On her journey with Parkinson’s Disease, my Grandmother Clare resisted using her various walking aids.

As someone who deeply cared for her this was incredibly distressing, with each tumble often resulting in a serious and gruesome injury. But she was a fiery woman and a black eye or a finger bent to a 90 degree angle meant very little to her, what she wouldn't tolerate was being told to use a walker to move from her bed to her closet.

In a moment of concern I vented my anxieties to the nearest nurse. After patiently listening to my stream of worries she replied "...sometimes, when we are dying we become more of who we are."

I realised in that moment that maybe the best way to support my Grandmother was to witness her choices with grace. To allow her to be more of who she was - fearlessly competent and independent.

She ultimately died well, because as in life, she did it on her own terms.

My Grandmother Clare had many reluctant conversations revolving around end-of-life with loved ones, with lawyers, with God, with no God, with friends, with foe.

I'm overjoyed her loudest and proudest conversation was with herself.