what only death could teach me*
*or at least faster than life was going to
When they first mentioned cancer, I did not take it well. My ‘grandfather’ and that word in the same sentence seemed to be a gross misuse of our literary faculties. I threw myself into ‘keeping it pushing’, but my mind ruminated regardless. Eventually, the nightmares came, then the spontaneous crying in public places, both psychosomatic symptoms of anticipatory grief - a friend I came to know all too well.
In all honesty, it worried me so much that in an unpublished piece, I likened that premature grief to a ‘dark insatiable monster’ lurking behind every memory. That was before I knew what it was for someone’s existence to end. There had been people I missed, people I’d lost contact with, but at least with them, I knew they were still out there somewhere, living. Now that death has arrived, I think of grief more like a welcome visitor, and with each visit, my tolerance for it increases. Because in that grief is the warmth and comfort of remembering the privilege to know him. I am left not with tangible connections or triggers, but with an overdependence on my mind to keep his spirit alive, more than any test, essay, or task could ask of me.
This was the first of death’s lessons. The transformation of an emotion over time and my capacity for its persistence. I would have given anything for the nightmares or melancholy to stop, and yet here I am chasing fragments of dreams where I thought I saw his face. As sad as I’ve been the last couple of week’s I wanted to take a moment to reflect on the other lessons I’ve learned this month.
Lesson 1: My Father Is a Boy Who Cries
There are certain things I assume all humans are capable of doing, things they really must do. So just as I eat, sleep and breathe, I presume my father does the same. And just as you and I cry, logically so must he. It wasn’t until I sat behind him during one of the memorial events that I realised what I was witnessing. From behind his hunched shoulders and sunken head, I assumed something must have fallen because it hadn’t occurred to me he would ever cry. Up until that moment, I had never seen water pool in his eyes, let alone a tear.
It was then that the enormity of death settled in me.
My father is one of my best friends; he is warm, he is welcoming, if not a little reserved, but he has never cried in front of me. Only an event of insurmountable pain, one that leaves the deepest of scars, could render my father so vulnerable in the front row. And if my father, a man of strength and fortitude, had embraced it, I had no choice. So I cried. Multiple times. And I cried again and again each time I noticed another member of my family doing the same, especially the boys.
When I reflect on this moment, it’s almost like I can feel my mind growing to hold the many facets of the people in my life. Yes, I would say I know my father and members of my family well, but I know now more than ever that there will be times I am surprised by them. More importantly, whilst sometimes I may feel like I’ve lived a life of constantly shifting temperaments and peculiarly ugly circumstances, I have not faced everything. There will be events, like my grandfather dying, in which everything I thought I knew about myself and my defences, my capabilities and tolerances, is proven a lie.
Lesson 2: Euphoria Is Closer Than You Think
When I returned from Lagos, I felt like my feet would fall off. The culprit: three consecutive hours of non-stop dancing after we buried my grandfather, combined with the heels I’d worn every other day at his remembrance events. I’m aware that the joy associated with dancing and the melancholy of a funeral seem to be at odds, especially to those who are used to Western funerals, but to me, it felt like the only natural thing to do.
Each time I felt like taking a seat, all I could think was ‘If I don’t dance, I will cry’. Yes, I was sad, and yes, I could weep for the whole of England, but I also felt something else. On the other side of pain was this enormous pool of gratitude. Gratitude for the man he was and the life he ultimately gave me. There are no treasured cousins or beloved aunts without him first. There is no me without what he has accomplished. The only way I know how to embody that joy, the overwhelming love I’m capable of, beyond words or an expired smile, is to push my body to the limits of its physical expression. So I danced, and we danced well.
I wanted, some would argue needed, everyone who saw me to understand how great this man was and thus the dancing had to do his legacy justice.
The pain in my feet is gone now, and part of me misses it. It hurt to walk barefoot, especially in the mornings, but at least I had something to remind me of those hours in which I think I felt true euphoria for the first time. I can’t think of anything other than the desire to do well by my grandfather that could motivate me to replicate that performance. If anything, I could deal with another week of the pain.
Lesson 3: The Mind Is a Powerful Thing (And I am Capable Of So Much Love)
What I cannot live with is having to grieve another family member ever again, and yet I know I will. I will be there for many of their deaths, and some will be here for mine. It’s just a fact. I know it, you know it, and yet when I think of having to feel this way again, my mind draws a blank. God forbid I think about my sister or parents in this context.
You know how they say pregnant women forget how excruciating childbirth was, so their body is capable of doing it again? I feel like I’m actively experiencing my mind doing the same, but I am still in the trenches. I am feeling the pain whilst also feeling my body trying to get rid of it. Just last night, I saw a photograph and broke down. Present Me clings to it, and Future Me is scared of it.
In a way, I’m fascinated by how the mind does these things, the lengths it goes to to protect me from the inevitable despite us all knowing the truth. However, I’m trying not to succumb to the numbness because I think it would mean losing all the other things I’ve begun to feel amongst the pain, Love, for instance.
I’ve learnt that my heart is so much softer than I thought. I pride myself on being strong and independent. Oftentimes, that means convincing myself I can go without certain niceties, whether this be true comfort or something similar. And yet, for a week, I sat surrounded by family, related and unrelated, and thought myself so silly for convincing myself I could do without. With them and in remembering my grandfather, I felt something so pure. The kind of love neither my friends nor my crushes could teach me about. The kind of love that is simple and clear, worked at and built on, questioned and tested, yet unwavering. It is love with a capital L O V E, and I am intoxicated by it.
So, thank you, grandpa and may your memory always live on.
This week’s post is in honour of my grandfather, a magnificent man who’s no longer with us as of a few weeks ago.
Hey guys. The phrase so long, no see really does apply here. I usually have backup plans (essays and podcast episodes) for when I know I’ll be absent. However, my grandfather’s death was beyond unexpected and abrupt. Because of that, I decided to put myself first and take the necessary time to go back home, cry, sit in silence, go back home to Lagos and be with family.
I am working on reviving the podcast with new episodes I’ve already filmed, so look out for that next Saturday. In the meantime, you can watch the episodes already out:
PS: There were many more lessons, but I wanted to keep these purposeful for now and out of respect for my grandfather, so close to the one-month anniversary of his passing. One day I may do a full right up because I did learn ALOT about humans in general.
As per usual, you can find me on TikTok, Instagram (daily media recommendations) and Arca (curated recommendations)