The Art of Losing

I watched girlie favourite 'In Her Shoes' the other day, in which a dyslexic Cameron Diaz touchingly learns to read 'The Art of Losing' a poem by Elizabeth Bishop. (It sounds awful buts its really quite moving) As she stuttered through each verse the words really struck a chord with me, as I've become quite good at losing recently.

This is really a light hearted way of getting to my point (and explaining why I haven't blogged for a while). I lost my grandfather a few weeks ago. For most people losing a grandparent is sad, but expected- in my case this was true he had been terminally ill for 18 months- however losing my grandfather has been pretty devastating.

You wouldn't think it to look at me, I've been rubbing along just fine, thank you. It's just when I think about it- I'm a mess. I was really close to both my grandparents- My mum and I lived with them for 17 years, so when my Nan died nearly two years ago it hit me hard- but we still had granddad to look after. Also her passing inspired my decision to get pregnant. I'd spent the last six weeks making the four and half hour trek to South Wales to be with her every weekend during her final days- whilst working full time in the week- and it reminded me that all my life I'd been part of a really close-knit family and that was what was important to me. So, it was on to the next thing- I didn't give myself time to think about it.

When Granddad started to take a turn for the worst there were fewer places to focus my energy other than B and I began to feel like the baby blues were creeping back in. Now he's gone (now they're both gone) we have to pack up the house where I grew up, my childhood bedroom. B will never remember a visit to the house where Mummy grew up.

My grandfather looked after me full time when mum went back to work three months after having me- as a young single parent she didn't have much choice- so it was him I saw most days, from early morning until late afternoon every day until I went to school. He picked me up from school, dropped me off, cooked (burnt) my lunch, got into fights with me about broad beans, attempted to teach me to ride a bike.

He was my father figure to all intents and purposes and B will never remember him. He'll never know how he smiled when he saw him -at 2 hours old- how B smiled back when he learned to. There's only one photo of me I like from my wedding (when I'm not pulling a stupid, self-conscience face) and it's of the two of us. Me and my Granddad. And now he's gone.

This post isn't about you- if anyone reads this- feeling sorry for me. I just wanted to get it down. Now I'll go back to being strong, focus on my new family and remember how important everyone in my life is.