Fourth Form of Madness

My nanna was a woman of god, a true devotee. She didn’t swear, instead she used words like “pussycat” or “jumper” when something made her cross, which was usually when she dropped a stitch in her knitting. I loved being babysat by her and Poppa, they used to surprise my brother and I with new Abba records and Nanna used to play the piano whilst we would try to warble along the best way we could, killing every note with little mercy. At night, tucked up alongside her, Nanna used to sneakily trick me into falling asleep by playing her “Who can be quietest for the longest” game. I fell for it every time, and was soon slumbering in peace as I’m guessing so was she. Most of all I remember her stories she would tell me, now I recognise them as always having moral substance, a code to live by, but at the time I just loved listening to her voice and the tales.

My Nanna suffered greatly though out her life with mental afflictions that although labelled many names were never cured. These bouts of illness would last many years at a time, with long stays in institutions, many bouts of shock treatment and copious amounts of medications. Without being to Pollyanna about it, these were dark times full of suffering, but they were also times filled with something else. Being a young girl and then woman watching her beloved Nanna endure this suffering was difficult but it also at the same time filled me with so much respect and awe for this gentle and kind lady who had the resilience, strength and courage to come back time and time again from the brink of desolation always with her love of god intact.

One such time occurred when I was in my late twenties, Nanna had been in a catatonic state in an institution for over six months. I would visit with my mother and watch as my mother lovingly spooned food into her mother-in-law’s mouth that more often than not dribbled out. This feeding ritual during this phase taught me so much about the beauty of duty, much more than Kant could ever dream of portraying in his words. Truly this time it seemed the Nanna we knew was lost to us and we were being advised that this might very well be the case. Fast forward two weeks and I am taking Poppa to visit Nanna, My Poppa was in the early stages of Alzheimer’s at this point so his conversation could be a bit random which made for many an interesting moment. I had spent the journey trying to in still in Poppa not to expect to much from Nanna and that she wouldn’t actually be talking to us today. You should never make predictions about life. There we were walking to the visiting room, when I realised that the very talkative women I was staring at being wheeled down the hallway towards me was none other than my Nanna . Admittedly she did think Poppa was her brother and she kept calling me Lorraine but on the other hand Poppa kept calling me Denise and thought we were still in war times just before he left for it. As I sat there mulling over the flimsiness of identity and reality, and marvelling at my Nanna’s ability to bounce back from oblivion, Nanna started asking about church timetables and I knew she was truly back!

In the later years of my Nanna’s life she required constant care in a nursing home. Years on assorted medications had affected her kidneys so all medications had to be stopped. For most of the last five years of her life, she slept, waking occasionally throughout the week to take minimum food and liquids. Nanna was around 40kgs and suffering. When I visited most often than not she was asleep but always crying out in her slumber so I was concerned with what mental state and mental trials she might be enduring. On the occasions I visited and she was awake, she was always in a state of anxiety and confusion, which I soon learnt could be settled by reading to her from the Bible. I read, she would become subdued and contemplative and usually say something reflective about the passage. There were times I tried to sneak in Buddhist readings and other spiritual texts, at which she would listen politely and then say “Could you read to me from the Bible dear”, I guess Nan had her favourites. On one visit where she was asleep one of the carers told me that Nanna would often awake from days on end of being asleep to say to whoever was in the room “Do you know God?” with so much authority that people were afraid to say if they were atheists. This kept me chuckling for quite some time on the journey home.

I was asked to give a eulogy at my Nan’s funeral. I tried to portray what a remarkable woman of god and all the things she taught me through the living of her life but at the end of the day, words are words – it is through the living of all experiences that understanding comes. I don’t think I have known anyone, in the flesh, with more resilience than her, more acceptance of the way life is. But I guess above all, I look at my Nanna as an incredible story of love. After all she endured, and it was vast and horrific, she loved god/ life, just the way it was, over and over again.