Discussion
Yes, even when expected it still comes as a shock to the system.
My MIL died last July at the age of 89. She had lived independently and enjoyed good health until she had a fall and broke her wrist, went into hospital and died three days later. We didn't get to the hospital on time as it was so sudden, so yes, a big shock. However, as practical folks we called at the undertakers on the way home and organised the funeral for ten days time and felt much better that we were in control of the situation. It wasn't until after the funeral that we really got to grips with what had happened and actually felt any bereavement.
Although we regret not being at the hospital when she died, we take great comfort in that she lived a full active life almost to the end.
Time does heal and you always think of them when a trigger happens, Christmas was the worst time for us,but life goes on. Keep positive and once the funeral is over things do get better and settle back to a new normality.
My MIL died last July at the age of 89. She had lived independently and enjoyed good health until she had a fall and broke her wrist, went into hospital and died three days later. We didn't get to the hospital on time as it was so sudden, so yes, a big shock. However, as practical folks we called at the undertakers on the way home and organised the funeral for ten days time and felt much better that we were in control of the situation. It wasn't until after the funeral that we really got to grips with what had happened and actually felt any bereavement.
Although we regret not being at the hospital when she died, we take great comfort in that she lived a full active life almost to the end.
Time does heal and you always think of them when a trigger happens, Christmas was the worst time for us,but life goes on. Keep positive and once the funeral is over things do get better and settle back to a new normality.
Eyersey1234 said:
Sadly my gran died yesterday morning at the age of 93 after a short illness, although we were expecting it there's still a touch of unreality about it. I'm seeing the undertakers with my mum later on to arrange the funeral.
My nan did to just after midnight she was 94, but last 5-6 years had bad dementia, so she was ready to go. Was sorting some of her stuff yesterday when I found the card she had put on the flowers for my grandad when he passed 9 years ago, it read how they had so happy for 59 years and that she will miss him 'very very much' and she would see him soon.I take heart in the fact they are all together now.
My condolences, I have only one grandparent left now, she is 97 and still fiercely independent and has all of her marbles but deep down you do get the feeling that she has had enough of life now, my dads death 4 years ago deeply affected her too.
She has an aortic aneurysm and hopes it will take her as it will be instant.
My other gran died 6 years ago now at 94; 6 months before her death she still lived by herself in her house in the centre of town, slept upstairs, walked to town and church etc, I miss her greatly, I saw her more often than all of her other grandchildren as she was local and we always used to put the world to rights; she was as sharp as a tack.
She has an aortic aneurysm and hopes it will take her as it will be instant.
My other gran died 6 years ago now at 94; 6 months before her death she still lived by herself in her house in the centre of town, slept upstairs, walked to town and church etc, I miss her greatly, I saw her more often than all of her other grandchildren as she was local and we always used to put the world to rights; she was as sharp as a tack.
So I'm possibly one of the least sentimental (if that's the right word) people I know, but this quote I saw on Reddit a few years back makes a lot of sense and I think sums up how it all feels (for me at least..)
/u/GSnow from reddit said:
Alright, here goes. I'm old. What that means is that I've survived (so far) and a lot of people I've known and loved did not. I've lost friends, best friends, acquaintances, co-workers, grandparents, mom, relatives, teachers, mentors, students, neighbors, and a host of other folks. I have no children, and I can't imagine the pain it must be to lose a child. But here's my two cents.
I wish I could say you get used to people dying. I never did. I don't want to. It tears a hole through me whenever somebody I love dies, no matter the circumstances. But I don't want it to "not matter". I don't want it to be something that just passes. My scars are a testament to the love and the relationship that I had for and with that person. And if the scar is deep, so was the love. So be it. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are a testament that I can love deeply and live deeply and be cut, or even gouged, and that I can heal and continue to live and continue to love. And the scar tissue is stronger than the original flesh ever was. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are only ugly to people who can't see.
As for grief, you'll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you're drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it's some physical thing. Maybe it's a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it's a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.
In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don't even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you'll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out. But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what's going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything...and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life.
Somewhere down the line, and it's different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O'Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you'll come out. Take it from an old guy. The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don't really want them to. But you learn that you'll survive them. And other waves will come. And you'll survive them too. If you're lucky, you'll have lots of scars from lots of loves. And lots of shipwrecks.
I wish I could say you get used to people dying. I never did. I don't want to. It tears a hole through me whenever somebody I love dies, no matter the circumstances. But I don't want it to "not matter". I don't want it to be something that just passes. My scars are a testament to the love and the relationship that I had for and with that person. And if the scar is deep, so was the love. So be it. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are a testament that I can love deeply and live deeply and be cut, or even gouged, and that I can heal and continue to live and continue to love. And the scar tissue is stronger than the original flesh ever was. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are only ugly to people who can't see.
As for grief, you'll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you're drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it's some physical thing. Maybe it's a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it's a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.
In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don't even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you'll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out. But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what's going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything...and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life.
Somewhere down the line, and it's different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O'Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you'll come out. Take it from an old guy. The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don't really want them to. But you learn that you'll survive them. And other waves will come. And you'll survive them too. If you're lucky, you'll have lots of scars from lots of loves. And lots of shipwrecks.
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