The agony of being a long distance granny
It’s a shattering blow so many face — when your adored grandchild moves hundreds of miles away
doorstep the last Wednesday I saw him, so I didn’t betray any hint of my sadness. ‘See you soon, Nanny Dawn,’ he said, as he always did, when he waved me goodbye. ‘If only,’ I thought, before beginning the long drive home, pulling over several times when my tears blurred too much of the road.
My wonderful friends have kept me occupied, with diverting trips to the cinema and invitations for me to spend time with their grandchildren — after checking they weren’t rubbing salt in the wound.
My weeks have a new rhythm to them. Monday mornings are spent, together with two friends in a local junior school, listening to reception class readers.
That fills the gap a little, focuses the mind and keeps me in touch with little people. Though it sometimes makes my arms ache for Luca all the more.
Fridays are spent preparing a little parcel — a magnifying glass, mouth organ, a pair of tiny red Crocs — for my grandson, which I look forward to him thrusting at the camera with delight a few weeks later when they arrive. A tangible sign I’m still a part of his life. We practised using a webcam before he left and after all the technical problems had been sorted, Luca poked about at the microphone and pressed a few keys, waved a bit, smiled a lot, blew kisses and said ‘Yes’ to anything and everything, before getting bored and wandering off.
I have since learned to plan these precious sessions, much like I used to plan my school lessons — encouraging him to tell me his stories of swimming in the mornings, seeing monkeys in the garden or sing snatches of the new nursery songs he now knows in Swahili.
I only have to look at him to see how happy he is, but I admit my heart sinks a little at Ben and Claire’s excited chatter about the new life they’re building.
Friends have told me they did even worse to their own parents — moving their young families to Australia in the days long before affordable flights, let alone email or webcams, knowing that they may not see them again for years.
Another friend, who has set up a support group for estranged grandparents after losing access to her grandchildren when her son and daughter-inlaw divorced, gave me some much-needed perspective.
In many ways, I’m lucky. But my fear is that, another child or two down the line perhaps, Ben and Claire will be so used to having help in the house and eternal sunshine that they won’t be able to come ‘home’. There is talk of two years becoming four, which means Luca will be at least six and I will be 65 before he returns.
If you see someone only every few months — or less — you notice the changes more, and I fear seeing the progression of my disease through Luca’s surprised eyes. While I delight in the new developments I see in him every week — how much steadier and self-assured he is in his movements and speech — I can’t help but be frightened by the diminishments in myself.
Though the mild spasms that developed in my left foot when he left have subsided, I drag my leg a little when I walk.
My left arm doesn’t swing naturally and I can hear that my intonation is a little flat and monotonous, my facial expression a little less animated.
The neurologists optimistically say medication can control the symptoms for ten years — or more.
I hope so. I don’t want to become a strange old dear in the corner by the time he returns — one he has to humour because I’m his granny, rather than someone he greets with genuine delight.
I would never wish to pass any of these worries on to Luca, who lives in the moment and has only just learned to anticipate the future — which, he has just excitedly learned, will bring Nanny Dawn and Grandpa Dave to him in a plane next week.
But however desperately I’ve been longing to share a little part of his new life in Tanzania, I’m already preparing myself for the pain of fresh goodbyes before we have even arrived.
Of course, that is the risk inherent in enjoying any pleasure — that it will bring pain if it is taken away.
sO I comfort myself with the knowledge that the heartache I feel is a measure of just how much joy Luca has brought me, and which I would never have missed for the world.
I know how privileged I was to have shared the first year and a half of his life with him — and that I can’t expect his parents to put their lives on hold simply because I have Parkinson’s. It has just been harder than I even imagined to let him go.
Sometimes I feel strong and defiant. I wrote my books in such a mood and it helps to hear others empathise, even if I don’t know them.
But then there are days when the power in Mwanza fails and there has been no Skype contact for another week. I am trying to live, like Luca, in the moment — and remember it isn’t fair for me to pin all my hopes and happiness on one little man.
Above all, I tell myself how lucky I am to have him always on my mind and in my heart — the little light of my life still burning bright, however many miles away.