Down Among the Dead Men_ A Year in the Life of a Mortuary Technician - Michelle Williams [80]
That Friday evening went perfectly, completely chilled.
Saturday came without a hangover and we decided it would be a good idea to pile up to my parents’ house to annoy the hell out of them for a few hours. Luckily the rain stayed away, so the dogs didn’t bomb into Mum and Dad’s smelling like a bouquet of old red wine, but something was different about this Saturday, the atmosphere in the Williams household was not as perky as it usually was.
So, this was when it all came to light. My grandfather, Gramp, who I adored and always had done, was unwell. Seriously unwell. When Nan, who I also cherished, had passed away eighteen months earlier, Gramp had been hit hard. They had been together since they were very young, and I can’t recall them ever talking about a night spent away from each other. They had raised three boys and Nan was very, very proud of them. But, typical of that generation, Nan had done everything for the four men in her life. They wanted for nothing. Dad has told me stories of how, when things were a bit tight, she wouldn’t eat because she felt it was her duty to make sure her family had a decent meal of an evening, and sometimes there wasn’t enough food to go round. She wouldn’t make a fuss about this, and wouldn’t allow one to be made by anyone else. It was what she did.
Nan also had a very big dislike of alcohol. A sherry at Christmas or a special occasion and that would be it. She would also frown upon Gramp drinking so, out of respect for her, he only drank if they were out on social occasions. I think, deep down, he would have quietly enjoyed a whisky late of an evening before bed, but because of his love for his wife, he stuck to tea most evenings. When she passed away, Gramp had had to fend for himself. We were always in and out as a family spending time with him, and Mum popped in every morning on her way to work to make sure he was up and about, and to put his laundry on and things that he would expect a female to do for him. Dad would take him shopping once a week in the car, and he would spend a couple of mornings a week in the social club with his old friends. I would make sure to find time to see them all once a month and they were some of the funniest people I have came across, reminiscing about their younger days around a table full of pints of bitter, each one with a whisky chaser.
Dad had noticed recently that Gramp had been consuming a little more whisky than usual. As a family, we accepted this. He was without his life partner; he spent time with us and his friends, but I didn’t think he would ever be the same person as the one that had been our Gramp for so long. Maybe the whisky helped with the lonely evenings. Or maybe there was another reason.
It turned out that Gramp was in pain. He had not wanted to be a burden, so numbed the pain with the whisky. Dad had forced it out of him the evening before that he had been diagnosed with lung cancer. Aggressive lung cancer. Gramp did not want a fuss, seemed almost relieved to be dying and with a small hope he would be reunited with Nan. He never said this openly, but as a family we knew. He had refused any treatment, saying it was only going to prolong the inevitable. A man who had worked hard most of his life, a proud man, his wishes had to be obeyed and respected. My last living grandparent, and soon I was going to lose him.
Dad had taken this news well, considering all things. I say, ‘taken it well’, but these are the wrong