There are ten of us gathered round her bed, crammed into the tiny hot room. Daughters, brothers, grandchildren, nephews, friends, all of us sharing a quiet desperation as we watch her struggle out of this world. She is my Nana Betty, and I cannot imagine life without her. I try not to think about what it will be like when she is gone, but my mind rebels and takes me to that place nonetheless. I am also taken back eighteen years to when the family lost another big heart, another Elizabeth.
Growing up, the two Elizabeths were a huge part of my life. Both were Nana, and somehow my mum’s mum became Betty and my dad’s became Bibith. As the first born granddaughter on both sides, it was a no-brainer that my middle name was Elizabeth. Like Bibith I am dark haired and slim. I share Betty’s love of film, art and literature. I find it infinitely comforting that there will be hundreds of other, tiny, influences and similarities, so subtle that I may never be aware of them.
Betty and Bibith had quite different lives, albeit within the parameters of the same small Ayrshire town. Both married in their twenties, Betty’s husband left her only a few years into the marriage to be a single parent of two daughters under five, my mum and aunt. They were taken in by Betty’s mother Helen, my great-grandmother, who I always knew simply as Gran, a complex, formidable woman with the kindest eyes and a steely front masking her soft heart. Widowed young, she was fiercely independent throughout her life and into her final days (incidentally, these were in the same nursing home as her daughter now lies – at the age of ninety four she was hurling her Zimmer frame down the stairs in protest against her confinement). Gran and Nana Betty grew old together under one roof, protecting one another despite a soundtrack of constant bickering. My memories of time spent with Gran and Nana Betty are warm and safe, a cosy retreat in which to recapture the smell of Gran’s delicious lentil soup and the sound of her needles as she crocheted one of her many multicoloured blankets.
Bibith met my Papa, a police officer, at twenty and they stayed happily married until her death from cancer at sixty one. My memories of their house are of noise, aunts and uncles and cousins milling around, parties and celebrations spilling out into Nana’s cherished garden. When Bibith’s heart stopped, the parties stopped too. She was the lynch pin of the family and her absence left a rip too large to be repaired. Things have deteriorated to the extent that two of her children no longer have any contact with her third. If Bibith was alive now, this would never have happened. The estrangement of the siblings, who now pass each other in the street with barely a nod, is a constant reminder of the loss of Bibith, and the younger generations have not escaped its effect. Only a baby now, when my son is old enough to walk those same streets on his own he will pass his cousin or great aunt with complete oblivion.
The death of a loved one can unite or divide a family. There is a definite sense of intimacy between the family members who are sharing this vigil in Nana Betty’s room. We protect and comfort each other, make constant cups of tea and sandwiches, share endless boxes of tissues. This Groundhog Day-esque existence has almost become a normal way of life for some of us. I sense a kind of confused grief – we want Nana Betty alive, breathing, here with us always, but we know she won’t get better and that despite the morphine being pumped into her there must surely be some sort of struggle going on, most likely a struggle of her spirit rather than her physical being. We will her to find peace, yet beg her to stay with us, where we can watch her, touch her, kiss her.
Undoubtedly during one of the long sad silences permeating the room we are each questioning our faith, or in some cases the lack thereof. My own mind battles between my scepticism and the absolute longing for my Nana to move on to a more peaceful place. I probably don’t believe that place exists but day by day I am starting to seriously question my agnostic inclinations. I know that this is selfish of me – my Nana did believe, so surely my feelings don’t affect her ultimate fate? Any sudden swerve of mine towards a religious faith at this stage would satisfy my peace of mind and nothing more. I am aware of this, yet the questions still rattle around inside my head demanding answers I’m not yet able to give.
Other questions, naturally, jostle to be heard. Does she know how much I love her? Did I really make it clear enough? Was she happy – truly happy? Did she have any regrets? Any secrets she wished she had shared? We can all assume certain truths to please ourselves, we daughters, brothers, grandchildren, nephews and friends, and we can discuss, which we do at length throughout the long days and nights huddled around our loved one. Another question – can she hear us? Is she aware that we are reminiscing about the good old days, each of us sharing for the umpteenth time our own particular favourite memory? So many memories, so many stories. We take comfort in our mutual nostalgia and from time to time the tiny room is brightened by jokes and laughter. Until the enormity of the situation hits us again like a smack to the face and we fall silent.
Bibith died when I was twelve, still so naïve in my beliefs and uncertain of my understanding of mortality, and – thanks to my parents – sheltered from the brutal reality of her cancer. I didn’t see her in the last days of her life, wasting away in a hospital bed. My memories are of her at her strongest, gently teasing my Papa over the dinner table, knotting a silk scarf at her slender neck, delighting me with her careful choice of my birthday present (the latest Nancy Drew book I had been coveting, or colourful clip-on earrings that made me feel so grown up). Even when I imagine her lying in that hospital bed, I see red lips smiling, hair neatly curled, arms reaching out to me for a cuddle. I know this would not have been the case at all, but this is how I remember her. Sadly, I never got to know Bibith the way I know Betty. With Betty I have bonded as an adult. She has seen the worst and the best of me. We have discussed everything from breast feeding to American politics to Brad Pitt (in respect of the latter, concluding that neither of us know what the fuss is about). I have introduced my son and his father to her. I am delighted that she loved them both as much as I do. I am devastated that she won’t share my wedding day or meet the children I hope to have in the future.
As a young girl on the cusp of adolescence, I was largely unaware of Bibith’s suffering. As an adult I can’t be protected from Betty’s pain. Yet I might as well be that child again, for as I hold her cold, thin hand, all I can think is how unfair this is. If stamping my feet and slamming doors would make any difference I would re-enact a thousand teenage tantrums. Watching this magnificent woman, whom I respect, adore and love absolutely, I hope that when I am in her place, as I one day certainly will be, I am surrounded by loved ones, just as she is. When it gets to that stage, who cares how much money you have made or lost, how exciting your life was, how many lovers you had? It all comes down to who is there to hold your cold, thin hand and softly say, I love you.
In memory of Elizabeth Trodden, 23/08/26 – 18/12/08
