The Colours of Life

It's hard to know where to start.

One month ago I was riding high on pride. I'd returned to my childhood theatre for one last time to take on the role of Mark/Mia in Things I Know to be True by Andrew Bovell. The play was, if I say so myself, beautiful. The rehearsal process was relatively smooth, the cast were wonderful, and the end result was incredibly fulfilling. The only real downer was that we simply didn't sell as many tickets as we had hoped. At the start of the week I wasn't even certain anyone that I had anyone coming to see me.

The play, and my part in it in particular, were quite sensitive topics. I was to play a trans woman both before and after transition. This is something I feel strongly about, and so it was close to my heart. It's also something that I know others feel strongly about - and not necessarily in the same way.

My mum had off-handedly mentioned that she was going to come, and that my nan had shown an interest too. This made me nervous, because both had voiced certain anti-trans sentiments. But I didn't give it too much thought, as my nan hadn't left the house in years.

When the Thursday arrived on which they threatened to come, I left the green room at the end of the play and saw some friends had come to see me - but no mum or nan. I didn't think much of it, but dropped my mum a text to see if she'd forgotten anyway.

She responded that nan had fallen outside of the theatre and was in hospital.

Back and Forth

My nan suffered from a broken rib and damaged pride. But more than that, her fall and visit to hospital revealed several other underlying problems that she had kept carefully hidden.

She spent a few days in hospital whilst my mum and the doctors arranged for more home care - knowing that, now she would struggle to move even more, she wouldn't be able to look after herself.

She had been home a total of three days when she was bought back to hospital "unresponsive".

I was the first to arrive at the hospital - I live the closest - and when I got there, her skin was blue and her lips were purple. She was struggling to breathe. I immediately contacted my mum and aunty and suggested they made their way up to see us.

Nan's breathing was assisted, and soon she stabilised. But she was having to use an oxygen mask that she really didn't like.

She was in for a few days when, on the Monday, my mum received a call to say that Nan had decided to refuse the oxygen.

Mum and I were pulled into a room with a consultant who slid a box of tissues onto the table between us.

COPD. 24 to 48 hours, most likely.

The consultant gave us open visiting hours and we delivered the news to the rest of the family.

Upon descending on the hospital en masse the following day, less than 24 hours later, we were informed that our open visiting hours were being revoked as nan had not deteriorated in the way that they had anticipated. And that, in fact, she would be moved to a different ward entirely.

And Back Again...

Over the next week, as nan's breathing became incrementally better, there was talk of sending her home. An idea that seemed completely outrageous to mum and I. Nan couldn't go to the toilet by herself. She could barely walk for a few seconds without getting out of breath. She needed help to even get up. How she could be sent home like this was beyond me.

We put forward the notion of a care home, but were met by the discharge team with the news that nan did not meet the criteria for funding - that she was healthy enough to return home alone.

And then, at the weekend, Nan took a turn for the worst.

I returned to the hospital to be informed that she had pneumonia, and once more we should expect a quick deterioration. Once more we were offered open visiting hours, and I was told that we could all come and see my nan at once. This was later refuted by other members of staff who said we could only visit nan two people at a time. A rule we chose to ignore.

Over the following week, Nan's breathing got worse, and although she had long since been "with it", her mental faculties started to fade too. Likely a combination of the morphine to make her comfortable, and the increasing carbon dioxide in her lungs.

She was constantly surrounded by family.

I was the first determined to spend a night at the hospital with her, to ensure that she was not alone. I would have stayed the second and third night too, but my cousin and aunty took the burden from me. My mum became ill toward the end of the week and couldn't visit the hospital.

We played games (badly), shared memories, talked, and when I was alone and nan was asleep (which was increasingly often), I worked.

I held her hand a lot. I talked to her about her childhood, about her life in Canada, and about what she wanted from her life. Sometimes the conversations were clear. Sometimes they weren't.

Sometimes I'd find myself sitting and wishing it would just happen. And then I'd feel guilty for ever thinking that.

Other times I'd find myself feeling like I'd not been good enough - that it'd taken me too long to show up for her. Why wasn't I this present when she was well? Why didn't I ask her these questions before? Why had I let her become this unwell?

I spent the fourth night with her too, and we spoke about my daughter, and bizarrely, about toilets.

And then the following day, once my aunty had arrived to take over, it happened.

I'd seen my other nan die too. It was quick, and calm, and painless.

COPD is different. It wasn't pleasant.

And the kaleidoscope of emotions I felt when it happened is indescribable.

I was glad it was over, for her sake, and for mine. I was guilty I'd wished it was over. I was sad. Beyond sad. I was also empty, totally and absolutely emotionally exhausted.

Life - It Goes On

The tagline for Things I Know to be True was "Life. It goes on."

And in a way, it does.

I stayed with my nan holding her hand for ten minutes or so. Stayed in the room with her for another hour. My cousin arrived. We cried. We joked. We stood and sat in silence. And eventually I realised that I didn't need to be in that room anymore. That even though I'd basically lived in that room for the past week, I no longer had a reason to be there. But leaving felt impossible too. And even now I don't know that I've completely left.

In the days that followed, I registered the death, started funeral arrangements, and I've written a song to sing to my nan on the day. And the exhaustion hasn't gone away. There is a numbness that is creeping around me. A sense that something has changed, but something that I'm not yet willing to accept.

You see, when I was young, my nan used to send me poems. And in return, I'd send her these silly comic strips. It was Nan's way of encouraging me to write. And over the years I wrote more, and more. I wrote poems, and I wrote stories. And I started writing a novel. One I promised to give to her a couple of years back. And I never did.

And I will never fulfil that promise now.

Now I know that my nan probably didn't care. She loved me. She was proud of me. But I know that, deep in my heart, that she will have never read the book that she inspired me to write.

I've often been pulled in different directions by my passions and my skills, but on this occasion I'm pulled apart by something else.

Moving Forward

If you've ventured this far into my thoughts, you may be wondering why I've chosen to publish this on LinkedIn. There are multiple things to be gleaned from this experience, I think. I could tell you how amazing my boss Kate Maunder ?? has been - and she truly has. I could tell you how my experience has differed from my family's because of how SHOOTING STAR ENTERTAINMENTS runs. But really, if I must somehow tie this into work, there is only one message. And that is that we are human.

And there is no way anyone could or should be expected to leave all of this at the door.