My grandmother died on Friday ... and I'm not sure how I feel about it.
Somewhere around about the time I turned 14 my grandparents lost interest in me. My mother rang my grandmother to remind her that her first grandchild was turning 21 - two months later I received a card and the ugliest necklace I have ever seen. I spent many years trying to work out where I went wrong. Then the MOTH came along and I realised it simply didn't matter any more.
My grandad died in January 2001, four months after he met S for the first and last time. In spite of three children, four grand-children and two great-grand-children, my grandmother moved into a purpose-built cottage on my parents farm and then spent the next six and a half years trying to die.
My father rang to tell me she'd died. For a man who'd just lost his mother, he was remarkably calm. But then I realised he'd actually lost his mother a long time ago. I don't know exactly how she died, and it's taken me until today to realise that, and also that I'm not sure why or even if it matters.
There was no funeral. So no reason for me to fly south. Yet I still spent several hours yesterday trying to justify
not going.
Anorexia and bulimia are horrifying things. When my grandma was admitted to hospital the first time, she weighed less than 35kg. When she was allowed home she continued to purge, hide food and flush the protein shakes she was supposed to be living on. The next time she went into hospital they fed her through a tube.
The bowel cancer that contributed to her death was fully contained and would have been operable had she not weighed so little she was unable to walk. She was so emaciated that the padding on the bottoms of her feet had been eaten up !!!
I guess maybe I do have some feeling about this after all. I'm pretty sure it's called anger.
