Numbness, food and funerals

Let’s try this again. It’s now 4am, I have slept for a little while, but my head has gone into overdrive for lots of reasons. No matter how hard you convince yourself if you just close your eyes and pretend you’re a New Zealand sheep farmer, (well they have lots of sheep to count) you still can’t sleep. Perhaps it was the fact my mind wandered and I thought that some New Zealand sheep farmers do more than count the sheep and that was enough to never make me sleep again, but I digress…… I'm writing this in Word now and will post it when I get a chance. Not taking any more chances......

The only way I can describe the feeling in the days after nan’s death and before the funeral is numbness. Total numbness. I’ve had this feeling before. I didn’t think I’d have it again quite so soon. You function because you know you have to, you go through the motions of life, but you often wonder what on earth you did to occupy the day. Perhaps your thoughts just consume you and time passes without you realising it. I guess I’m lucky to have the ‘luxury’ of not ‘having’ to do anything. I don’t have to run a major corporation in the midst of grief. No one depends on anything I do. I work at a great place where my boss can get by without me. He is a family orientated man and he simply just says when I need to get away, just go, we’ll manage, take as long as you need. I’m very lucky, I know that. Things seem to go in slow motion. Things that normally take you a couple of minutes to do, seem to take half an hour. Things that take you half an hour to do, seem to take a few hours. There is no sense of urgency. No matter how quickly or slowly you do something, the thought is always there, nan isn’t coming back. People come and go constantly. You ‘feel’ you need to put on a brave face for them, because you have a feeling, which is fairly accurate, they don’t know what to say. ‘Most’ people who come, bring food, why?? It starts to drive me crazy. I’m not being ungrateful here, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but why do people feel the need to bring food? When they come to visit in normal circumstances, they don’t bring food. What is it about death that makes people think we need food? Yes, I understand they think it’s something less we have to worry about. One thing in the day we don’t have to think about, what we should eat for dinner. Ok, ok, I understand all that. But why bring enough food for 6-8 people when there are only 3 of us? Everyone who knows us know there is only mum, dad and I. There is the dog, but I don’t think they think about that when they bring the food. My dad is an only child, I’m an only child. There won’t be hoards of family coming to stay. If you’re one of those people who feel the need to bring food, thank you so much for your generosity and care in preparing that food. My main concern is wastage and the hard work and effort that someone has gone to in preparing beautiful food. I think about what we could do with a now steadily building freezer of lovely pasta dishes. My dad works in an environment where he sees people in need. He knows there are people out there who go without food, just so they can feed their children. He knows people who have to come to him and ask him for referrals to charity organisations, just so the kids can have something to eat. Why don’t some of the people bringing food to us, make food for these families in real need? I know it gets tricky, zork is a rural community. It’s not a small country town though. Some people would have no idea who the families in need would be and that’s the way it should be. But town talk would also make it known who some of the families in need would be. I guess people who need help the most don’t have shingles hanging on the front gate that says ‘Family in Need Within’.

I’m home alone on Sunday afternoon. My parents have gone to nans to organise a couple of things. The doorbell rings. I can see as I’m walking to the door a lady I know, a family friend of sorts, is standing there with yet another casserole dish. That’s another question, where do all these casserole dishes come from? Perhaps it’s a conspiracy by casserole dish manufacturers. They hear of another death and think yes! that’s another casserole dish being used. It’s also another dilemma. When someone gives you a casserole dish full of food, and you tell them it won’t able to be eaten straight away, are they sure they’d like to leave it with us and when they say, yes of course, you then ask would they like us to transfer it to a dish of our own (not that we have as many as filled casserole dishes that are accumulating in the freezer) or can we return it at a later date? Everyone takes the latter option. So that means that family go without using that dish until we return it. Let’s hope there are no more deaths soon where they need another casserole dish to give to another family. I know I’m trivialising this, but while you have plenty of time on your hands, while you’re in slow motion, you think the strangest things, don’t you? I hope I’m not the only person who thinks like this.

I open the door and invite the lady inside. She declines and uses the phrase I’ve heard many times over the past few days ‘No, no, I don’t want to intrude, I just brought something for you to have. So you don’t have to worry about getting anything ready for dinner’. What should I say? Can I use my grief as an excuse for perhaps offending someone right now? I run with that option. Thinking quickly on my feet, the conversation went something like this.

Me: Thank you so much for your offer of food, we have been inundated by friends, it is getting embarrassing. We don’t think we will ever be able to get through so much food.

Lady with casserole in hand: It’s ok, it’s the least we can do. Your mum and dad are great people, they would do the same. (note to mum and dad: if you ever read this, please please don’t do the same).

Me: Because we have been offered so much food, would you be offended if I offered your food to a family in real need?

Lady with casserole in hand, who has now taken a step backwards: Oh

Me: Sorry if that’s not the right thing to ask, I’m just trying to think of a logical option.

-------silence------------

---------------------more silence----------------

----------awkward feet shuffling--------

Lady with casserole with tight grip on casserole: I hadn’t thought of that before. I can see your point though

Me in my head: Was that an agreement?
Me verbally: Would it be ok?

Lady with casserole with not so tight grip: Yes, that would be a nice thing to do. Would you tell the people where it came from?

Me wondering if now is the right time to reach out and take the casserole before she changes her mind: That’s totally your decision

Lady who is now offering the casserole dish: No, I don’t think I would want anyone to know. I wouldn’t want them to think I thought of them as a charity case.

Me totally confused in my head thinking does that mean mum, dad and I are charity cases: that’s cool.

Lady who is now casseroleless: You’re a really caring girl.

Me now holding casserole, shuffling feet embarrassed: heh, thanks.

Casseroleless lady now retreating slowly from the door: Tell mum and dad I’m thinking of them and will catch up with them soon

Me: I will and thank you again for your really kind offer. I’m sure it will be appreciated.

I shut the door. I want to stand and bang my head on the door, but instead I do the right thing and take the casserole that is now firmly in my hands and put it in the fridge. I try not to analyse the whole event too much. But I know I will. I know it will bug me for days to come. (ok the ‘days’ is now a month later, but hey, I’m human).

Mum and dad arrive home and are a little shocked at what I tell them. Mum tells me I can’t do that. Dad tells mum, but she already did. We all smile. I arrange to take the casserole to a family I know would really appreciate it, this close to christmas when money is a serious issue. The woman is very embarrassed, but also very grateful. I tell her that it would mean a lot to dad if he knew the food was being appreciated. I also ensure her no one else needs to know. I leave there feeling a little lighter in spirit. I know we could just give the food to people, but I also know that it wouldn’t be morally the right thing to do and could get rather tricky if person A didn’t know person B was receiving gesture from person A. Person B mentions to person A in passing that they had a lovely casserole given to them by person C and person A works out that was the casserole that was meant for person C, not person B.

Once again, if you are a person A , thank you so much. I hope I haven’t sounded ungrateful.

I just wish there was an easy solution.

There are certain things that you are really grateful that someone takes full control of. Organising the funeral is one of them. The couple from the funeral home come on the Monday to organise everything. It felt a little like we were embarking on having a new kitchen built. They came with samples of timber, samples and colours of cloth, pictures of handles and fancy things. I sat there a lot of the time thinking, does it really matter. Will someone stand there and judge us on what kind of coffin we choose? Will anyone care if the handles are silver or gold, have fancy bits or not? I know any funeral I’ve been to, not that I’ve been to many, I wouldn’t have had a clue if the coffin was green, pink or blue, I only go to show my respect, not to come away and think wow, they put him or her in that kind of coffin? Perhaps other people look at things in a different manner to me. I just wanted to say, just choose anything, Nan really wouldn’t mind, but dad makes the choices. We then decide what kind of service we are going to have. None of us are religious. None of us even contemplate a church service. It would seem hypocritical to suddenly want to go to a church when it’s not something we ever did. We decide on a graveside service. The man from the funeral home asks if we would like someone to say anything at the service. A voice I know to be my own suddenly speaks. ‘I would like to say something at the service’. I search in my head and think, did I just say that out loud. By the looks on the 4 other people sitting in the room, I realise that yes I did. The man asks if we want anyone else to speak. Dad says no, just me speaking would be enough. I think, well done girl, that was a clever thing to do. Mum must know the inner turmoil suddenly going on inside my head and just smiles and says, ‘you will be fine’. I still haven’t worked out why people tell me I’m a strong person all the time. Times like this I’m on the total opposite end of feeling strong. We discuss what songs, if any, we want played. We agree that at the start of the service nan’s favourite song which was Danny Boy, should be played. At the end of the service, dad says he wants Wendy Matthew’s, The Day You Went Away played. He says he knows it doesn’t relate to nan’s situation, but he feels it would be a fitting end. We all agree.

The next day for me is consumed with me preparing something to say. I write and rewrite it until I’m happy that it expresses how I feel about nan. I ask a friend who means a great deal to me if they would read it through and give me an honest opinion on whether it’s ok. They read through it and make a couple of suggestions. I take them on board and I’m happy with the final version. I will reprint what I said at the end of this, for no other reason that I want people to understand what nan really meant to me.

The funeral time arrives. We are all upset, but we know there is nothing we can do about it. My time arrives, I’m scared shitless, but I also know it’s something I need to do. For myself and for nan. I read through what I had prepared, stopping a few times to cry, stopping a few times to focus and gain composure. I finish, people clap. I’m dumbstruck, why are they clapping? I felt like I was in a public speaking competition. This is not about me, it’s about nan! I try to work out what the hell happened. One of nan’s close friends comes up to me after the service, offer me a hug and tell me what I said was beautiful. I ask if they clapped? They say yes and I ask why. They tell me because what I said was exactly how nan was to all of them and they were showing appreciation for her not for how I said it. I thanked them for putting it in perspective for me.

The day after the funeral, it gets quiet. People don’t call around as much, the food has stopped arriving. Perhaps people think we can all cope again now.


It’s just gone 5.40am. I might try shutting my eyes for a few minutes, then start my day properly.


What my Nan means to me…………………..

While thinking about what to say today, I thought I’d look up the word grandmother in the dictionary and see what it said.

I looked in most dictionaries, and most of you who know our family, would know there are a few of them around the place.

The most recurring definition was:

Grandmother

The mother of one’s father or mother
A female ancestor

Yes, those definitions are accurate, but they didn’t mean enough and are very clinical.

So I thought I would then look up Nanna.

The Mesopotamian god of the full moon.

I don’t think that’s the Nanna I know, unless she lived a clandestine life we didn’t know about.

Ok I figure it’s time for my favourite word for her, which was simply Nan.

A river of western Thailand flowing about 563km generally southward to join the Ping River and form the Chao Phraya.

Or Nan is also a variant of naan, which means:

A flat leavened bread of northwest India, made of white flour and baked in a tandoor.

As you might be starting to realise none of these summed up my Nan.

My only option was to write my own description.

How does one start to describe someone who has been there your whole life?

Do you start with the beginning or the end? Or do you just waffle on and hope at the end an accurate definition of someone you love becomes clear. I’ve chosen the latter.

Nan had the best bandaids. At home, we had plain boring brown bandaids. Practical, always practical, but boring. Nan always had special bandaids. She might have bought round ones or the funny shaped ones or coloured ones or cartoon character ones. I knew that if I had hurt myself and had a boring brown bandaid, the cut or graze would still hurt, but as soon as I got to Nan’s and got a special bandaid, with a special kiss to go with it, the wound would always feel so much better.

How can you describe a Nan hug? Soft, warm, gentle, and ever so loving. I remember sitting on her couch after a bath when I was little, if I was having a sleep over. Her and pop would be finishing up doing whatever it was that Nan and pops did and all I wanted was a special Nan hug on the couch. Nan always said, “Come here and let me hug you”. Some of my friends and I would call into Nans on the way home from school. We knew there would be cake. We knew there would be lemonade. I knew the deal though. To get that cake and lemonade there had to be a trade off. The trade off was a Nan hug. I think I went through a stage when I thought it was uncool to have a Nan hug, but my friends never said anything, so I soon got over thinking it was uncool and just enjoyed the Nan hug.

Nan’s food. Everyone knows about Nan’s food. She made two things that she was renowned for. Sausage rolls and apple pie. She always had sausage rolls in the freezer. I could ring her up and say, Nan I’m on my way over, can you put some sausage rolls on for when I get there? When I got there, she always had put on way too many, so we usually ended up going outside and feeding the leftovers to the birds. Her apple pie was the best apple pie. She tried to show me how to make it a few times. Mine never looked anything like hers. My pastry always ended up looking like something that would have probably sunk the titanic if it hadn’t hit the iceberg, and the apples usually looked like baby food, which I think even a starving baby would have puked back up. She kept encouraging me and telling me that one day I would get it right. Well Nan, one day I will get it right. I just don’t know which day that will be. But not all of Nan’s culinary adventures were a good thing. I remember telling her I didn’t like something and thought it was yuck. I got in trouble for telling Nan it was yuck and dad got in trouble for telling me I was wrong to say it was yuck. I told Nan her curried sausages were yuck. Dad said I shouldn’t have said it quite so bluntly. Nan’s comment to dad was, Nicholas, let the child speak her mind. I always giggled when I heard dad being called Nicholas. I soon learned he only got called that when he was in trouble. Dad then proceeded to ask Nan how come if he had said something was yuck, he would have been told to eat it regardless and to think of people not so well off as him. Nan just smiled at dad and said, granddaughters get special privileges. I think it was one of my first lessons in tact.

Nan and tact. More often than not, they didn’t go hand in hand. Nan usually spoke her mind, sometimes without thinking of the consequences. A few months ago, Nan and I were having a discussion and she said something that I felt was quite hurtful and wrong, so being her granddaughter and with my special privileges in mind, I told her. She was taken aback that I had thought she meant something bad by it. I left Nan’s that day on not such great terms. She rang me that night while I was still in zork and asked me to come and see her before I went home the next day. It was probably the only time I’d left Nan’s on bad terms. I didn’t sleep well, but still couldn’t get out of my mind what Nan had said. I saw her the next day, and I got a special Nan hug, she told me she was sorry, that she hadn’t meant anything bad by what she said, but she just hadn’t thought. She then looked at me and said I love you precious girl. She also said, I’ve made you sausage rolls to take home. I hope she knew I forgave her.

She was the lady who read to the kids at the school, made them little gifts. She always had her favourites and would often tell me about whom her current favourite was. Usually by the time she’d finished telling me, it would end up being the whole class. Because mum worked and couldn’t do things like Canteen duty at high school, Nan always did it instead. The days she was rostered on, I’d often go to the canteen just to see Nan. She always made a fuss and wanted to know what I wanted, her shout. Her shout usually ended up being expensive. Any of my friends who wanted to buy something were never allowed to pay. She would always say, “Don’t worry about paying, it’s my shout. Let an old lady have some indulgences” That was Nan. She was in her element knowing someone needed her help. Nan wasn’t a church goer, she didn’t even have a religion as far as I know. But she had friends who were involved in different churches. If anyone was called upon to offer assistance for anything, Nan would always volunteer, no matter which church group were looking for assistance. She visited people in hospital, just so they knew there was someone around who would have a chat and listen. There was Nan’s walking group as well. She started off a group of friends going walking a couple of days a week. Some would say they didn’t feel like going etc etc. I pity those people, they didn’t stand a chance. She would just say, oh bollocks, get off your butt and come with us. More often than not, I think they ended up going. She was very persuasive. She was involved in starting the Monday morning Oldies session at the pool too. I was home one Monday, and she told me to come along. I remember looking at her and saying, you have got to be kidding. I’m not going swimming with a bunch of old people. She scoffed, told me to grow up and to change my attitude. Of course, I ended up at the pool. I also ended up having a really good time. Another lesson in humility; courtesy of Nan.

There is one thing I want to thank Nan for that I never expressed in words while she was with us. I’d like to thank Nan for giving us my dad. The past few days haven’t been easy for him. I know he is who he is because of Nan and Pop and I am who I am because of him and mum. When Pop died, Nan told us that we weren’t to feel sorry for ourselves that Pop wouldn’t have liked that. I know if she wanted us to know anything right now it would be to get on with our lives and remember to enjoy it to its fullest while we’re here. One of her favourite sayings, which came home to roost on Thursday was, “You just don’t know when your number is up”.

I saw Nan last weekend a few times while I was home. I called in and saw her on Monday before I left. She was her usual self, happy. She’d been to her swim session and was organising the break up day and what she had planned for everyone. Hopefully, you will all continue with that next Monday and think of Nan while you have your break up party. We spoke about Christmas dinner. Nan always cooked the pork. We always had apple pie, even though it’s not traditional Christmas food. It was just the done thing. I checked Nan’s freezer the other day and I saw there was an apple pie there. I guess we will still get to have apple pie this Christmas. It’s funny though, I don’t remember Nan ever freezing apple pie. I asked dad if he remembered her freezing apple pie. He smiled and just said in his best Nan voice “It’s got to be fresh! You can’t have frozen apple pie!!” So Nan, why is there an apple pie in the freezer?

So as you can imagine, if we were basing the word Nan on my Nan, the dictionary needed to describe her would be a very large book indeed and I doubt I’d find a willing publisher.

So I will sum up what I think the definition should be:

Nan: An amazingly, wonderful lady, offering unconditional love.


I am privileged to have known that amazingly, wonderful lady who gave me unconditional love for 21 years.


PS. I know I don’t know when to stop writing. I know I write a lot. A close friend and I commonly refer to my writing as waffle. One day I might learn to paraphrase……