses had been saying how well she was and how happy even, never once showing any sign of physical weakness or emotional distress, not until her final moments of confusion, then sudden death.
Journal Extract by Stamos Mardou