Losing a loved one at university.

I replay this moment often in my head, as a comfort, late at night when I struggle to sleep; I don’t think I’d change a thing. Saying goodbye to my grandma for university, her giving me a “bob” (in the form of a £20 note), squeezing me tight and telling me she loves me, that she’s proud of me and of course to be sensible. I imagine her being subtly thankful I didn’t pick a university far away. A very unknowingly perfect goodbye.

If you would have told year 13 me that I’d be juggling grief, the flu and welcome week all at once, she’d have fainted, screamed, maybe laughed, and then had a panic attack. It can’t possibly get more stressful than French A-level. The university experience I’d been idolising in my head doesn’t really revolve around your dad telling you that your grandma has suddenly passed away overnight.

Welcome week began with my first lecture being interrupted by a message from home: my dad happens to be in town and wanted to stop by. I assumed it was a casual case of helicopter parenting, not even an hour into the first Monday and I’m already being visited by family.

I don’t remember what was said or how, all I remember was immediate denial, the world becoming viciously blurry, did I know that person walking past, where am I, what’s going on, why does my chest ache and my eyes sting?

Having just met my friends, I didn’t know who to confide in. So, I didn’t. Welcome week now remains a blurred and distorted memory in which for every time I went out, a lurking sense of guilt seemed to hang over me. I’d find myself laughing, smiling, making friends then battling tears for enjoying myself. The decision to stay at university seemed to be a strong urge to deny what had happened; if I wasn’t around the grief, the grief did not exist. My grandma was still at home, making a Sunday dinner.

I wish I could shake my younger self and tell her that the girls around her would soon become her closest friends, that she now confides in them at every minor inconvenience, whether they want her to or not. And that she really never had to feel like a burden.

Whilst at university, I told few and far people. When I eventually let it slip, it felt like a weight off my chest. To be able to talk about her, from ritual Sunday dinners sat in her kitchen, to primary school pickups where she’d be waiting for us with about 5 packets of crisps each, and tea on the hob, calling “girls” to me and my sisters in her distinct tone.

She loved me, my sisters, and my family dearly and was immensely proud of us. She knew everything about everyone. She was witty, quick with a joke and most of all unconditionally loving. She’d sing, hum to herself, a glass of wine in her hand and a story to tell. I miss her more every day. But it seems now I’m surrounded by people I love, and I know grief should never be kept bottled.