‘A heartache so tangible my chest physically hurts’: Kendall Gilding on dealing with grief

I’ve experienced the devastation of losing someone I love and the pain is so bad that it physically hurts, writes Kendall Gilding.

The pain of grief is difficult to bear.

I’ve just experienced the devastation of losing someone I love.

It’s a heartache so tangible my chest physically hurts. Yet while trying to sit in my grief and process the loss, my attention was snapped at by one of my kids who was requiring help. The trivial act of tying a shoe lace reminding me that where there is death, there is also life.

Grandad is the first grandparent I’ve lost. But he was more than just my mum’s dad; at times in my life he’s felt like my dad, too.

My father passed away when I was just five years old. I remember Mum breaking the news to us after school one afternoon.

Being so little I didn’t know what death meant, but when I saw my older sister burst into tears I thought that was what you were supposed to do – so I forced myself to cry too.

Kendall Gilding. Photo: Laz Smith.

Nana and Grandad were living in Canberra at the time and selflessly made the decision to pack up their lives and relocate to Cairns to support Mum who was now a single parent, raising three little kids and working full time to keep food on the table.

The level of sacrifice is proportionate to the quality of their characters.

Grandad loved life. He was dynamic. A people person. Smart and community minded. He had a passion for music and gardening. He enjoyed outings to the local markets, the grocery store and as it turns out was a bit of a local legend at a few cafes where he’d indulge in tea and scones, often unbeknown to Nana.

I was fortunate enough to travel to Cairns in Grandad’s final few weeks.

Sitting with him in hospital, holding his hand, reading my last column to him, (a satirical piece about our lawn), how he would have laughed if he could!

By his side time stood still. His shallow breaths marking time like a clock running out of battery. The chance to sit there with my nana, mum, sister, brother, aunts, and uncles – was another reminder that where there is death there is also life.

Funerals, while deeply sad, also bring people together. They are a life-altering event that stops the busyness, quietens the noise, simplifies our intentions, and makes space for a farewell.

The eulogy at a funeral is a chance to praise the person who has just died, recount fond memories, paint a picture of their character and summarise a life’s worth of moments into one short speech.

Grandad knew the power of words. So much so that for Nana’s 80th birthday in 2014, he arranged what you might call a “living eulogy”.

The whole family flew in from across the country to have dinner and celebrate Nana – while she was in the room to hear their thoughtful words.

It was a marvellous idea and something I’m determined to adopt.

We travelled north to Cairns for Grandad’s funeral as a family. My husband and I, plus our two little kids. An 18-month-old who was cutting five teeth and a four-year-old who can’t sit still. What could go wrong?

We were seated in the second row, right behind Mum and Nana.

I had the duty of reading a bible verse during the service, so I perched on the end of a chair like a vase teetering on the edge, threatening to fall and break. Despite two decades of public speaking experience I wasn’t sure I’d be able to utter the words, weighed down by my own grief.

We did our best to entertain the two kids with a never-ending pile of snacks. Still the chattering got louder, along with giggles, squirms, and finally cries. I felt like the whole room was watching.

Eventually my husband took our youngest outside to play in the gardens. Even then I could still hear his little voice. So much joy, so much wonder.

A little person exploring the world and seeing things for the first time.

There was a stark contrast between a life tribute being delivered inside, and a toddler’s incomprehensible squeals of happiness outside.

I thought to myself, “Grandad would have loved this”. Because where there is death, there is life.

His legacy was being celebrated inside and out.