It’s been more than three weeks since my grandmother threw me out of her house. Rather, her room on the first floor of my aunt and uncle’s home, which in the eight months she has lived there she has managed to manipulate and alter to her satisfaction, much like everything else in her life.
The color of the living room walls have been repainted to match the blue carpet she convinced my aunt to buy against her wishes with a single snarky comment. Comfortable furniture has been cast aside for rigid re-upholstered flowery monstrosities that in previous households were treated like works of art, not meant to be touched.
And in the center of it all is Grammy. Unhappy as ever no matter how often she manages to get her way. It’s always the instances where her wishes were not fulfilled that she points to as the source of her unrest.
And this month that finger points squarely at me.
Mother, mother
My relationship with my grandmother has been an evolving one. In many ways she was my mother growing up — my actual mother was still around, but it was my grandparents who sheltered me and took care of my basic needs. A fact dear Grammy never would let me forget.
For many years I viewed this as caring grandparents rescuing me from an irresponsible, too-young-to-be-a-mother mother. But as I’ve grown and learned more about my grandmother’s character, I can see how a confused teenager with depression issues lost control of the situation, and rights to her daughter.
Once mom had gotten a life together for herself, my attachment to my grandparents was deep, and my mother’s confidence in her abilities was shaky. So she let me stay.
“Normal” for me became living with my grandparents, homework after school, mom visiting after she finished with work.
And it is only today at age 28 that I see how twisted it was that a woman who acted like a martyr for taking in her grandchild would not encourage her daughter’s efforts to get a good job and home. Who would not urge me to move in with my mother and build a life with her.
My husband always says, “I have no idea how you didn’t end up more screwed up.”
I don’t really either. I certainly had enough strikes against me. Yet despite the likely mental illness at work in my grandmother, and depressed mother, there was love. Many children could only be so lucky as to have so many parents wanting to care for them.
And I suppose it was that love that kept me around so long. In retrospect, the way my mother was manipulated and treated was unacceptable. But I was well cared for, got a great education, was emotionally and financially supported. I will always be thankful for a secure and safe childhood (minus grandma’s chain smoking during the early years, but not everything can be perfect).
Mental illness runs in my family. A little Google searching indicates Grammy likely has a form of bipolar disorder. We witnessed this many times throughout my childhood. Sometimes she would just turn cold and not speak or look at you when she didn’t get her way (she still does this). Other times, she’d scream and yell at you to go away, like the “family reunion chicken incident” of ’94. I had my mom in stitches when I exclaimed that Grammy had thrown us out “over frickin’ chicken!”
But a few hours later, my mother got a phone call wondering where we were and when we would be back home in the sweet-as-pie voice associated with other mentally stable grandmothers. So we shrugged and life carried on as usual.
I wasn’t much older when my grandfather died. My grief cycle is very closed off. I want to be left alone, and I want to keep as busy as possible. And don’t bother looking to me for a shoulder to cry on if we have lost a mutual loved one, because I suck at consoling.
Apparently my grandmother’s grieving cycle involves spending life insurance money as quickly as possible. That year was spent going out to dinner every night and going to the movie theater every weekend, something she rarely rarely did before Grandpa’s death. It was sad losing PaPa, but that year houses the happiest recent memories I have with my grandmother.
Guilt trip
Our relationship began to fall apart when I moved out of the house my third year of college. Grammy was losing her eyesight and was unable to drive or read as much as she used to. My visits to her house were treated as being nearly mandatory.
I, still in the belief that I owed so much to this woman for raising me, bound myself to these visits every weekend. And the more free time I had, the more often the visits were expected. The words “I don’t have time” would evoke the most pitiful gut-wrenching sigh from my grandmother … or worse, the angry eyes as she coldly turned away from you. Lord only knows what would happen if you told her the truth, that “I don’t have time” really meant “I don’t want to.”
And gosh did she get more mean. I don’t even remember what she used to say to me that would cause me to leave her house bawling my eyes out. My now husband, Randy, got many teary phone calls as I tried to pull myself together driving after a visit with her. He helped me find the strength to walk out on her mid-visit whenever she said something to me that would make me cry … and I was able to train her to stop being so nasty to me.
So the visits continued.
That was the mad genius behind my grandmother’s guilt trips. She would cling and demand so much that no one wanted to be around her anymore. This distaste for my grandmother left me with such an immense feeling of guilt that I would continue visiting her nearly every night after work and every weekend morning until three weeks ago. After all, she was just a lonely old woman who had given me everything, right? I could give her a few measly hours a week in return, right? And heck, sometimes it was even pleasant.
I should add here that my grandmother hates Randy. I have many theories why: She wanted me to live out her women’s lib fantasy of sleeping around and not marrying and definitely not having kids; and if I was going to marry, it should be to someone who made more money and did not have health issues; or maybe it was because when he entered my life, I became stronger and would not let her manipulate me. When she tried to make me feel bad, instead of arguing with her, I would laugh at her, a trick that drove her mad.
Regardless, Randy is a genius and he treats me like gold and makes me laugh. What more could a mother, or motherlike figure, want?
Despite knowing her feelings about him, he was even so gracious as to accomodate my obsessive visits to my grandma and to put on a smile at family events. Grammy was all about show and performing the proper demonstrations that were required to emulate a happy family, even if otherwise she was spitting venom at a person. She’d send a thank you card to Satan himself if she was taught it was proper etiquette to do so.
The divide
The day Grammy and I put all the cards on the table was the day she threw me a bridal shower. Randy had asked if he could come during the present-opening portion of the event. My grandmother’s face soured when I passed along this request, but she said I could do whatever I wanted.
As soon as Randy walked through the door that day, though, it was clear that “whatever I wanted” was only OK so long as it matched what she wanted. And in Grammy’s book of etiquette, a man showing up at a bridal shower was akin to killing a puppy. She went into a separate room and said nothing to anyone for the rest of the shower.
When the uncomfortable guests cleared, I told Randy to go home without me. There was work here to be done.
My grandmother claimed Randy had ruined the shower and that she was so embarrassed. I told her that everyone was perfectly happy until she turned into the silent hostess pouting in the other room. The tittering guests even applauded when Randy walked in after we had played our games and eaten our crudites.
She went into more outrageous paranoid claims about how everyone was making fun of her and us because Randy was there.
And I drew the line.
“You are the only one here with a problem! And if you EVER make me choose between Randy and you, I swear to you, you will lose.”
As with all of our previous fights, things went back to “normal” afterward. That lasted about three and a half years.
And then Grammy snapped.
The fight wasn’t even Randy related, but it was clear her feelings toward him were a constant undercurrent in her clashes with me.
It actually began with her complaining that my uncle and aunt and cousins constantly doted over her, making sure she had water and that her trash can was emptied, but “meanwhile I haven’t had my liquid medicine for three days because I don’t know where they keep the measuring tube.”
I have snapped at my grandmother many times for not asking people for what she needs — for expecting people to be mind readers. I understood her point. Afterall, she moved here so that she would have people to help take care of her, and here they had forgotten one of her No. 1 needs three days in a row.
But still she was a grown up.
“Well have you told anyone this?” I asked.
She turned her head away from me. Silence.
“You know, anyone besides me? Like someone who lives here and could actually DO something about it.” She had just told me my cousin had checked on her a hour ago.
She paused then said, still looking away, “Well I’m sorry to have BORED you!”
Sigh.
“I’m not bored, Grammy. I just get angry when you tell me about a problem you are having, but you don’t tell the people who could actual fix it for you!”
I wasn’t gentle with this statement. We’d had this fight too many times before for gentle. I do regret being a smartass, but the reaction that followed was disproportionate.
“Get out,” she said.
“Fine,” I said. She needed time to cool down.
“Get out and GO TAKE CARE OF YOUR BABY!”
My “baby” I could only assume was Randy.
I had my coat on, purse in hand when she stopped me and asked for her debit card back. She had entrusted me with this card for the past six years to take care of all her errands for her.
So this was the moment. She was turning my concern over her medicine into the showdown that would force me to pick forever.
I threw the card and her most recent shopping list on the bed.
And haven’t seen her since.
Randy and my mother joked about when Grammy would call pretending nothing happened. Randy told me to be strong and hold out for an apology.
But this time was different.
She sent a letter a few days later. All that was inside was a $20 bill and a Post-it note explaining that it was to go toward our family share plan cell phone bill.
The letter was addressed to my married name — a name she has always coldly refused to use unless it was necessary.
Randy is outraged.
“Grandmothers don’t treat their grandchildren this way. They DON’T!” he keeps repeating.
While he forgave all the trespasses my grandmother committed against him, his feelings now can only be described as hatred.
Me? I feel like I did when my grandpa died. Numb around the edges with a desire to keep busy, uninterested in being consoled.
In many ways, this event has reconciled me with the life I should have always had. My primary family members are my mother and father. I talk with my mom a few times a week, lunch every other. I reunited with my dad seven years ago and hang out with him and his family about once a month.
And most of all I get to spend more time with my husband. I’ve already tended to a half dozen projects that I had neglected for years. We cook at home more, we go to the gym. It’s all so natural.
Is it ideal? No. Ideally my grandmother would have maintained a life of her own rather than trying to control mine. A life that would keep her busy so I wouldn’t need to.
Perhaps my absence will be good for her too.
I’m not sure if I’ll ever make amends. In some ways, it seems the right thing to do. Yet making the first move seems on par with asking an abusive partner to take you back.
I’ve said goodbye to my grandma a half dozen times in the past decade due to several near death experiences. Doctors said she wouldn’t live past five years … six years ago. I think I’m OK not saying goodbye again if it comes to that.
But for now, I know God is using this time to heal me and the damage done from this relationship.
I pray He is doing the same for her.
Painting Faith 