When my nan found out she was ill, she took the news with a calm Ive rarely seen. She settled at the kitchen table, poured herself a cup of tea, looked out the window and said, Im not going to sit at home and wait for the end. I want to live while I still can.
She was sixty then short, perpetually smiling, with that inner spark that years of work, worry, daily chores and loss never managed to dim. A quiet yet stubborn love of life burned in her, like a spring shoot forcing its way through stone.
All her years were spent in one house an old but cosy cottage where the air always smelled of apples, mint and fresh-baked bread. It was there she raised five children, helped with the grandchildren, welcomed visitors and saw countless winters come and go. The cottage was her whole world, but she made it clear she didnt want her story to finish within those walls.
A month after the diagnosis she sold the place. She told no one except the youngest of her sisters, who walked her to the solicitor. The rest found out by accident. My cousin, Tom, dropped by for a visit and walked into an empty shell no furniture, no curtains, no lingering scent of pies that used to greet anyone who crossed the threshold. A sign hung on the door: Private Property.
A few days later we all received a voice message from her. Her tone was steady, confident, even a little amused: Im not going to make excuses. This is my decision. Ive worked my whole life now I want to live as long as Im able.
With the proceeds from the sale a tidy few hundred thousand pounds my nan set off on a wander. Not abroad, not in fancy hotels just around England, a country she admitted shed barely explored. She spent time by the sea in Cornwall, up in the Lake District, visited ancient abbeys and tiny market towns where people still greet each other on the street.
She sent us postcards, short notes and photographs smiling, tanned, with new friends shed made. Sometimes she would disappear for weeks, then reappear, calm and inspired, as if shed just had a long conversation with herself.
Some family members didnt understand her choice. How could she do that? Thats her home, her memories, her children, her grandchildren! Others admired her bravery. She simply replied, I dont want to leave the walls behind. I want to leave the memory that I lived.
And she truly lived. In her final year perhaps for the first time truly that sparkle returned to her eyes, the one wed only ever seen in old photographs. She learned to rejoice at every morning, refusing to postpone happiness.
When she passed, we opened her small suitcase. Inside were dozens of train tickets, travel maps, old postcards, scribbled notes with the names of cafés shed visited, and over a hundred pictures: smiling, against the backdrop of sea, hills, ancient houses and bustling streets. Each image held life, movement, light.
The cottage was gone. The money was gone. What remained was freedom the most precious thing she ever owned. Freedom to be herself, to live as she wished, without waiting for permission or looking back.
I often wonder: if we learned we had only a little time left, what would we do? Stay tucked behind four walls, surrounded by familiar things and fears? Or, perhaps, finally muster the courage to live not someday, not later, but now?
Maybe thats where true wisdom lies not waiting for death, but meeting life with open eyes, just as she did.
