A Letter To My Nanna On the Anniversary of Her Passing

We’ll be riding the train without you tonight
The train that keeps on moving
Its black smoke scorching the evening sky
Millions of stars shining above us like every soul living and dead
It’s been gathered together by God
Sing a hymn over your bones

– -Bruce Springsteen, The Last Carnival 

Dear Nanna,

This time last year we said goodbye and I bid you a safe journey to the other side, hoping that your loving husband would be waiting for you. I often think about such a moment, imagining a dapper young Grandad in a sepia toned suit and you, young again, in your prettiest dress – replicas of the figures in old photographs. Somehow you are both her, young and elegant, and the fiery, funny older woman who is burned in the memory of all that knew her. You gave me some of the best advice I’ve ever heard, and minutes later would say some of the most inappropriate things I’ve ever heard – and all I could do was laugh anyway. You created a world where I couldn’t imagine you not in it, you fit too well and were written into the pages of too many people’s stories. This year was the first where I had to live in such a world, and I wanted to take a minute to tell you about it.

I discovered that Kellie was not nearly as enthused about surgery as you were when I told her all of my tales from the operating theatres. She tolerated my stories as far as “the floor was covered in blood” before she halted any further descriptions of the six hour femoral nail I scrubbed for during my elective nursing placement. Wimp. You not only would have loved my stories, you would have begged for more details before screwing up your face in morbid glee, perhaps remarking “Oh that’s disgusting Danni…keep going”. As each patient lay before me on the table I felt the weight of responsibility on my shoulders and wanted to do well, not only for them, but for you. You always wanted to be a scrub nurse and I wanted you to be able to watch me do it, to experience my wonder and intoxication every time I walked into an operating theatre. It killed me not to be able to sit down with you and tell you every detail and watch your laughter – no doubt while force feeding me bargain cake from Coles, because who else was going to eat ALL this food?

When my nursing duties weighed heavily on me and it seemed like I would never make it to the end of placement in one piece I thought of what you would say to me, of how proud you were of my profession. You were the angel on my shoulder making sure I didn’t chart any fake respiratory rates or forget to check the suction at beginning of shift. I saw you in the eyes of the patients I cared for at the end of their life alongside the nurses that taught me, knowing the pain that their families were experiencing. I took care of them in the hopes that their family would feel the same relief that I did knowing how well you your cared for in your final days. You taught me to walk through life with kindness and courage, even when you were afraid or tired – you just keep going. You are my indisputable proof that women are strong and capable of incredible things. There are times where I pray you are watching, and times where I hope you aren’t – when things get hard and I feel nothing like the image you always had of me. Knowing how proud you were keeps me going. I get up and last another eight hours on the ward, apply for one more job, dream one last impossible dream. You remind me that life is a gift and we don’t often have it for as long as we might think, and it’s more fragile than we care to treat it.

The love you gave to your friends and family unsparingly pushes me each day to be a loyal and caring friend. You were friend to so many, but those who were your closest friends still speak of you with laughter. The insane stories were endless, and you spoke to them with the same gentle savagery that often permeates my own friendship group. I’m certain you partied harder than my friends, drank more gin, and stayed up later – age was no barrier when one had the right companions. I look at my own group of beautiful friends and think, I want us to never change and still laugh exactly the same way as we do now when we’re sixty, or eighty.

Not a day goes by where I do not think of you, or Grandad, or Gran. But, as the esteemed Albus Dumbledore teaches us, the ones we love never really leave us. I hope you’re happy where you are now, dancing with Grandad, gossiping with old friends, watching this world go by. Your children and grandchildren, your legacy, spend their days making you proud and missing you dearly. There are so many things to tell you, jokes to make, politicians to laugh at, food to try, and love to give. As I eagerly await news of jobs and my graduation, I am only sad that you aren’t there in person to see it. Keep watching Nanna, things are about to get interesting.

Until We Meet Again,

Dannielle

P.S. Kellie has a dog, it’s cute and has its own instagram page – no, I’m not kidding, of course a dog of Kellie’s is destined for fame – there is no other way.

(Love you Kellie)