My Grandma and Your Grandma, Sittin' by the Fire

So, it finally happened. I found out that a person who was once close to me and I actually referred to as my grandmother died. Two and a half weeks ago. And the funeral has already come and gone. I knew it would happen eventually, and I am simultaneously shaken and relieved by it. It has been about five years since I’ve spoken to Bea, who was actually my dad’s stepmother, but she’d been in the grandmother role for me since the early 1990s. Prior to that, we had been closeish. I was holding on to the last vestiges of family at that point that I could, and they were some of the few people in my family of origin with whom I still had any contact. It is a Bermuda Triangle of Estrangement. I don’t talk to my parents. My parents don’t talk to each other, and my parents don’t talk to their own parents.

Honestly, my grandparents got on my nerves. They pitted their grandchildren and children against each other by obviously favoring the boys over the girls while completely denying they were doing it, and by announcing they had written various family members out of their wills when any of us acted erroneously. The final straw for me was Christmas of 2005, when Granddaddy gave his annual gift of $50 in cash to my uncle to give to me. It made no sense to do that, because my uncle lives across town from me, and I rarely saw him even then, but it was typical Granddaddy logic. Oh, and I think Granddaddy paid for my male cousin’s senior year of college that year. But no favoritism.  None. When I didn’t come to collect the $50 in enough time, I received a voice mail from my deaf granddaddy screaming that he had taken the money back from my uncle, and had spent it on suits for another cousin’s one and three-year-old sons. Because they apparently had upcoming job interviews and needed to look professional.

As an aside, it wasn’t about the money for me. I didn’t need the stupid 50 bucks. I usually spent more than 50 bucks on the nice bottle of booze I bought them every Christmas. It was the principle of the thing.

A few days later, I called Granddady’s house and spoke to Bea. Since deaf denial was rampant over there and Granddaddy couldn’t hear me on the phone, and he refused to utilize any of the phone services for people who are Hard of Hearing, I had to talk with Bea when I called their house. When I spoke to her, I mentioned that I felt like I was being mistreated when I got the message about my Christmas money being spent on my cousin’s kids. She got agitated and gave me the classic “sucks for you” apology that isn’t really an apology: “I’m sorry you feel that way.” And she hung up on me. I never called back. I had also been calling to tell them that I was pregnant with FOO, but I didn’t get the chance to tell her before she disconnected.

I have heard from family friends over the years that my grandparents were confused as to why I never called or came over any more. I really think it never occurred to them that you can’t continuously treat people like shit and expect them to keep coming back. But in their hearts, they must have known, or been unhappy with me, because my phone never rang from their number again.  Or they were that old and toeing the edge of senility that they didn’t remember it. I don’t really know that it matters. Acting like that is not okay.

Here’s the really messed up part. Since my dad and Granddaddy haven’t spoken in about seven years, my ridiculously passive-aggressive Granddaddy sent a complete stranger to my dad’s workplace to tell him that Bea died, and that Bea’s son is moving up to Charlotte from the Atlanta area to take care of Granddaddy, who needs assistance with activities of daily living. Twist the knife. Pour in the salt, you big freaking baby.

Yeah.  So I’m actually not sad about it. Or not sad about the loss of Bea, because I had already lost her years ago. It did prompt me to search the online obituaries of the names of other aging relatives, but no dice, erm, matches.