My beloved Nonno

Today marks the first anniversary since the passing of my beloved Nonno. I've already shed a few tears and plan to visit his resting place today, where I'm sure more will follow.

Nonno was my last surviving grandparent and I ensured that I spent quality time with him each week. We would play a traditional Italian card game called 'Scopa', which we turned into a championship tournament (he won 30 games to my 20). I savoured each moment.

When Nonno was admitted into hospital for the last time, I had a knowing that this would be 'it'. I was with him for his last conscious moments and earlier that morning, I was able to show him photos of my parent's 40th wedding anniversary we'd celebrated two days before.

We had embarked on a minibus trip down memory lane and visited all the places that were significant to them and their lives. Their family home where each of them lived as children, the church they were married in, the town hall that hosted the reception and their first home as husband and wife. It was a great day, that produced great happy photos.

Nonno's smile was so big. Seeing us in front of these places was as much a reflection for him as it was for my parents. I couldn't help thinking what it meant to him to see his one and only surviving child (my Dad) with children and grandchildren standing in front of all the places that were of great significance in his life. Nonno was happy (and very grateful) that we shared the photos with him.

Soon after the slideshow, Nonno's eyes closed and he remained unconscious for most of the day. He miraculously opened them briefly for but a few seconds when the rest of the family joined us. He even managed a smile as he focused his gaze on his great grandchildren.

It was getting late and we were making plans about what to do overnight. I was reluctant to have my Nonno be alone so I volunteered spending the night in his expansive hospital suite. We were discussing our plans as we waited for the hospital staff to bring in something to make me more comfortable, like a blanket. All the while, I was holding his hands.

Then something unusual happened.

Nonno opened his eyes and looked as though he was attempting to raise his head and shoulders off his pillow. Within a millisecond of this happening, I had the strong feeling that this was to be his last breath. I kissed and hugged him with all my heart and said "Bon viaggio Nonno, I love you, salut' a Mamina"... and that was it. He departed.

After the fact, I reflected on those last moments. What it must have felt like for him to have left this life in such a way. I think it would have been lovely. I am really grateful that I went with my feelings and prohibited my head to talk me out of it. I am often so fearful of doing something wrong and making mistakes that I regularly talk myself out of doing things that are instinctual (then later finding out that it would have been the better option).

I'm signing off now, it's time to visit Nonno.

Until tomorrow, allow your instincts to lead you despite your head thinking otherwise.

Grace xx

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Does every cloud have a silver lining? In memory of James Williamson

I'd planned to write a light-hearted upbeat piece after yesterday's pensive post.

I was looking at my current state of affairs, trying to find the funny side of having a parking ticket, overdue bill notice and a sink full of dishes.

No sooner did I come up with the title 'Dark side of the spoon' (which I thought was a stroke of genius) when I noticed Patrick staring at his phone, his face depleted of joy.

"James Williamson died at the Cape Epic" he said in a stunned, monotone.

"James? The same James we met at the Greek restaurant?"

"Yes, same James"

"WHAT????????"

Both in complete shock, our hearts sank. We were, and are, in disbelief.

Patrick and I met the wonderful, friendly, down-to-earth, sweet James one week before he was to fly to South Africa to compete in the Cape Epic. We were moved by James' gentle and joyful nature, vowing to catch up with him when he returned (you know when you meet someone special and say "I'd like to be friends with that person" and then imagine how you would form such a friendship? Well, that was our experience with James).

James (it's so hard to say) was 26 years of age and editor of Enduro magazine. He'd been a World Champion mountain biker, which I only found out today after Googling the cause (which is still unknown - he was unable to be roused by his team mate in the morning). James was so unassuming I had no idea he was a champion, and yet I'm not surprised that he was.

James was so, so, so lovely... and so, so, so young.

What I want to know is, does every cloud have a silver lining?

As much as I've searched, I just can't seem to find it today.

James was excited about his trip to South Africa, it was something he'd looked forward to for a long time. While we're expected to 'look at the bright side' of the situation and be thankful that he was happy and got to live out his dream, I can't help feel that this is all too premature. Someone so lovely is surely needed on Earth a little bit longer (if not a lot longer).

All I feel is sadness. Sadness and loss. Remarkable considering I'd only spent a few hours sitting across the table from him; such was the impression he'd left on me (I feel indulgent expressing my upset and cannot fathom what his girlfriend, family and friends are feeling right now).

Do we always have to see the bright side of everything? Can't we just be sad because some things are just plain sad. I totally appreciate how we don't want to get bogged by sorrow. I know we're encouraged to move on. I can see how being 'stuck' can play havoc with our lives. But surely it's okay to be sad when something like this happens, isn't it?

Sometimes I feel that constant optimism can be tiring and, to be honest, a little fake if we can't honour the times when things upset us.

While many new age dialogues are worthy of consideration, I question the subject of death. We're told that sadness comes from our attitude and the stories we tell ourselves. That by changing our meaning of death, we'd somehow change our emotional response to it. We're told there are cultures where death is celebrated - where are they? I've never seen them and wonder if it's all a myth.

What I have seen, are dogs lamenting over the loss of a loved one. I have heard their weeping wails, I have seen their long faces and I have felt their distress. I ask my self - is that because they have a negative attitude? Are they just responding to the stories they tell themselves? Do they need to change their meaning of death? My answer is - I think not.

I've concluded that it's okay to be upset by death. Dare I say, it's normal.

Sometimes, I think it's okay to not feel you have to be strong. I think it's okay to cry. I think it's okay to be sad. I think it's okay not to have explanations or answers. I think it's okay if things don't make sense. The secret is, not to get 'stuck' in the weakness, the tears, the sorrow, the unexplained un-knowingness and the senselessness.

There is a time for grief, a time for mourning, and a time for moving on.

To all the family, friends and colleagues of James Williamson, and to Niki, I feel for your loss. I hope your path to healing and resolve is swift. To James, may your spirit ride on forever.

Until tomorrow, a place in time where we assume we'll be...

Grace xx