I don’t know how to talk about something that seems untalkaboutable. C.’s father died last week, and I learned that death can bring out the best in people and the worst in people. I want to hang onto the people who were kind, sympathetic, generous, and inclusive, but it’s the worst that I remember the most and rehash in my head. Such as: ”family” versus family. Homophobia. The unmitigated audacity of shallow, clueless, stupid, selfish people denying the rightful and proper recognition of a dead man’s children by inventing a fictional family that resembles nothing in reality. These are people who didn’t give a damn about this man when he was alive, who let him go about in threadbare clothing, who stole his money, who committed identity theft against him, who let him go without the basic necessities and thus his dignity, and now they are concerned with “sending him out with style” at the expense of the people who actually loved him, cared about him, tried to provide for him. The people who are his actual family, the two children he raised, the woman he was married to for 35 years–they are all erased in the face of their fraudulent fiction.
These past few days have been incredibly rough and traumatic, and it wasn’t even my loss. It was mine by association.
C. and I spent five days with this man when he was in the hospital last month. I fed him, washed his face, sang songs with him, held his hand, brought him special treats, advocated for him, made sure that his daughter got to see him, and asked questions. I did more for him than those who claim ownership of him. And I’m erased, dismissed. I’m his real daughter’s partner, but I’m not “family.” I’m shoved aside in favor of a horrible bovine stepdaughter who chewed gum during his funeral and talked on her cell phone during his visitation.
I think part of dealing with grief is telling the story of the trauma. I would rather talk about C’s cousins (her mother’s people, not her father’s people) who embraced me, told me that they loved me, and included me like the family I am. I want to talk about the funeral home usher who made sure that I got to stick by C’s side, and that C and her sister were rightfully recognized. I even want to talk about the Mormons who brought over a ton of food for those gathering after the funeral. But instead, all I can think about is the horrible stepdaughter who listed her siblings’ names first in the obituary as his children, and C. and her sister as an afterthought. The funeral home usher who made me leave my partner’s side where I belonged. C’s aunts and uncles who lied about coming over after the funeral, instead choosing to go elsewhere instead of sharing their grief with their brother’s daughters.
I am letting my mind spin out these stories in the hope that it will later want to focus on the good, the love, and the true family. Do you think it will?
