"Connie, you know Connie, Connie, Connie, from upstairs?"
And so goes the classic Peter Kay joke when discussing the death of a random old lady.
- It occurred to me, having seen some photos on social media, that I had not seen my Nana's little face pop up for a while. Don't get me wrong, that's no bad thing, I tend to avoid photographic evidence of a family that lives on without me, or in-spite of me like the plague and yet - I couldn't help but notice she was noticeably absent from some major events recently.
Surely she's not dead, I thought. Someone would have told me if she had died right? Even my family are not that twisted and we are not so Neanderthal in our approach to one another that even death becomes a conversation too far.
And yet, upon asking the question to my father - no reply (that was two weeks ago) and asking my brother, who did, to his credit (cue Sarah laughing out loud upon reading that phrase) tell me the truth, I can't help but wonder. Who's next? Or actually, who's dead?
It becomes quite a state of awe when you realise you've sent the words "Did Nana die?" and they are met with abject silence.
Truth be told, and in fear of sounding cold-hearted, whether she is alive or dead makes no difference to my life, I haven't seen the woman for over a decade, being that she is indeed my mother's mother, it would be like conversing with the mother of all dragons and we are not talking a rather dashing Khaleesi here!
It's the principle.
Surely we have moral decency among families, no matter how sparse and severed, to share such details?
I suppose the reason this stings me so, is because I'm all too aware that whoever is next in line for the coffin, won't make it into my call log - because people will wither and die, and I won't even get to send a condolences card, let alone go to a church and mourn. Perhaps mourn is too strong a word, I never like the woman, the first time I ever met her she reminded me of the scary old ladies from Roahl Dahl's 'The Witches' and I pulled on my mothers sleeve and as she crouched down to hear me, I said with childish honesty - "I don't think I like her,"
The point is, I don't know how many family members, family friends, people who I grew up with, have perished. I just don't know. Do I have a right to? I would say so?
If these are people I have not seen for nearly a decade, and who have chosen to not see me out of allegiance with my parents and our disintegration then perhaps they are already dead to me. That's a rather stark way of looking at things (Game of Thrones references all over the shop today kids)
but in reality, these are people who I grew up with, who came to my 4th birthday, celebrating my 18th birthday, my 21st, my graduation, who had farewell drinks when I left for London, who had welcome home drinks when I returned from Spain and yet, when my life nose dived into oblivion and I ended up in the crown court, miraculously, every Tom, Dick and Harry had disappeared altogether.
One must not associate with the black sheep of the Barker clan.
This is a strong hark back to my grandmother dying a few years ago - of which I had a lot of time for, as did Sarah. Sure, she was a slightly aggressive Roman Catholic, with undecided homophobic tendancies but what self assured 80 something scouse Irish everton fan doesn't??
I think what sits poorly with me is that I have no doubt there will have been people sworn to secrecy - in a "don't you dare tell Francesca," kind of way. My mother will have had the final say - and to a certain extent that is fair - it's her right, as a grieving daughter (I'm assuming my mother does grieve but I would have to believe it to see it, the ice queen rarely melts)
So what happens when she **touch wood** dies? Do I get to know? Or will she have been dead and cold and buried somewhere I will never know to find her? I realise how mad I must sound, that I would actually want to mourn a woman who has probably caused me more pain than anything else (I'm sure she feels the same, my pain is not exclusive)
But I love her, I've always loved her, and when the time comes and she leaves this place, what will I do?
I say to Sarah often, my greatest fear is that the people I love will fade and die and that I will have no power to care, support or eventually mourn.
At my Grandma's funeral, there were two benches with placards on that said "reserved for family" - I decided not to cause provocation and chose to sit two rows behind the family pews. Even that wasn't enough to avoid an explosive episode of hate from my mother (who had no time or care for my grandmother so the fact she dared utter as such in her very church made my blood boil)
She miraculously made it all about her, and yet somehow I was demonised for being deliberately provactive and malicious by my very presence, that should I have been a decent person, which I am clearly not, I would have had the good grace to stay away.
Utter madness.
And not something my grandma would have stood for to be quite frank.
Now the fact that my Nana has been dead for several months and no-one decided to tell me, despite being in sporadic communication with two members of my family, is somewhat baffling to me.
What a strange thing.
I always ask my father on the phone, "how's mummy?" and he always gives a generic reply of "busy, working in London, working here, there, changing the world" the usual life affirming spiel of super star Barker.
He never asks how I am, Sarah, Sarah's family, but that has very much become part of the course. I think we go through the motions with eachother, so that I know he is alive and he knows I am, for fear of having to pay for my funeral I'm sure.
Cardboard box and the local tip for this one.
Much to Sarah's disapproval, I have this strange flight of fancy within my mind that when the day comes, that my parents are aged and need help, regardless of circumstance, I will give that help where I can.
If it means finding a retirement home that's not a hovel and forking out the hypothetical pennies Sarah and I collect as we grow older, then all the better.
If I have to heave my mothers rather large arse into a reclining chair, whilst serving up a Wilture Farm Foods ready meal with Heartbeat re-runs on the TV, then that's what I will do.
What a bizarre feeling of necessity, dedication and obligation.
I have been in hospitals and jail cells, and they would sooner see me there. To suffer.
Death scares me, not me dying, of course not, I have stared that demon in the face a few times through my life and lived to tell the tale.
But people dying.
The lack of control.
The lack of resolution.
Life is too short for such bullshit.
We are here to care, to share and to grow.
I may have lived moments of selfishness and greed and absorption, but underneath it all, I'm a weirdly caring, over-emotional, selfless little creature.
A contrast in existence, my good self and my bad self coexist and occasionally drown one another out, I'm not shy to say, I wish the more predominant me was the good, but my pendulum of conscience swings so rapidly from one to the other, sometimes I just don't know.
But does it matter? In the grand scheme of things, I just want to know that the people I love, and have come to care for, whether it be past, present or future - are safe, secure, stable and alive.
It's not too much to ask is it?
