When I was about four years old, my Father informed me that when he was a young man of twenty-four, he was in fact a cowboy! As most children have a substantial fantasy life when young, (mine hasn’t stopped), I can only imagine that my father professing to being a cowboy, complete with his majestic white horse, fitted in quite nicely with all the other stories and wild adventures I was having.

My Father has always greatly enjoyed ‘Westerns’ and indeed all old war films, especially on a quiet Saturday afternoon when he returned from work and sat gratefully in his chosen armchair facing the television, black coffee, no sugar in his preferred mug in one hand and cheese, beetroot and tomato ketchup sandwich in the other, satisfyingly munching away. I know, I know, not nice!

Aside from this exciting and life changing piece of information, that in turn was fed repeatedly to all the other kids at school, somehow feeling a mixture of pride that not only was my father a now retied cowboy but that also he had managed to obtain a rather esteemed and frankly non existent job, certainly not one any other of the father’s I knew had managed to find, I don’t remember my father telling me anything else of meaning during my childhood.

However, two things came back to me recently. The first is something my father has often said, which is ‘there is only two certainties about this life; you’re born and then you will die’ and the second was a response to a question I asked him, regarding whether he was afraid of death. His response; ‘I am not expecting to get out of this life alive’

Death comes to us all! Whether like my father we are pragmatic about this fact, as he carefully displays his somber collection of ornamental Grim Reapers in my mother’s cluttered wall units around the home and talks comically of one day being confronted by the bloke with the scythe. Or alternatively, whether we turn away from the idea of death, scared and fearful, not waning to question or ponder our own fateful demise, death will find us and it will not necessarily approach us sensitively or tentatively as we may hope.

My Grandmother was rushed into hospital quite suddenly at the weekend, after suffering a mild heartache, which follows a slow decline in her health over the last few years. An angiogram has shown that she has ninety percent blockage to one of her arteries and although the doctors have discussed surgery to prolong her life and perhaps lessen her suffering, she has refused all treatment.

Although distressing to hear, it is also reminds me of the idea of acceptance that flows through the heart of Buddhism. My Grandmother feels that she has lived and experienced all that she was supposed to in this life and that as the chaos of poor heath and death rapidly approaches, after all our life begins and ends in chaos, she has decided to accept her fate and approach it with her now legendary stoicism and dignity.

It is with this information at the forefront of my mind that old and comforting memories slowly resurfaced. The time at five years old that I mischievously dipped my finger into a delicious looking strawberry trifle that sat demanding attention on my Grandmother’s kitchen surface. I do not remember how it exquisitely tasted, only the stern formidable look and stinging swipe of my hand that followed. Or the long hours my Grandmother spent trying to teach me to knit. Not being especially interested, my Grandmother became more and more frustrated, as similarly I became more and more bored. Eventually a truce was called, but not before she lovingly presented me with a very small and delicate looking woollen teddy bear, knitted expertly in dark browns and beige stripes, that now sits on my bookcase in my living room.

I am sure that memories are also swirling around my Grandmothers mind right now, as she reflects on the life she has lived. I wonder whether she realises, as I am sure she does, that we are all given precisely what we need during our time on this earth and it is how each of us interpret those experiences, how we grow, how we learn and how we navigate the anarchic path that is often our own complicated lives that will help us transcend the suffering, confusion and pain that is part of our inherent journey.

My Father I am sure is rather upset, accepting that his mother has decided that it is time to bow out of life with her usual grace and dignity cannot be easy to accept. Although, he may well not be fearful of his own demise approaching at some point in the distant future, the idea that others will be led away by his loyal and fateful companion, the Grim Reaper in the middle of night is not so easy to bear.

It is so easy to focus on death, when it is passing close by, anxiety filling every crevice of our minds, as we wait with rigid apprehension. It would be easy to spend our days feeling low, our thoughts filled with dread of how a persons death will feel to us when it finally arrives, the pain, heartache and grief that will become our faithful friends and the desolate sadness of the void which is left behind.

Though I think it far more imperative to enjoy every last wondrous and grateful moment with my Grandmother whilst she is still here. Rather than letting distress, anger over her decision or the very fact of contemplating what life will feel like without her bodily presence sabotaging our ability to enjoy the here and now.

One day soon, we will discuss my Grandmother in the past tense, when our memories and stories will provide us with a great wealth of comfort and happiness.  Just like I will always remember the substantial success my father achieved when he once lived as a cowboy, a story that I have no doubt will one day become a memory, so too will I remember fingers dipping in trifle, hands being smacked and wool teddy bears.

Not just yet though, the story hasn’t come to its natural end.