Au revoir et merci

On December 28, C's maternal grandmother, Violette, passed away. She would have been 88 in February.

She'd been getting weaker for a while, and over the past couple of years we've seen her more inside a hospital than out. She fell asleep, a long sleep for several days, and then quietly stopped living.

But even if her death was not completely unexpected, it's hard to believe I'll never see her again. Hard to believe the grand-maman we visited before leaving - dressed and wearing her jewelry, who greeted us happily, who wished us merry Christmas and a safe journey, who kissed us goodbye - is no longer here.

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I am very unaccepting of death - my own in particular. And I frankly recoil at the idea of my body still existing once my brain is dead. I don't like the idea of being a lifeless piece of meat and bone and fat, orifices plugged, handled by who knows who, stored in the morgue until disposal.

My favoured manner of death is atomisation. Death and body disposal neatly taken care of at the same time. Although, the necessary nuclear explosion is probably a little unfair to everyone else.

Being deep frozen in liquid nitrogen and then shattered to pieces also appeals to me. I guess though there'd need to be a drying step in there somewhere, so that on melting I'd be dust and not goo.

Burning, I'm not really so keen on.

Burying, I refuse to contemplate.

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On Wednesday we went to the cemetery.

As I watched Violette's ashes being tipped into an unmarked grave in a pretty little garden, I had a moment of clarity. Of how this is what it will be for me, ashes released in front of my family. How this ending is OK, that this is how it should be.

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Au revoir Grand-maman Violette. And thank you for bringing me closer to acceptance.