She was very proud of her longevity, and we as her family were too, though watching her experience steadily increasing confusion in her later life was tough, and particularly hard for my mum (and dad) who supported her.

But Nanna didn't make it to 100. She fell and broke her hip. Following the fall her condition worsened and she died on December 12.

When we knew Nanna was dying, my siblings and our families made plans to return to Port Fairy from all over the country to say goodbye and be there for our parents. My sister and one of her daughters were fortunate to have treasured moments before she died, my niece and I arriving 10 minutes after. 

My brothers and our available spouses and children arrived over the next 24 hours.

Given so many of us were together already, we decided as a family it was practical to have the funeral relatively quickly. 

We all took part in the arrangements and the clearing of Nanna's room at Moyneyana House where she lived for the last seven years of her life. In the evenings we would sit around the kitchen table and reflect upon Nanna's death, what her loss meant to us, and our experiences in preparing for her funeral.

Our family is a fairly close family. We work together fairly well. And we have a very well-developed sense of flippancy, a humour that others may sometimes see as a little harsh. 

It was around the kitchen table, fairly close to the day of the funeral, that we jokingly decided that as well as being the most liveable town, Port Fairy was also a great place to die.

We imagined new slogan underneath the welcome sign as you enter along  the Princes Highway – and what an appealing characteristic that would be for others visiting. Perhaps it would entice them to consider relocating. I would like to share what makes this true for me.

Our family moved to Port Fairy in the 1980s and, as a teenager, I didn't ever feel like a "local". But Mum worked in the bakery and Dad in the petrol station and us younger kids in the family had part-time jobs and played sport, which all helped. 

For me, having a child while still living in Port Fairy built surprising new connections. It was not long after this that Nanna moved to Port Fairy, and we were very proud when we were out and about and could brag that we had four generations of our family living and spending time together. 

After Mum retired, she became involved in the local community, volunteering for the op-shop, meals on wheels and telecare. Dad raced with the cycling club, and later joined Mum with some of this work, and began tinkering with push bikes. Mum went on to support two local sisters and later Nanna's sister, as they aged both in the community and when they entered residential care, providing daily visits and practical support.

The point of all of this is that these experiences in a small community embed a person in it. It creates a richness to our relationships that we don't really appreciate, perhaps until something like the death of a loved one. 

Nanna was fortunate to have been loved and appreciated at Moyneyana House for the very special woman that she was. She had a great time while she lived there in many ways, especially enjoying the soulfully and skillfully run singalongs, as her dementia somehow did not affect her expansive repertoire of songs from the 1920s and ‘30s. She developed some wonderful relationships with residents, staff and other visitors, and Mum did too. 

When she returned to Port Fairy Hospital from Warrnambool after breaking her hip, and things were going down hill, a number of the staff from Moyneyana would call over to see her. 

I later reflected that this was great benefit of aged care services and the hospital being so close to each other. Nanna was even fortunate enough that as she was gradually leaving us, the music therapist who ran the music sessions she loved so much came and sang to her, providing great comfort hopefully to Nanna and also to family who were there in that moment.

When I arrived, at the hospital, I was guided around to the room where Nanna had just died. Despite having lived in Tasmania for 10 years, everything felt very familiar. The palliative care room was the same room I had spent six days in following the birth of my second child 16 years ago.

The doctor who was present was the same doctor who had been there for the birth of my first child. He too had tears in his eyes, and told us of the fondness for Nanna he had developed over the years of caring for her. The nurse who came into the room was the wife of a colleague of mine, and I was struck by the beauty of the closeness and the familiarity of the people caring for my Nanna and us as her bereaved family.

The days that followed illustrated more of that same beautiful richness of community.

Staff of Moyneyana and members of our family shed tears and comforted each other as we packed up Nanna's things, illustrating how we had all loved her as family. They helped us, too, as friends would after they had lost a loved one when we had curly requests.

The funeral director we chose had previously owned a pizza shop, and we had loved his pizza. The woman who arranged the service at the church was a friend of Mum's and the woman who developed the funeral brochure had run a family business opposite the bakery and she would send her daughter over the road to get her lunch from Mum. The priest who conducted the service had been visiting Nanna every week, and the music therapist from Moyneyana sang to Nanna as she was carried from the church. 

Nanna would have loved all of it.

Having experienced this loss and noticing the richness of relationships probably only known in small communities, I know I want to come back to live, and I know my parents will experience ageing in a community where they feel understood and appreciated, where they belong.