Not my ideal second post, but I feel like I should at least write something.
Over the Bank Holiday weekend, my step-grandfather, Frank, was admitted to hospital due to a heart attack. He suffered another one and died at the age of 81. At this moment his funeral plans are being organised by his eldest step-daughter, Irene...but I don't think we're invited (more on this later)
I don't have very many memories of Frank, simply because we hardly kept in contact with my father's side of the family and after their divorce, we just never kept in contact - there wasn't really any reason to since the whole point was to break ties completely. From the one lasting memory I do have from my very young years, I get the impression that he was quite strict - I took a bite from something on his plate and put it back and he tersely told me to finish it. Other memories have him being more pleasant as I grew older, but we never spoke much and I never got to know him.
The last time I saw him was about 4 years ago - my mother's younger sister and three cousins had come over to visit from New Zealand and wanted to meet my father's younger brother as he had attended a funeral and met them briefly. My cousin and I knocked on his door and the youngest of his two daughters answered; despite the obvious flash of recognition in his eyes, he insisted he didn't know us, when I mentioned we had come with my mother, and denied going to New Zealand, until my cousin spoke up and he caved. We entered and it was then that we saw Frank in the front room - I remember it had once been a living room, but had since been converted into his room due to his deteriorating mobility. He seemed so happy to see us and greeted my mother warmly, though we didn't stay long.
I'm not sure if I regret not getting to know him better...I know he wasn't a bad person; I remember he used to send us Christmas Cards with £5.00 or sometimes £10.00, and hearing stories from my mother it seemed like he took care of her when my father or anyone else didn't when she was pregnant. It also appears that he loved my father's mother, my grandmother, quite dearly...though for the life of me I can't imagine why - from what I've heard, she was a real piece of work. He wouldn't hear a bad word against her, defending her honour and even bought a plot next to hers in the cemetary where she and my sister are buried.
I know that I never hated him, nor did I love him - I just never cared, nor never allowed myself to care. Perhaps I should have...but as I mentioned, I'm not sure if it's something I regret, though some part of me feels like I should - he was after all a human being related to me through marriage.
We found out about his passing early yesterday morning from my mother's older brother in New Zealand - it seems as though my father called the matriarch - my maternal grandfather's eldest brother's wife - and got my uncle's number and left a message with him to pass to us. In light of this message, my mother called her cousin and they decided to visit in order to pay their respects - further encouraged to do so by my aunt's husband, who insisted that despite the bad blood we should do this as human beings - I agreed to go and my brothers chose not to.
Just to sum up before going into it, the encounter wasn't a pleasant one. We arrived and even though I had planned for the possibility, it was still a shock/surprise when my father was the one who answered the door. He was still tall, though not as tall as I remember, his hair was cropped short and had gone white - aside from that he still looked the same, though his voice sounded deeper than I remember. It has been 6 years since I saw him last and over those years I wondered about how he had been doing - evidently quite well as he seemed well-groomed and had even put on a little bit extra. I recognised surprise in his expression and all I could do was stammer out a greeting and asking if we could come in, he said yes but we didn't say much as my uncle waltzed in, drunk off his face and threw his arms around me. I could tell he was putting on a show of grief, but he pulled away at my father's insistence and promptly dragged me into the kitchen/living room to greet the other guests - Frank's niece, my father's youngest sister Davina, a friend of theirs and his wife and some cousin. His wife was there, flitting about and only greeted me when told to.
It was awful and uncomfortable - he showed me off to everyone, stating that I was his niece, his brother's daughter whom he thought of as his own - a grand show. He asked about my brothers and I lied, saying that they were busy and would visit another day. As soon as I could, I escaped and went back to my mother, but stopped as my father asked me why I hadn't greeted him properly - he used that tone of voice I remember so well, the voice that stops me in my tracks and makes me wonder if I've done something wrong...it's amazing how after all these years that voice can send me back to my childhood. I simply replied that I didn't know how to - it had been so many years and I wasn't sure how he would react. Again we couldn't say much because my uncle came back and started a verbal fight with my aunt - he was throwing my mother and aunt out and my aunt was throwing it back to him, stating that his sister, Irene, had done the same thing at their mother's funeral. My mother started dragging me out - she had been rooted by the door and snuck out behind it when my cousin had rushed out on an errand - and my father was calling for me to stay. It was another awful experience, one that sent me back many years to a similar incident in which my father had got into a fight with my maternal grandfather and was thrown out - he reached for me and dragged me to my mother's eldest brother's house where we stayed the night; first thing the next morning I went back to my mother.
My uncle followed us out and started pleading with me, while my father stayed behind, calling for me. It seems as though my father's family is under the impression that my mother is holding us against our will, when she hasn't. She gave us the choice to leave or stay and we chose to leave; there have been a number of times where she has given us the choice to contact him and each time we refuse. It seems like the very possibility that the reason for us leaving was because he was an awful father doesn't even register on their radar. When I told him that we just wanted to be left alone, my uncle slammed the proverbial door and went back, saying 'Good-bye' repeatedly.
If it's one thing that family knows how to do, it's to put on a show. What disgusts me is that we came to their house, which they leeched off of Frank, to pay our respects and rather than being gracious and good hosts, they launch into a fight, dragging up the past and bringing up events that have no bearing on the present situation. It seems all they were interested in was getting access to my brothers and I - I can't believe they would sink so low as to use their own step-father's death as a means to see us again. What disgusts me almost as much is just how much of a coward my father is - he let his brother do all the talking, when I'm his daughter. My uncle has no say in me - if my father wanted to see me so much, he should have been the one following us out, not his brother.
What frustrates me so much is how my mother views it as a victory of sorts, relishing in the fact that we've probably given them something to talk about. I don't care about causing a scene or making show - I have more important things to think and worry about. One of the main reasons I was going was so that I could ask my father if he had any problems with his vision, but all my my mother can think about is the possibility that they would blame her for it much like they blamed her for my sister's condition. Why should she even care what they think? I just want answers as to whether I inherited this or whether I got it as a result of independent mutation during early development. Then again...why should it matter how I got it? It's not going to change anything, apart from perhaps changing the lives of my relatives in case they have it or are carrier's of the condition, though it would help me when it comes to planning my own family - if I'm lucky enough. When I think about it...nothing's really stopping me from telling them myself; I don't need my mother to hold my hand - perhaps it's easier for me to keep that box closed, in which case I'm no more a coward than my father.
Speaking of my father, it turned out he didn't recognise me. Friends I haven't seen in nearly a decade recognise me, and here is my father unable to recognise his own daughter after half that. Though I do wonder what he must have felt when he saw me, what were the thoughts he had - he's missed so much of my life. He's missed me grow from my last years as an awkward teenager into a young woman - though I think the 'awkward' part still applies. However, I seem to remember my mother sending him an invitation to my graduation and he didn't bother coming.
I'm sorry, this was supposed to be a memory of Frank, instead I went on and spoke about the behaviour of his family. They've honoured his memory quite well if I say, full of dignity and respect for the dead - I'm sure the old man is proud.
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