My fatherinlaw recently passed away after a long battle with COPD. He leaves behind three children, only one of whom spoke with him at the time of his death. That child, as it turns out, is my husband.
My husband is a middle child - literally and in every possible figurative sense of the word. He has spent his entire life making peace (or attempting to craft lasting detante's in a family full of angst, stubbornness and general dysfunction, like most). Upon his father's passing he was once again placed in this most tenuous of positions - that between forces, this time forces fueled by grief. These forces were comprised of his mother, the ex wife, and the widow, aka the Step Mom.
Grief, as it turns out, brings out the very worst, the very best, and the absolutely weirdest shit imaginable in people.
In the last month, memories long buried have percolated from the dark depths into the light of day. The hurts, the petty jealousies, the passions, the memories of disappointments and joys...they all bubbled up like stinky bubbles in life's tar pit.
A monologue delivered by my motherinlaw after a family dinner a week before the big service (who married him, funded his education, bore his three children, divorced him, remarried him, divorced him again, and secretly hoped he would return to her one day even after decades of marriage to another woman) portrayed my late fatherinlaw in less than stellar terms. She cloaked great angst and resentment in platitudes. She had clearly rehearsed this speech, evidenced by her ability to return to her point even after repeated side trips created by my husband, then his brother. She said she felt the grandchildren needed to know. She said he was the love of her life. She said he was the great disappointment of her life.
She eviscerated him, his memory, his legacy, all in one fell swoop over 45 minutes. Her theatre training allowed her to keep her breath steady, her eye on the audience, and never ever step off her mark.
Remind me never to piss her off.
After said monologue, all children (and grandchildren, and their dates, and the spouses of the children present) went away with a huge dose of TMI, and the absolute certainty that she should not, under any terms, be allowed to attend the Celebration of Life. As several of the more rational audience members expressed over the following days, 'no good could possibly come of her attending.'
There was consensus.
In the end, our daughter came home to help with the event. My most amazing friend in ever, Missy J, braved the emotional abyss and provided day of support for her peeps. Thank you a million times over, J. Without you we wouldn't have found humor in the palpable tension, we would have missed the finer moments, and we would have certainly lost our perspective during the poignant moments. Thank you for shoring us up, and for knowing just when and where to be, and also when to let us wallow a bit to begin to process it all.
We made, and ate, significant amounts of Polish food. Galumpki. Cucumber salad. Grilled sausages. Pasta salad. Sliced homegrown organic heirloom tomatoes w/basil and balsamic. Copious amounts of Polish beer, not quite but nearly a cask of cabernet, equal amounts of chardonnay. All were consumed over the course of the evening.
And now it is over.
Daughter caught a late flight last night to Seattle.
The house is nearly back to normal, though we still need to rehang the Antelope Canyon photographs on the big wall we used for the slide show projection screen.
Oh, and motherinlaw didn't show. At the end of the night, as we rehashed the events of the day, we toasted the fact that she managed to heed the pleas of her children and refrain from making the event all about her pain, her sadness, her regrets.
So we had that going for us.
Now, we move forward. The new normal awaits.
Huge hugs,
Stevie
My husband is a middle child - literally and in every possible figurative sense of the word. He has spent his entire life making peace (or attempting to craft lasting detante's in a family full of angst, stubbornness and general dysfunction, like most). Upon his father's passing he was once again placed in this most tenuous of positions - that between forces, this time forces fueled by grief. These forces were comprised of his mother, the ex wife, and the widow, aka the Step Mom.
Grief, as it turns out, brings out the very worst, the very best, and the absolutely weirdest shit imaginable in people.
In the last month, memories long buried have percolated from the dark depths into the light of day. The hurts, the petty jealousies, the passions, the memories of disappointments and joys...they all bubbled up like stinky bubbles in life's tar pit.
A monologue delivered by my motherinlaw after a family dinner a week before the big service (who married him, funded his education, bore his three children, divorced him, remarried him, divorced him again, and secretly hoped he would return to her one day even after decades of marriage to another woman) portrayed my late fatherinlaw in less than stellar terms. She cloaked great angst and resentment in platitudes. She had clearly rehearsed this speech, evidenced by her ability to return to her point even after repeated side trips created by my husband, then his brother. She said she felt the grandchildren needed to know. She said he was the love of her life. She said he was the great disappointment of her life.
She eviscerated him, his memory, his legacy, all in one fell swoop over 45 minutes. Her theatre training allowed her to keep her breath steady, her eye on the audience, and never ever step off her mark.
Remind me never to piss her off.
After said monologue, all children (and grandchildren, and their dates, and the spouses of the children present) went away with a huge dose of TMI, and the absolute certainty that she should not, under any terms, be allowed to attend the Celebration of Life. As several of the more rational audience members expressed over the following days, 'no good could possibly come of her attending.'
There was consensus.
In the end, our daughter came home to help with the event. My most amazing friend in ever, Missy J, braved the emotional abyss and provided day of support for her peeps. Thank you a million times over, J. Without you we wouldn't have found humor in the palpable tension, we would have missed the finer moments, and we would have certainly lost our perspective during the poignant moments. Thank you for shoring us up, and for knowing just when and where to be, and also when to let us wallow a bit to begin to process it all.
We made, and ate, significant amounts of Polish food. Galumpki. Cucumber salad. Grilled sausages. Pasta salad. Sliced homegrown organic heirloom tomatoes w/basil and balsamic. Copious amounts of Polish beer, not quite but nearly a cask of cabernet, equal amounts of chardonnay. All were consumed over the course of the evening.
And now it is over.
Daughter caught a late flight last night to Seattle.
The house is nearly back to normal, though we still need to rehang the Antelope Canyon photographs on the big wall we used for the slide show projection screen.
Oh, and motherinlaw didn't show. At the end of the night, as we rehashed the events of the day, we toasted the fact that she managed to heed the pleas of her children and refrain from making the event all about her pain, her sadness, her regrets.
So we had that going for us.
Now, we move forward. The new normal awaits.
Huge hugs,
Stevie
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