It was on my way to work when my sister texted me, telling me that my nanny, my mum’s mum, had passed away.
It was 7am, I had barely woken up and the full understanding of what had happened was delayed.
It wasn’t until I was standing on a bridge, walking to work, looking at the text again, that it began to register. My nanny was dead – my last maternal grandparent who I had not seen for 10 years was gone. No chance to say goodbye, no chance to explain or catch up.
Memories returned to me of the books she kept, the milk jelly she made and the working out Countdown problems by her armchair.
For years, she had suffered with severe dementia, but I only knew this second-hand as I had not seen my nanny for years. I became estranged from my mum after years of feeling manipulated, humiliated and bullied. In turn I’d lost contact with some of my other family, including her mum.
Now, I had to deal with my grief in light of this estrangement. Beneath the sadness, the beginnings of anxiety started to creep in.
Most of the family I was about to contact again, to offer my condolences, I had not seen in a decade; I imagined from their point of view, I had up and left, broken all ties, without any explanation, without reaching out. They might have understood my issues with my mum – the difficult positions she had put me in – but my nanny hadn’t done anything wrong.
In my family, the smallest disagreement causes battle lines to be drawn, sides to be picked, and anything caught in the crossfire becomes collateral damage.
After weighing up the virtues and vices of my relationship with my mum, the in-jokes versus anxieties, for my own sake I had to stop seeing her. When I stopped seeing my mum, my relationships with the rest of the family became that collateral. I am not in the nature of forcing others to choose sides; she was sister, daughter, and aunt long before I came along.
While some relationships were revisited, special aunts, uncles and cousins kindly reaching out, my relationship with my nanny was shelved. Though a flawed individual, my nanny and I never had a falling out.
Sure, I can’t think of a single visit where she didn’t comment on my weight (gained or lost), but we got on. Like any grandparent and grandchild, we had our own special things; any mythological clue from her Sunday paper crossword, she’d leave for me.
Not only was I dealing with grief, I was feeling intense guilt: that I never visited her while she was sick, or got to explain everything to her, to share my life in a few visiting hours.
And as the funeral approached, I was faced with a number of questions. Do I greet people? Will I be allowed at the graveside, welcomed at the wake? Should I go at all?
I had played the scene over and over in my mind – walking into the funeral to heads turning and whispering, like a saloon in a Western movie, the out-of-towner strolling into a crowd of locals. Knowing that my reception could be hostile, if any at all, I had doubts about attending the funeral.
But I couldn’t let the possible reactions I’d built up in my mind stop me from going. I couldn’t let my relationship, or lack thereof, with my mum stop me from doing the right thing. If I went and regretted it, I’d eventually get over it. If I didn’t go and regretted it, there would never be a way to correct it.
We – my dad and I – planned to slip into the back pew once the funeral had started, pay our respects discreetly and leave before we could be seen. Less dramatic than I’d imagined, but there was still less-than-subtle whispering once we’d been spotted. Seeing the back of my mum’s head, being able to pick her out from the crowd, was the closest I got to her that day; anything more would’ve been too much.
It was like all those trashy American TV shows I used to watch: the funeral scene with the family, the mistress in the back, having to grieve not only in private, but in secret. What I had done, left and cut contact, was against the social contract between grandchild and grandparent. My mourning felt as clandestine and morally undeserved as a mistress’.
The way I mourned for my nanny, the way I was permitted to, was by no means ordinary
I didn’t go to the grave or the wake. It would’ve been awkward and wouldn’t have been appropriate. After the funeral, I was invited to see the relatives that I could. One afternoon was spent with my uncle and his family, meeting cousins and cousins’ spouses and their babies. I was able to catch up and remember my nanny together, without being watched by unfriendly eyes.
Only this year, while visiting a friend, did I finally get a chance to visit the grave. I had underestimated the significance of going to see my nanny’s final resting place.
This finality, the final stages of grief, had been postponed since the funeral. Having not participated in the usual mourning and funeral practices – emotional, familial and spiritual – I felt compelled to do something, just for me and Nanny.
It was spring, so I left bunches of daffodils. I told her everything I hadn’t been able to say while she was alive. I apologised for not being there, for not contacting her, and laying out all my reasons. I caught her up on my life.
Mine were not the only bunch of flowers there – I knew the other bouquet would be from my mum. Ironically, I was haunted more by that, a floral representation of her presence, her policing my own mourning, than being in the cemetery. But they were only flowers, and I was free to mourn and grieve and remember, even cry a little.
Being there, finally graveside, I felt I’d made huge strides towards being at peace with my relationship with my nanny, before and after her passing. Closer to closure without any family politics or feuds impeding me.
Between the funeral and visiting my nanny’s grave, I’d visited a psychic with friends. I had no expectation of my nanny coming through – she was a staunch Catholic and would have been horrified I was going to a psychic. But, to my surprise, the psychic told me that was indeed there, reaching her hands over to me and saying the words, ‘I know’.
Those two little words, captured in the present tense, could have been referring to anything from my coming out to graduating from university. To everything I’ve done and am doing; she could ‘know’ I’m writing this article – and that brings me such great comfort that perhaps no standard mourning could’ve supplied.
The way I mourned for my nanny, the way I was permitted to, was by no means ordinary. The complicated non-relationship I have with my mum and the ripple effect it had on the family prevented me from feeling and doing certain things at the time.
But by visiting her grave, talking to her, I’ve managed to come to terms with my loss despite of this. Though years down the line, I know I’ve grieved and thought about my nanny in the best way I could. And as the psychic said, she knows too.
Degrees of Separation
This series aims to offer a nuanced look at familial estrangement.
Estrangement is not a one-size-fits-all situation, and we want to give voice to those who’ve been through it themselves.
If you’ve experienced estrangement personally and want to share your story, you can email [email protected] and/or [email protected]
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