Week 35. Grandma

“Well done, good and faithful servant.” - Matthew 25:21 (NIV)

There are few people in life who leave a mark so quietly, yet so deeply, that their presence becomes part of who you are. For me, that person was my Grandma.

At 88 years old, she was, remarkably, one of the healthiest people I knew. She had never been under a GP’s regular care, rarely needed medication, and had the kind of strength and vitality that made us all quietly assume she would simply go on forever. Her recent passing came not from years of decline, but from something as simple, and cruel, as food poisoning. It was a sudden reminder of how fragile even the strongest among us can be.

In the days that followed, I have found myself reflecting not only on her physical strength, but on her spiritual one. My Grandma’s faith was unwavering. From as far back as I can remember, she was devoted to reading her Bible, not out of fear or duty, but from a place of deep love and conviction. Jesus, God, the scriptures, these were not abstract ideas for her; they were her compass, her comfort, her truth.

When we were children, she took us to Sunday school every week. My uncle and I, of course, spent the entire time giggling as opposed to listening to the lesson. She would give us that look that only grandmothers can give, the kind that says, I know you’re misbehaving, but I love you anyway. Those moments, small as they seemed, are priceless memories. 

Her faith shaped her life, and her gentleness shaped ours.

The Final Chapter

Her final days were spent in hospital, where every nurse, doctor, and healthcare assistant treated her, and us, with extraordinary kindness. The NHS staff who cared for her were beyond words: compassionate, patient, and human. They allowed us to visit freely, to sit with her in quiet moments, to hold her hand without rush or restriction. In a world that so often feels hurried and harsh, their calm presence reminded me that care and compassion is still the beating heart of the NHS.

After 14 days of careful treatment, the doctors spoke gently with us about “palliative care.” Those words can sound final, and in many ways, they are, but they also carry a deep sense of dignity. Palliative care is not about giving up; it is about comfort, peace, and humanity. It’s about recognising that medicine’s purpose is not only to cure, but to care.

In her last hours, she was placed on what the staff called a “driver”, a small device that administers medication continuously to relieve pain and ease breathing difficulties. This form of care can sometimes raise ethical questions about whether easing suffering might hasten death, a topic long explored in philosophy and law through the Doctrine of Double Effect.

That doctrine recognises a moral and legal distinction between intending to cause death and foreseeing that death may occur as a side effect of relieving suffering. In end-of-life care, doctors do not intend to end life; they intend to relieve pain, even if that compassionate act may also shorten the dying process. It is an area where medicine meets morality, and where love and law, for once, speak the same language.

For Grandma, it meant she left this world peacefully, without pain or fear. Surrounded by love.

Looking back, I think the greatest gift she gave us was her constancy. In a world that changes every minute, she never wavered in her faith, her values, or her love. She read the same scriptures she had read for decades, prayed the same prayers, and trusted that there was more beyond this life than we could see.

She also lived simply, never extravagant, never chasing more than she needed. She loved the little things: Rugby League on the TV, a good quiz or crossword, the satisfaction of her own garden. She told the paramedic she didn’t need to go to hospital because she still did her own gardening. His reply was perfect: “Whilst I’m truly impressed by that, unfortunately it doesn’t give you a free pass with pneumonia.”

That small exchange said everything about her, strong, independent, and quietly humorous, even in difficulty. Her strength at 88 years old was nothing short of incredible. The dignity and gratitude she demonstrated in her hardest moments deserve the utmost respect. It was, and remains, a lesson for all of us in how to conduct ourselves, with grace, humility, and courage.

I am so proud of her.

Thank you Grandma. For everything.

“I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.”
— 2 Timothy 4:7