Goodbyes.

How do you say goodbye to someone you love?

What even is goodbye? What does it actually mean, really? Not the kind of goodbye where you’ll see them next week. Not even the kind where you’ll see them again.
Not ever.

One of the many things I’m still trying to unpack is the loss of a loved one. We lost Grandma.

I lost my grandma, and it’s hit me harder than I expected. But what do you really expect? How can you know how you’ll feel in a moment like that until you’re actually living it?

I’ve been somewhat lucky – or sheltered – to have never lost close family before. So these feelings were new to me. Confusing. Heavy. Unfamiliar.

How can someone who helped shape your childhood and your growth just… not be here anymore? How can she be here one day and then suddenly she’s just not?

Grandma. Our beautiful grandma. She was phenomenal.
Fiercely independent. Full of knowledge – the kind where you didn’t need to check a book for answers. The absolute queen of hosting, baking, cooking… she did it all. She loved life.

I didn’t realise just how badass she was until her funeral. Seeing all the photos and hearing the stories – the travelling, the exploring, the near-misses and heart-in-your-mouth moments (a few gun point robberies thrown in for good measure, of course) – it painted a picture I hadn’t fully seen before. Grandma was a powerhouse. She lived life to the full, achieving far more than I’d ever realised.

But it wasn’t just life she loved.
It was us. Her family.

Grandma was the glue – and I don’t say that lightly. She held everything together in a way you only truly appreciate when you step back and look at it.

I’ve never seen anyone host quite like her. Christmas, Easter, New Year’s, birthdays – you name it, Grandma could pull it off. And not just a few of us around a table with a simple dinner. I’m talking Easter egg hunts, home-made three-course meals with multiple starters and desserts to suit everyone – and when I say everyone, I mean it. And then there was New Year’s: transforming the cellar with lights, music, food, games – all for the grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

She loved her family so deeply. And we loved her just as much.
She gave me childhood memories I’ll never forget. She made my childhood.

In my early twenties (we won’t confirm how long ago that was), I lived with Grandma after leaving a very toxic, abusive relationship. During that time, I felt safe in ways I can’t even begin to describe. I had my own space, but I also had family close – just in case.

I still remember being discharged from hospital when I was quite poorly. Grandma insisted I sit in a wheelchair while she pushed me around Tesco to get my shopping. Isn’t it funny how details like what shop you were in stick with you? I remember the looks of disgust from people – strangers who, from their point of view – were watching a young girl who could clearly walk being pushed around by her elderly grandmother. I did try to say no, but she insisted. She wasn’t going to take no for an answer. That was like telling her grapes didn’t make me feel better in hospital. What do you mean grapes don’t make you better?

Oh, I love her so much.

I write this with mixed emotions – smiling as I remember the love in these moments, but feeling sad when I remember why I’m writing this at all. I’ve got a few battles going on in my head, but I wanted to remind myself of all the good she brought into our lives. (I’d better make my point soon, or this will turn into a short book.)

When she first died, I had this awful tug-of-war inside me. I was glad she was at peace. She had lived such a full life. But I also felt selfish for hurting – because I wanted her to still be here. That isn’t the loudest thought in my head anymore, though.

What’s louder now is the guilt.

In recent years, I didn’t see my grandma as much as I should have. I keep thinking about all the times I could have popped in when I was close by but was “in a rush” or “had to get back.” It’s not that I didn’t see her at all – just nowhere near as much as I could have. As much as I should have.

Now I’d give anything to pop in for a cup of tea and a bit of tiffin (even though tiffin was really her Christmas speciality). I’m grateful I saw her before she died. That last conversation. That last cup of tea. That last “I’ll see you next week, Grandma.”

I didn’t see her next week.

The last time I saw her was after she was gone – a decision I didn’t make lightly. I knew she wouldn’t be Grandma anymore, but I had to do it. So I sat by her bedside for a while. I talked to her. I cried. I told her I was glad she was at peace, and I told her how sorry I was that I hadn’t seen her more.

I saw her, and somehow it still didn’t feel real.

Even after the funeral, it’s real – but also not. It still feels like I could pop round the house and she’d be in the kitchen baking, or out in the garden with the birds – the places she really loved.

I’ve watched my dad and the rest of our family hurting with this loss, and it breaks my heart. But as we sat around a table together after the ceremony, my heart felt full of love. We reminisced. We laughed. We made plans for Easter dinner and egg hunts, just like old times. And for the first time in a long time, we were all just… together.

And that’s when I realised something.

Somehow, in her own way, Grandma still managed to bring us all back together again.

The glue that never unsticks.