The Royal Pain of Grief
Read Time: 4 Minutes
Words by Hannah Kewley
On the island of Malta in the late 1940s, both Prince Philip and my grandfather, James Philip, were stationed as lieutenants in the Royal Navy and living their early married lives. Between 1948 and 1951, my papa and granny fell in love, married, had a son, and called the island home for several years. But this story is about the second time our lives found convergence with the Royal Family.
My papa was a healthy, strong, bear of a grandfather, who played and laughed with us, far more than our dad. He loved Westerns, Shire horses, Baloo from The Jungle Book (who he was very much like), and he did a great Donald Duck impression. Spending most weekends with us, helping my dad with house and garden renovations, he was a large presence in our family, bringing volume and childish games. Until the year we looked back on our photos from Christmas day together, and saw a yellow hue to his usually tanned face. They knew. He was sent and tests were done.
A few months later he was in hospital for treatment. Cancer of his kidneys was advanced and had spread aggressively. I think. Details are not forthcoming or memorable when you’re newly 13 years old, and hearing that your grandfather, your papa, can’t make it. I saw the tears of my granny, still so in love with her sailor sweetheart. Her heart ripping. My dad lost.
Then he came home. The summer pulled him outside. We came and played at his feet, and took photos. He smiled and laughed, but did not get up. I heard whispers of a boost from coming home…..’can’t last’...
By August he was on a trolley bed, filling their lounge with medications and palliative care nurses, softly smiling with their mouths, but not their eyes. My dad visited, returning drained. “Do you want to come and say goodbye?” was not asked, but I asked, pushed my way into going, drawn still to my bear of a papa. At his bedside, in such familiar but altered surroundings, I saw my dad mumble first, speaking to the fireplace, not his dad. Speaking what he felt he should say, not what I knew his core was feeling, thinking. Then it was my turn.
I stepped into the pale aura, the yellow, the gaped. He was laying there, but so not there it took my breath away; the juxtaposition of such strength, vitality, connection to me. How do you say goodbye or even speak to someone who’s not there?
I touched his hand, or at least I think I did. Someone told him, “Hannah’s here.” I don’t know what I expected--eyes to open, words from his lips. But he was reaching for something else now, and not us. I choked, silently, strangled by loss. The vibration of sending words out of me too much. Then we left. That last moment, last chance, of disconnected connection to him lost. The heavy, oak front door closed behind us, Dad drove us home.
The loss of his dynamic energy in our family sent such waves through the fiber of our relationships. But so little was said. My parents, raw, sad, and shocked, had little to offer their girls. And so I lost several of my anchors when Papa raised his.
Two days before, the nation, and the world, had lost Princess Diana. It was a surreal, but also fitting display of loss and sadness we saw on our screens, as thousands lined streets with flowers and sobbed down camera lenses. When Papa died my dad cried. My mum held it together, for him, for us. When Diana was mourned, Mum sobbed all day. My dad reeled at this seeming hypocrisy, betrayal. His loss turned hot towards her, and we watched our parents fight over whom they should grieve and in which ways. Our family adrift. Another anchor slipped.
Heading into a new school year just days later, I was thirteen and a half, hormonal, and untethered. My best friend had spent some of the summer with new friends, who spent time with older boys. And so then I did too. School seemed filled with more hypocrisy, layered on top of all I felt at home; adults disconnected from my day-to-day, as well as my inner world. Control and authority when I felt unable to be controlled.
The next few months looked, on the surface, to be teenage rebellion. There was school skipped, alcohol, smoking and more, sexual expression around older people, shoplifting, and angry words yelled from all parties at home. Looking back, I don’t regret any of those experiences. I’m a rebellious person and felt more true to myself in that year than I had before. But I think any new teenager feels that, emerging from childhood. However, I do feel so sorry for my younger self; there were no adults in her life she could lean on, be truthful to, or who saw what grief looked like on a teenage girl.
Through that next year I’d say I parented myself a lot. I experimented with relationships and friendships, and was very fortunate to come out the other side with a healthy connection to a boy, now my husband.
He was dependable, different, full of vitality, and I know that he and my papa would have had a great friendship, had they been able to meet. I do feel I passed on a baton; his presence in my life has brought a reknitting of relationships in my family. His playfulness and calm presence contrasting so much with theirs, has been a balm to us all, and I hope healed some of the breach created that September in 1997.
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About the Author:
Hannah Kewley is an over-thinker, over-feeler, lover of words. She seeks a simple, authentic life, connected to nature, whilst drinking tea and eating nachos. She has been married to her best friend for the last 12 years and they are slowly renovating their 60s chalet bungalow on the south coast of England. This kitchen-disco, garden bonfire, wild swimming loving family home educate their two kids.
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