Love and Loss

Another serious one, I'm afraid. Yesterday, one of my best friends lost their Grandmother, and I didn't know how to reach out to her in a sensitive, subtle way: face-to-face risks tears, phone risks tears, letters are a bit corny and facebook/email seems slightly tacky, so I'm going for a blog post, mainly because it's the only other outlet I could think of.

I've always felt an affinity towards Amy with regards to our grandparents, because both of us had grandmas cursed with dementia. Dementia is one of those diseases that has no cure, no treatment and no real understanding, and as such it's one of the scariest prospects I think it's possible to be faced with. It's almost impossible to get through it with dignity, it must be terrifying to know it's happening to you, and it's immensely painful for the ones around you that love you. The only real way to get through a loved one's dementia, I think, is to find what humour you can and treat it as lightly as is possible. That might sound crass, but to be honest, when you've been asked for the eighth time in five minutes what day it is, your options are to laugh or to cry, and bearing in mind how frequently these situations occur, I would always go for laughter.

Amy always handled her grandma's illness with humour, grace, good spirits and as little bitterness as it's possible to feel. I've always admired her for that. But one of the worst things about dementia - worst, almost, than your Nan forgetting who you are, accidentally dropping forgotten cigarettes on the carpet and being too scared to even visit the doctor's - is the feeling left behind when they have gone. Because of course you feel grief, loss, emptiness, but at the same time there is an undeniable but shameful streak of relief. Admitting to it will inevitably make you feel guilty beyond compare, but there's no point in lying: when a loved one has reached the stage where they are no longer safe to be left alone, when everything they cared for has either been taken from them or forgotten and when their family's every waking thought is haunted by the worries and concerns dementia brings, death feels like a kind of escape.

And if Amy does feel that way, I hope she knows that it's understandable, forgivable and completely ordinary. Dementia is a horrible disease to live with, and if passing away is the only way of providing freedom from it, I think most people would take it.

Amy's been one of my closest friends for years now, and I know her well enough to be aware that her concern will be for her Mum, not herself, and I know that there are three things that are always there and will get her through this. Her family, her music, and her friends. And I know that she knows it will be alright; it always is, in the end.