Many of you saw my Facebook post a few days ago relating to wishing I had been raised by wolves. That sentiment still stands, but I thought maybe I should explain myself. The past week has been quite interesting, but now that the events in question are winding down, I think I'm prepared to share details.
Last Thursday, my grandma (Walley) passed away. She had not been well, and we all knew it was imminent. I got a text Friday morning and then awaited further details. Thus begins the drama that was my week.
Bottom line, I didn't want to attend any of these "events" associated with her passing. I'm not really a funeral person. It appears I missed out on the gene that comprehends a large group of people getting together for multiple days to "say goodbye" to a person who has already passed. Think what you want, but I wasn't sad. The woman was 91. She lived a really great life. But when she suffered her stroke earlier this year, it robbed her of her freedom and made it impossible for her to enjoy the life she had come to love. Now, I do not believe that the opposite of "sad" is "glad," so please don't assume that is where I am at emotionally. I really just don't feel anything. I know you think that makes me a horrible person. It is what it is. However, maybe this will help explain things.
When my grandpa died on New Year's Eve 1989/1990, all I can really remember about the weeks after that was my dad fighting with my aunt (his sister) and uncle about who got what...who gets grandpa's car...who gets grandpa's tools... I was a junior in high school. I knew what was going on, but clearly I was too wrapped up in my teenage drama to really care. The end result was that my dad no longer wanted anything to do with his sister and her family. That included my only two cousins. Between living four hours away and this little rift between families, it cut into how often I saw my grandma.
Up until the funeral yesterday, I'm not sure I had seen my cousins since my grandpa's funeral. My parents would get Christmas cards, so I knew they were both married and had kids. That's about it. My aunt, uncle, and grandma made an appearance at Eric's wedding in 2003. That was the last time I had seen any of them prior to yesterday. (Not trying to be morbid with the "seeing grandma yesterday" comment, btw.) So, basically, these people were/are strangers to me...family or not.
Hence the trepidation in attending the funeral festivities.
Over the weekend, I got the "sometimes you have to do things you don't want to do" speech from my dad. Which, if you know my dad or are away of his mental illnesses, is almost a pot-calling-the-kettle-black kind of irony. I opted out of the visitation...mostly because it meant an overnight, and I don't really have an overnight dogsitter plan in my back pocket. I took hell for that, too.
I really struggled with this "do or don't I" decision...for days. I reached out to some of my closest friends for advice. I got all kinds of insightful tidbits. However, none of it seemed to help make a decision easier. So, I sucked it up and went.
Other than what I have previously mentioned, the main reason I didn't want to go was because I was pretty sure no one would care if I was there. My dad had been his usual douchecanoe (EIT book reference) self for the past few months with his limited involvement in his family's decisions. I knew I didn't need to be there for him. My mom didn't want to go about as much as I didn't want to go because she was not a fan of my dad's family. I knew I didn't need to be there for her. My aunt, uncle, and cousins all had survived 20 years without me, so I knew they wouldn't need me. As it seems to turn out so often, I'm brilliant and was right on all counts.
I didn't recognize my cousins when I walked into the funeral home. I'm not sure I would have until the ceremony started and realized these people were sitting in the family section. I was in the same space with each of them for over 3 hours yesterday and they never spoke to or acknowledged me. My aunt gave me a hug when I got to the funeral home, but nothing after. My jackass of an uncle also never acknowledged me. Even during the service, both of my cousins spoke. They were the only people to speak other than the minister. Not that I would have, but my brother and I were never asked. And during their speeches, they made all these references to events that happened with them and my grandparents when they were kids, and they never even acknowledged Eric and I.
This is totally what I expected...and exactly why I didn't want to go.
As a side note, when I walked out of the church to drive home, I put my coat on 10 feet from all of them, and none of them got up to say goodbye or address me.
This will be my last family event I get bullied into attending.
As an anecdotal side note, we had a funeral crasher! No joke. "Donald" walked in in a sexy flannel shirt and jeans, lacking all hygiene and dental work. He introduced himself and shook hands with everyone. In fact, he came over to me three times. (One of my friends believes it's because I was the only single hottie in the place. Barf.) The last time, I finally said "yeah, we've done this already." Everyone seemed to think he was weird, but no one had their creep alarm go up quite like me. There were seven small children running around, and it's possible his picture is in the dictionary next to Pedophile. Turns out, we were warned when we got ready to leave the funeral home to not give him a ride to the cemetery...that the funeral home director would "take care of it." Glad to know my sole purpose was my creep-o-meter.
Anyway, I've wanted to blog about this or post more details to Facebook since it happened, but since I don't really require the "I'm sorry for loss" comments, and people don't really know what else to do, I opted to wait until now to write my story.
