Death Cab

I’ve become so good at death and that scares the living shit out of me.

I am very sure that people actually love death. It’s a gram of cocaine for the geriatric. They’ll skin a great-grandchild for a fix of funeral, and why not, it’s the only time they see their mates and get away from family. The torture of a timeous passing is hell.

When my gran died, unexpectedly, I took the news very similarly to when I heard about my mom and brother. Rightly or wrongly, I got on with things. At thirteen my dad told me about my mother and I went for a shower. At 21 when he told me about my brother, I comforted my gran and then quickly went to the shops to buy tupperware. Inevitably when someone dies, people come to your house with a fuck load of food, I needed to prepare.

‘Pat’s dead, Arthur, Arthur clear out the deep freeze.’

I’ve become so good at death, I have learnt to watch how others deal with it. When my gran died, my cousin put photos up on Facebook , I’m not even sure that she has the right gran. Thank god her other gran is dead too, she’d be highly fucking offended. JENNY — Tammy killed you on Facebook last night!

My father announced her death on Facebook, I think it was his way of telling people. I judge how others deal with these things and maybe this is mine. I do though, I judge. I judge the group of people on Facebook who are in a unique competition to see who is saddest. I got into shit once for defending the poor people that let you know that you’re only dealt the cards you can handle. I felt like I was debating against a Death Cab for Cutie album.

Sad people are also angry people.

But my gran is dead. Even as I stare at that sentence it doesn’t make it less real. I still battle to believe that my mother is really dead, hopefully she just left us. Not being wanted is better than death. I see my brother in the mirror all the time, and he got fucking old and grumpy and little bit too judgemental over a bunch of depressed, single 30 somethings who love music that makes them sadder.

The stages of grief I am supposed to follow do not apply. I’m not angry. My gran’s real son didn’t care enough about her and she was only properly loved by her one granddaughter, her one grandson and her son-in-law, who looked after her like she was his mother. I have a lot of things to be ungrateful for, my nose and destiny to be fucking obese because of his genes, but the way he looked after his mother-in-law was inspiring.

I’m not angry because her last 20 years were her best because of my father, not her son.

There is nothing more chilling than reading someone you love’s last will and testament. Thing’s become pretty fucking final. I was left 25% of nothing, except a trillion small jerseys for babies I haven’t even conceptualised yet.

She also left her legacy by looking after me for all those years, sandwiches and knitted jerseys and not mentioning the fact that she caught me masturbating once. She wasn’t a superhero, she was just a gran.

So maybe this is my search for attention, my post on Facebook, my cry for help my pray-for-me-I-have-cancer post.

I don’t have cancer.

Death doesn’t signify anything except the changing of the seasons, a new time in your life. Don’t ever forget but don’t linger on it, don’t let death defeat you.

You either die with that person or make a decision to live on because of what they did for you.