Death. It’s a bit shit, isn’t it. There is no question mark, for ’tis no question. Death is crap. It’s a reyt loada shite…

…but it’s supposed to be. The innate shiteness of the end is what keeps us alive, after all. It’s an integral part of what makes life so utterly, utterly precious.

(Disclaimer: apologies, but I can’t bring myself to use the terms ‘Passed’ or ‘Passed Away.’ I have my reasons. Soz aba me.)

It’s been a rubbish few days, what with Auntie Agnes having been at the end of hers. For the last couple of weeks, our Aggie had been surrounded by her doting relatives – her children, in-laws, grandkids—and her sister, Pat, my brilliantly bonkers mother. But with one ending came the start of something else. I saw love. Real love. I saw tenderness. I saw people, ripped and raw, every tear a story unto itself. Relatives I hadn’t seen for decades were there in a heartbeat. Each time we would visit, we would see one of Agnes’ loved ones stroking her hair, holding her hand, telling her tales about her childhood and LFC and cats and how great it would be if England were to win the World Cup.

And I’m totally here for it. I’m here for all of it.

I was alright after Agnes died. Immediately after, I mean. I felt a sense of peace on the ward, in the air. Her son—my cousin—took a moment to pop over and hold my mum’s hand, not five minutes after his own mother had breathed her last. When my dad died back in 2022, I don’t think I’d have been fit to console anyone. (Had anyone else been there. Which they weren’t. My father was known for being a bit of an arse.)

On one of our visits (we usually turned up unannounced, which is kinda how we roll, considering that nothing ever goes to plan in this household—making advance arrangements is nigh on impossible), I happened upon something beautiful. My amazing cuz, Jen, sitting right up close to her nanna, stroking her forehead. That she was already utterly engaged, engrossed, committed to this level of care both broke my heart and mended it at once. ‘She’s having a lovely manicure,’ Jen said next, rubbing lotion into the hands that had worked so hard and touched so many.

My poor auntie hadn’t been able to eat, all she’d managed was to have a nibble of a strawberry. Staff were buzzing around: any number of NHS goddesses, flitting from one patient to the next, making sure they’d had their meds, eaten their dinner… or dosing up the end-of-lifers on the good stuff. And the good stuff is really good. You can see it working, right in front of your eyes. A painless state: you couldn’t ask for more.

The lack of drama was astounding; seriously. It was difficult to tell who was merely under the weather and who didn’t have long left, because of the sheer seamlessness of the service. Every patient—and I mean every patient—received the same standard of care, regardless of longevity. And man-oh-maaaan, the aftermath is beautiful. It’s only the day after, and already I’ve seen an outpouring of kindness. And because I apparently just have to share every single aspect of my life with interwebular strangers or there isn’t a y in the day, I just happened to mention on the Facethang that there’d been a bereavement, and the comments and messages started to pour in. But I was fine to go to work. Just fine. I’d deal with my caseload as normal, and it might even take my mind off it, right?

WRONG.

I turned up at the office, put my laptop bag on the desk, and the very minute someone asked me if I was okay, I knew I wasn’t. I felt as though I didn’t have any right not to be, though. After all, this was ‘only’ my auntie. Agnes was someone else’s sister, mum, nanna…

… but she had been a bigger part of my life than I’d given her credit for. She’d been so ace that her parents had gone on to have three more kids, one of whom was my gloriously frogbox mother. She’d been so ace that she and the aforementioned mother-of-mine would have daily conversations about the virtues of tea and how it tasted better in a china cup and how it was even better when someone made it for you.

“You had a cup of tea today?”

“Yeah, have you?”

“Oh, aye; I had one just before.”

“Was it nice?”

“Ooh, it was lovely.”

“Ooh, good. I do love a nice cup of tea.”

“Me too.”

And that’s how it would go. Occasionally, they’d move on to food. You know the sort of thing:

“Have you had any dinner today?”

“Eh?”

“Dinner. have you had anything to eat?”

“Oh, yeah. I had a biscuit.”

“Did you have a cup of tea with it?”

You can guess the rest.

So here’s me —at eleven-of-the-clock, as Mum would say— trying to put into words the unputintowordsable. What can I say that hasn’t already been said, read, and regurgitated a million times over? It might be original/cool/downright inspirational if I said This, or That, or took such-and-such an approach and applied all my writerly training to deliver a punchy bit at the end. Perhaps I should just fly by my pants’ seat, as I am wont to do. Maybe I should just…

…write.

This is but part one of many imminent rambles, I fear. Block me, unfollow, whatevz. This is something I’m writing for myself, not with readers in mind. I need it out of me, and that’s enough. I shan’t be including some of the things our Agnes said towards the end. Those things are private, and for the family alone. But my feelings I am free to share, and I am happy to do so. There is no right or wrong way to feel. As long as you do feel. That’s the thing. For me, that’s the thing.

Agnes was 92 when she died. Mum is 84. The tea-conversation has happened circa 17,029 times, by my estimation. The mathematics be dubious; the Twinings English Breakfast be real.

Agnes, you will NEVER walk (or drink tea) alone. You’ll be walking alongside everyone you ever loved. As for me, well, tomorrow, I shall be painting my nails strawberry red. Liverpool red.