Thinking about the ‘death’ of others forces us to consider the reality of our own mortality. Most of us have lost a loved one at one time or another and so we’ve pretty much all flirted with the notion of our bound existence. But the closer you are to someone – to that someone who has passed or dying – the more acute the effect is.

Those of us out there who have lost a child are no doubt at the extreme end of this scale. With the passing of our children – the inconceivable and untimely finality of it – we are thrown into a mind of chaos, confusion and deepest pain. Where have they gone? Have they gone anywhere or is that it? Does life have meaning or is it absolutely pointless – just some complex, but otherwise irrelevant, process? We are cast right to the frontline of this philosophical mystery whilst wrestling with that most sickeningly potent emotion – grief. Normal life, normal living is about keeping the head down and just getting on with all the ups and downs that meet us on our way. We never think to look ahead – really ahead – being happy just to muddle along and busy ourselves with the brick-a-brack of daily existence. It is only when death raises its head that we sojourn briefly to ponder the great question.

But I have also known friends and relatives that have passed away; and while their death caused me to wonder, the effect was really only momentary. It never resonated enough to provoke any kind of lasting shift of perception. Somehow all these people were still only external to my life. But when you lose your child EVERYTHING changes. They are not external. They are you. They are intrinsic to your life. They are your future and underpin all that you hold as true and meaningful. So when, in the blink of an eye, all that vanishes, you are left with nothing but an emptiness that cries out to be filled. This never leaves you.

Yesterday I visited my Nanna in hospital. I was calling up to say goodbye I suppose. She is 87 and her condition is terminal. All the family were alerted to this and so it was with great sadness that I made the journey to see her. But when I stood by her bedside she looked beautiful I have to say: beautiful in that childlike, almost naive way. Her face was devoid of any of the emotions that we ordinarily hide behind. There was a purity in it that one only ever sees in a child’s. I wondered what sense of her own mortality she had in that moment as she lay there with so many family and friends around her – some family she hadn’t seen in such a long time. Did she know why we were all there? Surely the answer had to be yes.

I continued to watch her as people spoke to her directly and to each other. I watched her eyes moving, surveying the scene around her and struggling at times to focus on the faces and lips that moved so close for her to hear. And as I watched I felt an urge to lean over and just hug her. Not that I did mind you: a sense of awkwardness preventing me I suppose. But I looked at her, my Nanna, and found myself remembering her in my life. A thousand images and sounds flooded my mind all offset against the frail, sick lady that lay weakened before me. Her life – so very intertwined with mine – was now at its end. It had all come to this: just lying there in a bed, waiting. It made me feel very sad I have to say.

I kissed her on the cheek and said my goodbyes before finally walking out and returning home. I didn’t know whether I’d ever see her again. I’d never really been close to my Nanna in my life; we lived far apart for one thing. But since losing my son I have been sensitized to the journey of the human spirit. Wherever I see pain and hardship I feel it now. I don’t think I ever really did before. So seeing my Nanna at her life’s end stirred deep emotions within me.

Death is the unknown and we fear the unknown. I don’t know whether my Nanna knows for sure she is dying, but I suspect she does – perhaps not explicitly but knows nonetheless. Is she scared? Or does she welcome it? I have no idea. Why don’t we talk about these things? Why is our mortality such a fear-laden taboo? Would my Nanna like to talk about it and share her fears or yearnings? It’s just such a terrible pity that we cannot be more open and unafraid.

Maybe, just maybe, there’s nothing to fear at all. Maybe death is just the beginning of a new adventure?