The angriest I've ever been
I should be sad today. I am sad, but mostly I’m angry. The cruelty with which some people can live their daily lives infuriates me beyond comprehension.
My grandmother and the only grandfather I’ve ever really known married before I was born. They had been high school sweethearts in the small town in Canada where they grew up. Early in the Depression, my grandmother moved to the US to find employment, and the two drifted apart. The both met and married the spouses they would have families with, and were both eventually widowed. (My biological grandfather passed away while my father was still a teenager.)
Anyhow, when they met again in 1976, not long after my grandfather’s first wife Violet lost her battle with cancer, sparks flew once more. When Grandpa Eric proposed, he had told my grandmother that he wasn’t letting her get away from him ever again. They married in the summer of 1977.
They lived happily for many years as old age crept up. They spent time living in both Canada and the US, but once they were too feeble to maintain their traveling lifestyle, they eventually settled in the small town in Canada where my grandfather’s children and grandchildren lived, not far from where they had grown up..
Both of them nonagenarians, my grandparents had endured their share of health problems. My grandpa Eric had had several strokes and survived a bout of lung cancer, though with only one lung intact. As his age neared 94, he would lose control of his bowels, and have frequent dizzy spells. My grandmother did her best to care for him, but the time came that she could no longer do it by herself. She talked to Eric’s family to see if they could help find an assisted living situation they could all live with. His children did not like this idea at all, thinking she should be able to care for him alone. (The phrase often repeated about my grandfather's health was that he had one foot in the grave, and the other on a banana peel.)
About this time, one of Eric’s son discovered that his father and my grandmother had stashed away a respectably sized nest egg. Totaling around $250K Canadian, the money was joint funds that had been accrued over the nearly 30 years they had been together. Eric’s children were previously unaware of this sum, and decided that the decades my grandmother had spent with him must have been some elaborate ruse to take all his money when he died. They called her a gold digger to her face. All for what amounts to less than $200K in American dollars.
Eric’s sons basically then strong-armed their father to cut my grandmother off. Eric had lost some of his mental faculties, and went along with what his sons requested. My grandmother felt overwhelmed – men whom she had seen as her own sons basically told her to sign over the rights to her hard earned pensions and investments. Not realizing what was happening, she did what she was told. After all, these people might as well have been her own children. They were family.
My grandmother contacted my father and my uncle, and after several of their visits back and forth to Canada, thousands of dollars in lawyers’ fees, and one set of broken hearts, my grandfather’s children achieved their goals. A settlement was drawn up, and my grandmother ostracized from her home, her friends, and her “family.” There was no divorce, but it was understood that she was no longer a welcome member of the family she loved, and was essentially forced to leave the only home she knew.
She came to live with my uncle (and my other uncle) in Arizona, and my grandfather stayed in an assisted living community near his children in Canada. His children had convinced my grandfather that my grandmother was deserting him, and the last words he spoke to her were unkind, to say the least.
That was just over two years ago.
Grandma still has some friends that she writes to in Canada. They hear from each other every few months. Two days ago, my grandmother received a letter from one such friend, who happened to mention how sorry she was to hear that Eric had passed away.
My grandfather died on Monday, October 9, exactly three weeks before my grandmother received the letter from her friend. She had been a widow for three weeks and did not know it. Eric’s family didn’t even bother to tell her.
My uncle found an obituary for my grandfather online. My grandmother wasn’t even mentioned. “Eric Samuel Mitchell, beloved husband of Violet (1909-1976) and father of Harold, Barry, and Beverly… passed away October 9, 2006.”
My grandmother has been flooded with emotion: heartbreak, and anger. She’s putting on a brave face, but I know she is feeling hurt and betrayed.
I suppose although he may not have realized, my grandfather’s children caused him to break the promise he made to my grandmother the day he proposed. He had let her get away.
And I firmly believe there is a special place in hell for the callous bastards who broke two old soul’s hearts, all for the sake of a few thousand dollars.
My grandmother and the only grandfather I’ve ever really known married before I was born. They had been high school sweethearts in the small town in Canada where they grew up. Early in the Depression, my grandmother moved to the US to find employment, and the two drifted apart. The both met and married the spouses they would have families with, and were both eventually widowed. (My biological grandfather passed away while my father was still a teenager.)
Anyhow, when they met again in 1976, not long after my grandfather’s first wife Violet lost her battle with cancer, sparks flew once more. When Grandpa Eric proposed, he had told my grandmother that he wasn’t letting her get away from him ever again. They married in the summer of 1977.
They lived happily for many years as old age crept up. They spent time living in both Canada and the US, but once they were too feeble to maintain their traveling lifestyle, they eventually settled in the small town in Canada where my grandfather’s children and grandchildren lived, not far from where they had grown up..
Both of them nonagenarians, my grandparents had endured their share of health problems. My grandpa Eric had had several strokes and survived a bout of lung cancer, though with only one lung intact. As his age neared 94, he would lose control of his bowels, and have frequent dizzy spells. My grandmother did her best to care for him, but the time came that she could no longer do it by herself. She talked to Eric’s family to see if they could help find an assisted living situation they could all live with. His children did not like this idea at all, thinking she should be able to care for him alone. (The phrase often repeated about my grandfather's health was that he had one foot in the grave, and the other on a banana peel.)
About this time, one of Eric’s son discovered that his father and my grandmother had stashed away a respectably sized nest egg. Totaling around $250K Canadian, the money was joint funds that had been accrued over the nearly 30 years they had been together. Eric’s children were previously unaware of this sum, and decided that the decades my grandmother had spent with him must have been some elaborate ruse to take all his money when he died. They called her a gold digger to her face. All for what amounts to less than $200K in American dollars.
Eric’s sons basically then strong-armed their father to cut my grandmother off. Eric had lost some of his mental faculties, and went along with what his sons requested. My grandmother felt overwhelmed – men whom she had seen as her own sons basically told her to sign over the rights to her hard earned pensions and investments. Not realizing what was happening, she did what she was told. After all, these people might as well have been her own children. They were family.
My grandmother contacted my father and my uncle, and after several of their visits back and forth to Canada, thousands of dollars in lawyers’ fees, and one set of broken hearts, my grandfather’s children achieved their goals. A settlement was drawn up, and my grandmother ostracized from her home, her friends, and her “family.” There was no divorce, but it was understood that she was no longer a welcome member of the family she loved, and was essentially forced to leave the only home she knew.
She came to live with my uncle (and my other uncle) in Arizona, and my grandfather stayed in an assisted living community near his children in Canada. His children had convinced my grandfather that my grandmother was deserting him, and the last words he spoke to her were unkind, to say the least.
That was just over two years ago.
Grandma still has some friends that she writes to in Canada. They hear from each other every few months. Two days ago, my grandmother received a letter from one such friend, who happened to mention how sorry she was to hear that Eric had passed away.
My grandfather died on Monday, October 9, exactly three weeks before my grandmother received the letter from her friend. She had been a widow for three weeks and did not know it. Eric’s family didn’t even bother to tell her.
My uncle found an obituary for my grandfather online. My grandmother wasn’t even mentioned. “Eric Samuel Mitchell, beloved husband of Violet (1909-1976) and father of Harold, Barry, and Beverly… passed away October 9, 2006.”
My grandmother has been flooded with emotion: heartbreak, and anger. She’s putting on a brave face, but I know she is feeling hurt and betrayed.
I suppose although he may not have realized, my grandfather’s children caused him to break the promise he made to my grandmother the day he proposed. He had let her get away.
And I firmly believe there is a special place in hell for the callous bastards who broke two old soul’s hearts, all for the sake of a few thousand dollars.
posted by Flipside at 9:47 AM
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