Nanna

On Sunday morning at about 6:30 I got a call from my dad. My Nanna (his mother) had passed away during the night. It was not totally unexpected: she was 90 years old, and had been battling dementia for the better part of the last decade. For the last few years she was a shell of her former self: unable to leave her bed, feed herself, or communicate in any way. It was terrible to see, but in a strange melancholy way her illness gave the family time to prepare for life without her. In the past fortnight she had developed a virus, and for the last week she had stopped eating. I visited her on Friday afternoon for the last time. My cousins and two aunties were in the room. We talked about our work, our families, shared a few memories and a bottle of scotch, all while Nanna lay in a state of struggled breathing before us. Every now and again one of us would move over to her, sit on the bed, and talk to her. We told her who was in the room, shared some ‘remember the time…’ stories with her, and then went back to our conversation.

After my grandpa died, the whole family – mum, dad, the three kids, my aunty and uncle and their three kids – would drive over to Nanna’s place in Springvale for a Saturday night lamb roast. Nanna always made (frozen) mint peas. She had a crate of Slade’s* soft drinks for the kids. And there was always a loaf of bread on the table (how very Greek). And we’d sit around, and talk, and just have a great time. Our parents would help with the dishes, as the kids would sit in front of the TV (usually watching Hey, Hey It’s Saturday, The Golden Girls, or a wholesome Saturday night movie). Our parents would then kiss us goodbye, and leave us under the care of Nanna. There was only one condition: we had to be at church in the morning. No exceptions.

As soon as mum and dad left, the party started. Nanna would break out the ice cream, chocolate topping, and lollies. As is the way with grandparents, you weren’t really full until you were writhing on the ground in pain, clenching your stomach. And even then, you could probably fit in another bite. After a speedy recovery fuelled by a hot chocolate, we’d set up some mattresses right in front of the TV, get into our PJs and settle in for the night. We’d watch the rest of the movie, or maybe play some board games, or sometimes get Nanna to tell us some stories of what our parents were like as kids.

Nanna and Grandpa raised my dad and two aunties on a farm on the Eyre Peninsular in South Australia. My favourite stories obviously involved my dad – how, when he was 14, he and grandpa would drive trucks loaded with livestock from the farm all the way the Perth. Or, after they sold the farm and moved to Adelaide, about the restaurant they owned, ‘Comleys’. Or even later, after everyone moved to Melbourne, Nanna would tell us about her time working at the zoo. I remember one story involved a very cruel zookeeper getting killed by an elephant he had been provoking for a while. I’m not sure if it’s true, but as Nanna knew, you should never let the truth get in the way of a good story.

After a good night’s sleep, we’d wake up super early, ready to make good on our promise to be at church in the morning. We’d fold up the mattresses, put the sheets and pillows away, have a shower, get dressed, and be ready for breakfast right on time. Coco-pops. Orange juice. Toast with that fake Kraft plastic cheese. It was truly the breakfast of champions. We would always be way ahead of time.

And then Nanna would need to clean the house. The whole house. “What would happen if there was an accident, and people saw the state the house was in?” she would say. At the time, we didn’t comprehend the morbidity of the statement, and as an adult had said it, it must’ve been true. So she would clean the house. Top to bottom. Not one surface was left un-vacuumed, unpolished, or unscrubbed.

We would then jam ourselves into her car, and make the drive from Springvale to Moorabbin. In record time. Nanna was a lead-foot. I’ve never seen a grandma drive like that. She expertly swung through roundabouts. Orange lights? Might as well be green. Red lights? That one was orange. (OK, that’s not entirely true). And of course after all that, we’d only be ten minutes late.

After church on Sunday afternoon, if we were lucky, would be spent again with Nanna. She’d take us to Southland and shout us to a movie (movie tickets were $5 in those days). While we were at the movies, she’d window-shop, drink Donut King coffee, and buy us more food. Upon our return home, we’d be wrecked and worn out. It was a perfect weekend for any kid.

But then we all grew older. Spending the weekends at Nanna’s place wasn’t so cool in high school. I had homework, and a social life of sorts. Nanna was getting older too. She’d visit us, and we’d see her about once a week, but the visits were becoming more formal. More often than not, she’d be the one to visit us. Gladly doing some ironing, or helping with some dishes. Anything to spend some time with the family.

Before long it became apparent that her health was declining. I can imagine few things worse than being diagnosed with dementia, and knowing exactly what’s coming, and knowing there’s nothing you can do to stop it. That, plus the knowledge that one day soon, everyone around you will be a stranger.

On her birthday last year, the family gathered around her. There were some moments when her eyes would light up, like she knew what was happening. But just as quickly, she would descend back into her chair and have that blank look on her face, with nonsensical words or sounds expelling from her mouth. When I think back to that, she seemed so much more alive back then than when I last saw her on Friday. I remember I came late to the party, and as I walked into the room she burst into tears. I don’t know if it was my presence (I have that affect on ladies), or some long-forgotten memory, or just her condition, but as I sat beside her she held my hand tightly and wouldn’t let go.

Before I left on Friday afternoon, I sat on the bed next to her, brushed her hair with my hand, and gave her a kiss on her forehead. “It’s Tim, Nanna” I said, trying to make eye contact and giving a big wave. “I love you.” I stopped myself from saying, “I’ll see you later.” because I knew I wouldn’t.

Last night was spent at my aunt and uncle’s house. Most of the cousins were there too. We played with the kids, had pizza, and a champagne toast to Nanna. There weren’t many tears, but lots of good memories. At one point in the night, my dad raised his glass, looked up to the sky and said, “Well, dad. We kept her here as long as possible, I hope you’ve enjoyed the silence.”  We all laughed- Nanna’s mouth was almost as fast as her driving.

I know it’s a funeral cliché, but seeing the family together is exactly what Nanna would’ve wanted. She loved any excuse to get us all together, and was quite often the life of the party. In the twenty-four hours she’s been gone, I’ve smiled on more than one occasion as a random memory has flashed into my mind of my time spent with Nanna. Those short flashes of happy memories are what it’s all about. Try to make as many as possible.

 Thanks, Nanna.

* For those who don't know what Slades Soft Drinks are: http://www.slades.com.au/