Edna –
Who sang through her sorrow and loved through her pain.
You taught me more about strength, softness, and spirit than words could ever capture.
Thank you for trusting me with your truth. This is for you.
I met Edna in an unusual way—though for her, it was everyday life. I’d just become neighbours with her son, who asked me to accompany him to visit his mum in the psychiatric ward of the local hospital. We met in the canteen. Edna had been an inpatient for 13 weeks by then. She was pale, frail, and withdrawn, though I was told she’d come a long way from where she’d been.
It was an odd first meeting, some might say, but for me, it felt honest. This was her life—and in that honesty, something in me recognised her. She was kind and gentle. Timid, I’d say. A little spaced out. And yet we hit it off immediately. That day marked the beginning of a friendship I will treasure for the rest of my life.
I think I recognised Edna’s pain because I’d been battling the devil myself, long before I ever met her. Not the horned figure from fairy tales, but the slow, creeping shadow that steals your voice, your joy, your worth. That kind of pain knows how to find itself in others. And maybe that’s why we clicked instantly—two souls who didn’t need words to understand each other’s wounds. There was a quiet truth between us from the beginning, and that truth became the thread that wove our friendship together.
Edna had struggled with her nerves for as long as she could remember. Much of her childhood had been spent in hospital beds. She spoke of horrific treatments—being tied down so she wouldn’t scratch her weeping skin. Her body had carried the weight of both physical and emotional pain from early on.
She was in her early 60s when I met her. Bright blue eyes, like summer skies, that somehow still smiled even when she was sad.
In later years she was diagnosed with manic depression, and then bipolar. There were highs—bursts of energy after each stay in hospital. She’d redecorate the house, book long holidays to her beloved Majorca, and sing karaoke like a queen. Tammy Wynette had nothing on her. She was a force of nature in those moments—alive and buzzing with a zest that lit up a room.
One memory that still brings tears to my eyes is the day I visited Edna after she’d come out of hospital following our first meeting, this time with my young children in tow. She’d asked if I would bring them to meet her, and the moment we stepped through the door, she beamed with joy.
“I’m your Grandma Edna,” she said without hesitation, kneeling down with open arms. “Would you like a boiled egg with soldiers and a glass of cold milk?” ‘Grandmas fixed-ed eggs’ – my young children called it’
It was such a simple gesture, but one of profound warmth. The children adored her instantly. What she didn’t know then was what we had been through—the darkness of domestic violence, the fear, the isolation. But somehow, in her presence, there was no judgment, no suspicion, no barriers. Just love.
Her kindness cut through me like a ray of sunlight through heavy clouds. Genuine kindness like that is felt in the heart—but its echo rings on in the soul. I will love her forever for the love and compassion I felt in that moment. The acceptance she gave us, without a single word of explanation, was a balm to wounds I hadn’t even known how to name. Acceptance is such a powerful emotion, and in her warmth, we found a space where we could simply be.
But as summer turned to autumn, so too would Edna begin to fall.
She’d stop singing. Smoke more. Eat less. Her sparkle would fade. And as winter approached—and with it, the anniversary of her daughter’s death—Edna would collapse under the weight of grief and darkness. She saw it coming every year. She’d paint white crucifixes on the walls, as if to ward off what she knew was inevitable. And then she’d disappear beneath the covers, trembling, curled up like a child, too afraid to speak, to eat, to move. She told me she was hiding from the devil.
I was young then, almost 30, full of hope but powerless to stop the descent. I visited daily, desperate to help. But the black cloud came each year without fail.
I’d observed just four years of this cycle, but her Son told me it had been happening since he was just a young boy – every year for as long as he could remember. The doctors recommended a lobotomy. It was the late ’90s. I was horrified. I begged them not to go through with it. But my opinion didn’t matter. It was her families decision and they didn’t know what to do other than take the advice of her doctor.
The lobotomy took away the lows. But it also took away the highs.
And it took away the sparkle from her eyes. They turned a dull grey. She never sang again.
Less than a year later, she was diagnosed with terminal cancer and given two months to live.
I moved in to care for her. I slept on the sofa opposite her bed. She was too weak to do much, so we made a list together—of all the little things she’d never done but still wanted to try:
1. Visit the Coronation Street studios—I pushed her wheelchair as she marvelled at the sights.
2. Drink a bottle of Budweiser—what a night that was.
3. Watch Titanic—we cried through an entire box of tissues.
4. Reconnect with her sister—thankfully, they made peace.
5. Own a brand-new TV—she’d only ever had secondhand things, thanks to a husband who drank and gambled away their money.
On the day she died, I held her hand.
She spoke softly, narrating her journey, saying she was walking through the valley of death. “He’s here,” she said, her grip tightening, “the devil’s eyes are red.” I knew she’d been haunted by him all her life. But this time, she told him no. She wasn’t going with him.
She wept as she described seeing her daughter, holding a beautiful baby girl. She could see her parents. And as sunlight streamed through the window, we whispered our goodbyes.
I felt her spirit leave her body—it circled me gently before the room stilled. And then the grief hit like a train.
My friend was gone.
And I had never felt so alone.
Some spirits never leave us. Edna’s light still flickers, in memory and in love.
A Tribute to a Gentle Soul Written with Love by a Friend