It’s been over three years since my grandmother’s death, and I think about her regularly. She was an amazing woman. She died at the age 58: Yeah, she was young for a grandmother. Her oldest grandchild was 18 when she died. The youngest was 18 months. She had her first child, my mother, when she was sixteen. She had three more children before she was 20.

Her marriage was abusive. Her husband was overly harsh - would beat her and the children. He would make up ridiculous rules, regardless of anybody elses opinions, and his rules stuck. She left him eventually, but her experiences with him were enough to torment anyone for a life time. Despite the abuse, she was a strong, capable, and able bodied woman. She cared like no other.

She was 44 years of age when I was born. From the moment I can remember, she had been there. My mother had terrible Post Natal Depression when I was born, and did not want to know me from the moment I came into the world. But my grandmother did. When my mother broke her leg when I was less than a year old, my grandmother cared for me: Fed me, bathed me, comforted me, loved me. When I was a child, and didn’t see her very often, she would write me letters. Personal letters that nobody else would understand. She’d draw silly little pictures of her on her Yacht with her parner. She was happy. She’d visit us, money depending: The flight down from Cairns was expensive for her. Occasionally we’d go up and visit her, or pay for her to come down.

I guess life eventually got too hard for my Grandmother. In September, 2002, my grandmother had drunk herself info oblivion. She was depressed, lonely, and poor. Anyone she had or needed was too far away from her. Her partner was out at sea on an oil rig, working. We were in Sydney. Her other children were too far away to know or care.

We got a call from her a week before she was found dead in her bedroom, surrounded by numerous vodka bottles, as well as unopened crates of alcohol. I didn’t get to speak to her: I don’t think she wanted me to know she was going. She was brief on the phone: Nobody would have been able to tell what was wrong except me.

She was dead a week before anybody realised. Her boyfriend had to call a family friend to knock down the door after none of his calls were returned. Her body was so yellow that we couldn’t even see her. Her liver had failed. We had a closed casket funeral for that reason.

A post mortem discovered she died of a heart attack from too much alcohol in her blood.

I only wish I could have spoken to her on the phone that day she called… I only wish I could have written her more letters, shown her how much I loved her, and how much I need her, especially at the moment. I can only hope she’s wherever she is, watching me, and is proud of me, because I’ve always wanted to please her, ever since I was a tiny baby.

So why the blog about my grandmother? Everything I do at the moment makes me think about whether she would like it, or whether it would make her proud. I’m going through a tough time with my mum at the moment, and whenever stuff was difficult with mum, I would always talk to Grandma about it, and she’d make me giggle, and smile. Her death has allowed me to understand how fragile life is: It may sound corny, but it is urging me to live my life to it’s fullest capacity.

I love you, Toni. I’ll never forget you. *heart*