I knew what the phone call was going to be about before I’d even answered it; the cheerful ringtone contrasting sharply against the message that was, by now, pretty much inevitable. I’d still been holding out hope that she’d pull through – she’s old and hasn’t been well for years, but, well, she’s always survived before. When I saw her in hospital, surrounded by bleeping machines, drips and tubes, something in my brain refused to acknowledge the possibility that this would be the last time I saw her alive. You just don’t want to think about things like that.

I never got a chance to say goodbye properly; she fell asleep before I could.

Yesterday, they thought she was getting better and were planning on moving her from the High Dependency Unit into a normal ward. My Dad went back home to Norfolk to wait for some more news.

Last night, she took a turn for the worse, and died very quickly and suddenly; one of her stomach ulcers had burst, they think, and there was nothing they could do.

The funeral will probably be when I’m in Japan. My parents are insisting I go to Tokyo, irrespective, because it’s what my Granny would have wanted. They’re completely right – when I visited her on saturday, she kept asking if my Dad was okay and she was afraid she’d be ruining his holiday by being ill; naturally, we assured her that she was being silly – but that doesn’t make me feel any less callous for it. Perhaps my brother and I can find a temple or something to go and spend a few quiet moments on the day of the funeral.

I don’t think it’s fully hit me yet: when my uncle died a few years ago, it took a few days for things to really sink in. I’ve done some crying, but mostly I’ve sat around feeling helpless; I really want to do something but I have no idea what.

Granny was always the one who indulged me and my brother when we were children. She let us do things Mum and Dad wouldn’t let us, bought us toys and sweets when it wasn’t our birthday. In the last few years, her health had deteriorated considerably – she was on a lot of medication and had become increasingly frail; but those aren’t the memories I want to hang onto. I want to remember building sandcastles in her shoes; I want to remember her handing us sweets without Mum and Dad knowing; I want to remember her always making too much food for Christmas day.

Goodbye, Majorie Rogers; I’ll miss you, Granny.

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