Nanna’s Last Hooohooo

Tom sat by Nanna’s bedside, his fingers lightly brushing against hers. She was frail now, her skin paper-thin, her breathing soft and shallow. The hospital room was quiet except for the rhythmic beeping of the machines and the occasional hushed whispers between family members.

It hadn’t always been like this.

Nanna had been the heart of their family. She’d always been bustling about, making the best milkshakes in the world—extra Milo, a mounded spoonful on top just for Tom, his brother Jack, their Dad, and their grandpa—affectionately known as Pa. She’d set out the biscuit barrels, insisting they take as many as they wanted. Every night without fail, she’d bring Pa his cup of tea and a thick slice of cheese for supper. It was their ritual, one that never changed—until everything did.

She pored over encyclopaedias, reading aloud to Tom, her thesaurus always within reach. She played chess with a sharp mind and knitted for hours, the rhythmic clicking of the needles filling their home with warmth. She had even knitted delicate baby clothes that had been passed down from his dad to him—tiny pieces of love, woven into every stitch.

And she had a playful side too.

“Tom, darling,” she’d said one time, “I have something special for you.”

She’d presented him with a tray of homemade toffee, her eyes twinkling with pride.

Tom, delighted, took an extra large bite—only to realize too late that it was bright yellow and hard enough to break cement.

It had taken out four of his baby teeth at once.

Mum had panicked. Pa had roared with laughter. And Nanna? She’d clutched her sides, barely able to breathe through her giggles.

“You’ll never need the dentist at this rate!” she’d cackled.

Tom had never quite trusted her toffee again.

And then, there were the nights outside by the fire.

“Come on, Tom,” Nanna would say, ushering him outside where Pa was already setting up the fire pit. She’d hand them a tray covered with tin foil, an air of mischief about her.

“What is it this time, Nanna?”

“Buffalo.”

Tom had gasped in awe. Buffalo? Really?

Pa had given him a knowing wink before throwing the mystery meat onto the fire.

Tom, grinning, fastened his feathered headband, adjusting the wooden tomahawk hanging from his belt. Pa was already tending to the fire, his own costume slightly more tattered from years of use.

Only years later did Tom realize "buffalo" was just sausages.

But she’d loved the game of it—making the ordinary feel like something grand, something special.

Everything she did had been for others. She loved fiercely. She spoiled endlessly.

But then, dementia stole that from her.

At first, it was little things. Forgetting where she put her handbag. They’d spent the whole afternoon tearing the house apart looking for it—checking the car, behind the lounges, all the rooms, even the fridge!

Hours later, they finally found it—tucked inside Mum’s oven for safekeeping from “ruffians.”

Then there were the bigger things.

She stopped calling Tom by his name, sometimes confusing him with his father. She couldn’t remember what year it was, or if she’d eaten lunch. She used to complete crossword puzzles in pen without hesitation. Now, she struggled to remember simple words.

Each time they visited, she was a little worse. It was slow, cruel—an erasure in real time.

And then she got quieter.

She’d sit in her chair for hours, staring out the window, lost in her own little world. The woman who once filled every room with laughter and teasing was now distant, trapped in a place none of them could reach.

Pa would watch her, sadness etched deep into his face. He never said anything, but Tom saw it—the way he clenched his jaw, the way his fingers tapped restlessly against the arm of his chair, the way he’d sigh heavily, as if hoping to breathe her back into the present.

Sometimes, Tom would bring her freshly picked flowers from the overgrown garden she’d once tended with pride.

And for a moment—just a moment—it was as if the smell brought her back.

She’d snap out of her daze, her eyes lighting up as she ran her fingers over the petals.

“Oh, how lovely!” she’d say, smiling, chatting away as if nothing had happened.

She’d talk for a minute or two, her voice clear, her mind sharp—before it all faded again.

Then her fingers would still, her gaze would drift, and confusion would return.

That was the hardest part. Watching her disappear over and over again.

And then, one day, she stopped responding to the flowers altogether.

She would take them from his hands but wouldn’t react. No smile. No moment of recognition. Just silence.

That was when Tom knew she was slipping away for good.

The last time they saw her before the end, they’d been celebrating a birthday. There had been cake, laughter, stories shared. She’d been happy. They’d all been happy. And then, just days later, they were here.

Tom swallowed the lump in his throat as his dad leaned down and kissed Nanna’s forehead, whispering a quiet goodbye. Jack followed, brushing a gentle hand over her shoulder.

Laura squeezed Tom’s hand before stepping forward and pressing a soft kiss to Nanna’s cheek. “Goodbye, Nanna,” she whispered.

Then it was Tom’s turn.

He hesitated, just for a moment, as memories crashed over him. The encyclopedias, the best milkshakes in the world, the toffee, the buffalo, the silly little things that had meant everything.

And the last time she ever greeted him properly.

A knock at the door.

A pause.

Then—

“Hooohooo.”

A silly little noise she used to make, imitating a train whistle. It had made them all laugh, every time.

But eventually, even that had faded.

Tom bent down, pressing his lips to her forehead, letting himself linger for what felt like eternity.

Behind him, Pa cleared his throat. Tom turned just in time to see him lean down, clasping Nanna’s hand in his own.

“I promised you,” he whispered, his voice thick, his lip quivering, “that we’d never end up in a place like this.”

Tom would never forget that look in Pa’s eyes. The quiet heartbreak, the helplessness. Tears he refused to shed until now.

Pa didn’t let her hear it. He made sure she wouldn’t.

Tom turned back to Nanna.

Her breathing was soft, peaceful.

He squeezed her hand one last time.

She was finally free.