Like a ton of bricks on my head

by Laura Kidd

I asked: the universe answered

Consistency is a word I consistently think about. Consistency is something I want to aim for, am intimidated by, have occasionally attained and maintained before falling off the horse yet again. Consistency in writing words and music, in communicating with fans of my music, in making videos and podcast episodes. It can feel like the key to success – which means I only have myself to blame if I stumble. It can be maddening. But it can give me great hope. Maybe some of this is under my control.

In my last piece I asked “What do I do now”…now that my album is out, now that the adrenaline has spiked and now that the world’s attention has moved on to the next person’s new and exciting thing.

This blog is called “Do Stuff ∴ Stuff Happens” (the ∴ sign means “therefore”). In my experience, the minute I stop sending things out into the world, almost all feedback stops: sales, emails, comments. I’m feeling that particularly acutely at the moment. It’s only been 5 weeks and 6 days since “House Of Stories” came out, and it feels like I imagined the whole thing.

2.5 weeks ago, in the interests of creating my own momentum again, I returned from my holiday in Naples with a new “ideal week” schedule in my calendar and set myself to work. I got back to the gym. I started running again after many moons. I did yoga. I meditated. I wrote 1000 words every morning. I started my tax return. I spent a satisfying day clearing my very overgrown garden and planning some home improvements. I plotted future music releases. I started prepping for my first gig in 5.5 years (2 days from now). I made a list of all the videos I want to make. I felt frazzled, but not aimless. I hate feeling aimless.

And then I got the news. My Gran had died in her sleep. She was 95.

Six days before that call, I visited her in her care home and we hung out for a few hours in her room. We ate sandwiches cut into triangles (she pulled her nose up at the cheese ones and offered them to me), had tea and biscuits (she picked out one Jammie Dodger), and chatted about this and that. She told me she was 85, and I didn’t correct her – I’m not a monster.

She said “Everything is heavy now” while she was lifting her teacup, but merrily ate her lunchtime ice cream. I held the bowl up for her so it wouldn’t drip.

“That’s a good idea”, she said. I felt helpful.

It was another ordinary visit – except that for the first time ever I didn’t get to say “goodbye”.

I didn’t know it was going to be our last visit.

After years of fierce independence, my Gran had been in and out of hospital for 2-3 years with varying degrees of drama. During these times I always made sure to thank her, tell her I loved her, make sure she knew how inspiring she was to me and how glad I was she was still with us. I sat by so many hospital beds I lost count, folded into all sorts of painful postures over the hard plastic so I could lean over to hold her hand, give her a neck massage, file her nails, moisturise her hands, put dry shampoo in her hair, hold up cups, bottles, straws, bowls, whatever she needed. Always careful not to force my help, infantilise, reduce. Sometimes she needed my help, sometimes she didn’t. I wanted her to know she could always have it. I think she did.

This is what we do for each other.

I often tried to imagine what it must be like for her, having held me as a baby, watching me grow and change over the years, now seeing this woman in her 40s show up in all these different places. When she looked at me did she see the blonde baby, the blossoming teen, the independent 20-year old, 30-year old, 40-year old? When she looked at my face, was it a blur of memories?

When I arrived for our last visit Gran wasn’t in her room. It was like that scene in the movie where the relative arrives just too late to see their loved one – but nothing bad had happened, she was just hanging out in the lounge with the other residents. I sat down and waited. When the cheerful orderly wheeled her in, Gran smiled and said “I knew it would be you”. I felt proud, but also relieved – every time I went to see her I braced myself for the possibility she wouldn’t know who I was. I feel so fortunate that never happened.

Gran wasn’t particularly chatty that day, but neither was I. Exhausted from travelling home from Italy the day before, then driving 2 hours from Nottingham, I sat quietly, hoping Gran would agree our long silences were companionable ones.

Sometimes I found it hard to think of things to say. When she moved into the care home at the start of the year I hoped a whole new topic of conversation would open up: “You’ll never guess what so-and-so said!”, “That singer they had the other day was great/good/rubbish” – that sort of thing. But it didn’t happen – or at least she didn’t share those stories with me.

We usually talked about her exciting past growing up on the canal boats in Runcorn, walking with Tommy the horse as he pulled the family and their cargo along the water. Her face always lit up when I asked questions about her time living in Hong Kong, Malaya (as it was known when she lived there) and Cyprus with my Grandad Chris (who she survived by 34 years), my Mum and my Auntie.

On this day, she squinted and gestured towards my armfuls of tattoos.

“Are those for life?”

“Yes, Gran.” I rolled my eyes in the same funny way she liked rolling hers, and she smiled.

We talked about the tattoo she was going to get one day, a running jokey conversation that started a few years ago during a visit my sister and I made together.

“Come on then, what tattoo are you going to get?” I asked.

She didn’t hesitate. “A butterfly.”

“Very cool.”

“I’m not ready to give up yet”, she added.

“I’m very pleased to hear it”, I said.

Every time I said “Bye Gran, I love you” she would grab my hand and hold it tightly. She did this as far back as I can remember. It was a thing. She did it to everyone she liked – I have a vivid memory of her doing it to my brother’s handsome schoolfriend in the mid ‘90s. She’d grab on and say “I love you very much” and you’d have to gently pull your hand away, then wave all the way to the door, or the car. She would always stand at her front door, waving and waving.

On this day, I went to get a status update from the care home manager to pass on to my Mum. We had a good chat, and I thanked her and the team for everything they were doing to keep my Gran safe and comfortable.

When I got back to her room she wasn’t there – again. I noticed her mobile phone wasn’t working, and that the charger had gone missing – again. I drove to the local shopping centre and picked out a baby pink one, mostly because Gran liked pink things but because I thought it would be less borrow-able / steal-able. To seal the deal I wrote her name on it in gold Sharpie.

I went back to the home. She was still living it up in the lounge – no visitors allowed there. I put the charger next to her bed and plugged her phone in.

“That was a good visit”, I thought as I drove away.

No fuss. No drama. No big goodbyes. Just love.

Always love.

I scheduled last week’s “What do I do now?” post a full week before it was published, in a flurry of creativity, productivity and consistency.

When I asked that question, I didn’t know the answer would come down on me like a ton of bricks.

What do I do now?

I cry. I write. I talk to my family. I remember snippets of conversations from 44 years of being loved by someone who isn’t here any more. I cry some more. I declutter every room in my house in a frenzy because I can’t focus on anything else for more than a few minutes. (I find a card from her tucked down the side of a shelf while doing so, and cry again.) I feel really stupid about that one bratty thing I remember saying to her when I was a teenager. I feel glad I got all those hours with her in hospitals and A&E departments to have the conversations that don’t usually happen in calm living rooms. I remember that it’s my birthday on Sunday and for the first time ever she won’t be thinking about me. I listen to podcasts about processing emotion. I force myself to exercise every morning so I allow myself to feel worse than I already do. I remember our last shopping trip together (her last shopping trip ever) when all she wanted was a Greggs sausage roll and to walk systematically up and down every aisle at TK Maxx looking at every item and enjoying its existence in the world. I wake in the mornings feeling angry, or sad, or both. I worry that I’ll forget her voice, and kick myself for being too shy to ask if we could record some of her stories, years ago, before all the hospital beds. I feel relieved that I don’t have any regrets, and lucky that I got to spend a few more normal hours with her in the last week of her time on this planet. I miss her.

I feel proud that I turned up so consistently for her over the past few years and created a new, deeper relationship with her. I didn’t plan it, I just kept trying to do what I thought was right.

I’m so glad I did.

So, what do I do now? I keep trying to do little things that matter, allowing the sadness to overtake me and flow through my body. I remember her, and I feel so lucky.

Last Thursday I went and got her butterfly tattoo. No regrets.

Yes Gran, these are for life.

Love you forever.
Laura xxx

Huge thanks Helaina at Rest In Pieces Tattoo in Nottingham for the beautiful tattoos and a lovely calm afternoon x

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