There are so many things I could say in memory of my Nana, but rather than be limited by the constraints of time or formality; I will speak specifically about death because that is why we are here.
We don’t often get the chance to talk about the brutal and unfair inevitability of death, and I want to say this now so that every moment moving forward can be in celebration of life. The heartache, while it won’t go away, is lessened by us being able to leave a piece of it here today.
A couple of years ago, I learned of the term “anticipatory grief”.
Anticipatory grief also referred to as anticipatory loss or preparatory grief, is the distress a person may feel in the days, months or even years before an impending loss.
When your best friend is 62 years old than you, your life is shadowed by anticipatory grief. As a child, I was fortunate that death was ambiguous and distant to me but over the years, the shadow got darker. Each year, each milestone was bittersweet. The feeling that the next goodbye would be the last became an unwavering ache in my heart. Our lives were destined to be ships passing in the night, anchored briefly together in the still ocean, and continuing on in different directions.
It is hard to watch someone you love in pain, especially when you know their spirit is so young and full of life. Her mind and heart could have lived a thousand more lives, but the passage of time slowly took away her physical abilities. Fortunately, this pain was soothed by the many friends and relatives who kept her company, made her laugh and looked after her. She spent her life sewing seeds of love, nurturing friendships, building community and raising my mother and then me. In return, and especially later in life, she reaped the benefits of that love, care and admiration being return by all of you and many more who can’t be here today.
In a way, understanding anticipatory grief was a blessing in disguise. I learned to treasure every moment. I saved every voicemail she left, knowing one day it would be the only way I could hear her voice. I tucked away every letter she wrote so I can spend the rest of my life trying to decipher her handwriting. I asked all the questions I could, even if I mostly got the same stories over and over. I took hundreds of photos just to give myself the task of sifting through to find one where she’s looking at the camera.
I got her to make dance videos with me for my internet friends and although she didn’t really know what TikTok was, she always obliged. When I told her that one video of her had been viewed by over 100,000 people, her immediate reaction was “wow, what if each of those people gave £1 each to charity, that could really make a difference.” We made a follow up video, asking her eager fans to donate to the flood relief efforts in Pakistan. I stash these moments away in my memory bank, always in awe of how she could be silly and worldly and generous all in one moment.
I think what scared me most about the anticipatory grief is the finality of death. It’s hard to comprehend that someone can simply be gone. One minute your Nana is giving you a fireman’s lift into the ocean or promising to knit you a ballet cardigan or picking you up from school without her teeth… and the next, you face the prospect of the rest of your life without your favourite person.
Some people believe in heaven or reincarnation but I don’t know what happens after we die. In one of my favourite films, Moana, the main character’s grandma returns in a time of need, as a glittery sting ray and guides her across the ocean. I don’t know if my Nana will be that graceful but, I can surely hope. I can hope she will live on in shooting stars or streams of sunlight or the faint orange glow of dusk.
But Nana didn’t believe in just sitting by and hoping, she believed in doing and trying, even if it was hard or unfamiliar or unorthodox.
So, I want to end by asking you all for a favour. I want you all to join me in remembering her fiercely by practicing your own rituals of remembrance and actively searching for pieces of Jean wherever you go. Notice her in booming laughs, or blossoming daffodils or a bottle of Bombay Sapphire.
You might light a candle, sing a hymn or roll about on the front lawn after a glass of sherry. You might make up a brand new tradition or include Jean in a ritual your family has practiced for centuries. You might volunteer or donate or do a good deed. Remember her in the way she lived - with abundant generosity, endless curiosity, and a good measure of song and dance.
While it might be the end of Nana’s incredible journey, her passing marks a pit stop for those of us still here. We pause, we remember, and we move forward, embracing life with joy and passion, safe in the knowledge that we are the luckiest people, to have spent some of our brief time on Earth with the phenomenal Jean Robertson.
I leave you with a quote from author Edy Nathan, “all the art of living lies in a fine mingling of letting go and holding on.”
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