The grief of losing a grandparent

Yes, they were old... but that doesn't mean we will miss them any less

Catriona’s grandma, Jean, on a canal boat holiday.

My grandma once took a picture of the Queen to her hairdresser. She wanted her own hair, also silvery-white, to be cut in the exact same way. Sometimes, when we discussed clothing, or wandered around Marks and Spencer together, my grandma would casually bring up outfits The Queen had worn in the past. She would be looking for ways she could replicate them… while I coveted Alexa Chung and Peaches Geldof’s Indie Sleaze, Grandma longed for access to The Queen’s wardrobe.

And, as I look through the galleries commemorating The Queen Elizabeth II (it feels odd to refer to her so formally in this newsletter but my journalism training… and fear of angry tweets from diehard royalists prevents me from simply calling her Elizabeth) I can see such similarities in how they both dressed: the pleated, over-the-knee skirts, round-toed shiny shoes and co-ordinated hats. Oh and the brooches. No wool coat of my grandma’s was complete without a decorative brooch pinned to the lapel.

I was slightly reluctant to write this week’s newsletter, with reference to the news. I have a slight aversion (which, to be honest, is probably unfounded and has probably impacted my career) to pinning and creating ‘content’ on the back of sad news. I’m also aware that it’s everywhere and perhaps the last thing people need is a letter landing in their inbox about it (although… if you’re looking for respite then a grief newsletter perhaps isn’t the best place… may I suggest downloading French and Saunders Titting About and putting your phone on airplane mode?) But, then, today I was walking past M&S, the huge portrait of The Queen Elizabeth II in the window and I found myself turning away. I couldn’t look at her. I found myself missing my grandma too much.

I’ve always found myself feeling more at ease discussing the impact, and grief, I’ve felt losing my mum than I have my grandma. She was my mum’s mum, and she died (I think, as the time is such a blur) about five years after my mum did. I’d moved to London by then, was just at the beginning of my journalism career, working as a junior writer at Weight Watchers magazine. Her health had been crumbling for some time, and we had moved her out of her sheltered housing and into a care home. There were so many back and forth emergency trips from London to Edinburgh that I gained enough points to exchange for free rail travel. I guess, in a round-about-way I’m trying to say her death was “expected.” She was old (I can’t quite remember how old… and now I feel guilty for that) and, “had had a good life.” I think (for who can really know how someone felt on their death bed) that it was “peaceful.”

These are the things we say, don’t we? When a grandparent or someone in their eighties or nineties dies. They’re being said now, about the Queen. It’s not that they’re untrue or that they’re not comforting, to some they very well may be. But I often worry that they also serve as a way to squash down grief, to make those who feel deep suffering at the loss of that person to feel silly or weak in some way. This almost shrugging of “it happens, old people die” could stop people from expressing how they really feel. Which, when you think about the fact that – for many – the loss of a grandparent is likely to be their first experience of death and grief – is damaging. It could lead them to always mourn in that way. I also think that, yes it’s true my grandma was old when she died, but that also means she was in my life for a long time so therefore the loss I feel is acute and valid.

But try telling 25-year-old me that. As I did swallow my sadness away. Or, at least, tried to. On the way home from the funeral I sat, listening to ‘Young and Beautiful’ by Lana Del Rey, choking back so much gin that eventually my (now) husband had to half-support, half carry me and my jelly legs all the way from Kings Cross to our Brixton flat. Where I stumbled, sobbing, through the front door.

I went back to work the next day. I rarely spoke of her, or how I was feeling. I really did think people would think I was ‘pathetic’ or ‘weak’ for suffering as much as I did, I thought that others had managed to deal with their grief over a grandparent much better than I had, when now, I think, they were probably feeling the same… and hiding in the same way I was.

This is a problem of how we treat grief and death, on a wider scale, within the UK (and many other countries). When I went to a Death Café (which you can read about here) everyone from the UK (and indeed the German and Spanish people sitting in the circle) agreed that we ‘stiff upper lip’ grief, allowing only a short window of time to grieve. As one person put it “you’re expected to go to the funeral, eat the sandwiches and be fine again.” I think this is especially pronounced when it comes to grandparents, and while of course the death of a child, partner or someone younger, is far, far more brutal, that doesn’t mean we should be ignoring or shaming those who have lost a grandparent into feeling that their grief isn’t valid.

One of the reasons I was in town, and wandering past that Marks and Spencer is because I’ve just interviewed a brilliant neuroscientist on the impact of grief on the brain (more on this conversation in another newsletter) and she explained how grief is caused by love. How our brains form connections, and closeness, when we love someone and so, when that person goes away, our brain is left with a puzzle it can never solve. The connection and love is still there, but the physicality of the person has gone.

I loved my grandma so much. That grief is real - despite the facts that yes, she was old, yes it was expected and yes she lived a good life. Those things can bring me comfort, but they’re not going to take away my loss.

So I’m not going to pretend any more. Pretend that I don’t miss her, turn my head away when I see pictures of her (or indeed The Queen.) I’m going to remember her. How she wore Anais Anais perfume, that felt as soft on my nose as the cashmere cardigans she wore. How she drew beautiful watercolour pictures of flowers, and how they were so ornate they were displayed in an exhibition at The Botanic Gardens. How we’d say Grace together, and how I believe that’s led me to feeling grateful and writing gratitude lists. There’s so much more, which I’ll write down in a notebook, just for me. And if you’ve lost a grandparent (or indeed any older, loved presence in your life) I’d love to hear about them – I bet they were very, very special. Please don’t forget that it’s OK to miss them.

Thanks as always for your support and for reading my newsletter. It’s really helping me and I hope it’s helping you. If there’s anything you’d like me to write about or research please do let me know in the comments.