“Please tell me this missed call from mum isn’t what I think it is”, I said to my sister knowing that there was no way she could tell me the truth through a message. I knew, though.
In 2020, my uncle was diagnosed with cancer for the second time. He was only 52. Living 250 miles away from most of my family has led to a lot of fractures and emotional distance between myself and family members but never Andy. Never his family.
Andy was my mum’s older brother and for a long time, our partner in crime. He lived with us when I was younger and it was because of him that I got into Star Wars. We spent the first half of my life with him arguing about music — he loved Pink Floyd, I loved B*Witched — and bonding over films.
As I got older, we bonded over both music and films plus a shared hatred of our Tory government. We were close.
I don’t have a dad around so when I moved into my own place and needed to do things like buy toolkits and fit a satellite TV, the first thing I did was phone Andy. My mum would have known the answers but I wanted the excuse to talk to him and he would take any excuse to talk about the things he knew about, even if they were as boring as fitting a TV service.
Andy was fond of reminding me of when I was younger. My love of feeding ducks, looking at ducks, talking about ducks and wearing my beloved red dress with, you guessed it, ducks on it. He knew that reminding me of those times was reminding me of being reminded but he didn’t care. Neither did I.
Now, I knew I was about to be told that I’d never see him again. I’d had my last reminder, my last debate, my last love-in over a cult film.
He had suffered from an intense cancer. He hated when people said that he fought cancer, saying to me through text, “it makes it easier for others if they think it’s a fight but I’m not fighting here, I’m having a shit time.”
The cancer left his immune system weakened and in one year, he had multiple bouts of sepsis followed by Covid. The damage, in the end, was irreparable.
The call wasn’t to tell me that he’d died but instead that he’d die soon
I was preparing myself for the news that he’d gone. After a weekend of uncertainty and waiting, I expected to hear that he just didn’t pull through this time. Instead, I was told that there was no more treatment available and he had a couple of weeks left to live.
It was December 2021, my city was under lockdown and so was my home city, where he was. I couldn’t get to him. I couldn’t risk getting sick and passing it to relatives and I couldn’t risk speeding up the process of losing him so I couldn’t say goodbye.
Instead, I texted him. I knew he wouldn’t be able to read it but my auntie would read it to him. I said, “Andy I love you so much, you’ve always been my hero. I know you can’t read or reply but I just don’t know where to put this.”
Then I was left at home, days before Christmas, mourning somebody who wasn’t gone. Somebody that had been a crucial part of my life, for my whole life. Somebody that helped raise and shape me. Somebody I knew I’d never recover from losing.
I mourned the man that he was, the funny, popular, clever man. The loving uncle. The snarky scamp in the corner of every family gathering. The keen golfer, cricketer and Everton fan.
I mourned us. I mourned our in-jokes, knowing we’d never have another. I mourned our memories. I thought of the last time I saw him, two months previous when I turned up at my grandparents house and he smiled, telling me I looked like my nan. I thought of the first time he saw an orchestra — it was with me, we both cried.
I mourned everything he’d miss. His grandchild being born, his other grandchildren growing up, the rest of his four kids’ lives.
But, he was still here. I’d found myself in a strange sinkhole of grief, surrounded by twinkling Christmas lights and stories of families reuniting while I mourned somebody that was still by all accounts, alive.
How do you get over the loss of somebody that’s still here? How do you accept that mere months ago that the cancer was shrinking and now they’re going to die anyway? How do you cope with this unfairness in the middle of a pandemic?
If I ever find out, I’ll let you know.
What I was experiencing was ‘anticipatory grief’
While this was completely new to me, anticipatory grief is quite common. Often experienced by people who are caring for those with caring or extremely life-limiting conditions and according to the bereavement charity Cruse, the following feelings are all common:
- Anxiety
- Anger
- Loneliness
- Guilt
- Exhaustion
- Anticipation
- Sleep difficulties
- Digestive upsets
Of course, grief of any kind is familiar to all humans. It’s one of the things that we all share, regardless of who we are or where we are from. That being said, though, it still feels so difficult to discuss. Both as the person grieving and as people looking to support grievers.
How do you support somebody through the impossible?
I don’t know but the one thing my loved ones did was try. And it made a difference. They called, they messaged, they cried with me, they offered to come to the funeral. There was no way of fixing what was happening but knowing I wasn’t alone softened the considerably mighty blow.
The leading mental health charity Mind recommends that if you’re helping somebody who is experiencing grief, you should do the following:
- Acknowledge the loss and don’t avoid contact. It’s understandable to feel uncomfortable speaking about death or other losses, or to worry that you might say the wrong thing, but staying silent or not contacting somebody after their bereavement can often make feelings of isolation and sadness worse. Reaching out to the bereaved person so that they know you are available to talk and listen if they would like to can be incredibly helpful
- Consider how best to be in contact. There are different ways to grieve and there are different ways to communicate after a loss too. Receiving text messages may be easier for somebody to manage than returning calls. Dropping in to see them in person may be welcome for some but may be an inconvenience for others. It is worth asking the person what they’d prefer rather than making assumptions
- Give them space. Not wanting to spend lots of time with other people or feeling guilty at not acknowledging messages could be an additional burden for a grieving person, so it can be worth letting them know they can respond whenever they feel able, or simply send them a message to let them know you are thinking of them and that no response is needed. Adapting to life after a loss can take a long time and people should be allowed the space to process their emotions for as long as they need. It is useful if you can strike a balance between contacting them so that they do not feel isolated but also giving them space. Again, asking them what they need is a good idea
Nothing could change it, nothing could reverse time and nothing could bring him back but while I was in the unfamiliar, painful world of anticipatory grief, I’m glad nobody stepped away.