As I write this column, my grandmother has been dead for 10 days. When I wake up every morning since, I feel the need to remind myself of this fact.
It’s not that I haven’t experienced loss before. My uncle, Michael, died when he was just 30 years of age but that grief was different, a queasy mix of nausea and fear.
It was a blinding realisation of my own mortality, an understanding that I could be taken before my time, as could my parents.
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