Reconciling Life with Death

I'm having trouble reconciling the person I knew to the person being talked about. 

I hear the idealization given by the guilt-ridden and grieving. I hear the words being said. I don't recognize the actions.

Grandma played favorites.  I didn't know that my family was a blended family until I was eight years old.  It didn't matter. My cousins were my cousins and my grandparents my grandparents. I didn't realize my Dad was a divorced kid.

It didn't matter. Family is family no matter how it's assembled.

I have little claim to favorite status.  I wasn’t her only biological child's children. 

I was eight and almost in the third grade (it was before school started that year) when I was told the difference by one of those favored cousins. In front of both grandparents. During a roadtrip.  It wasn't until later that I noticed what my cousin's damning words really meant.

It meant that I was an afterthought to Grandma.  It meant that I had to sit at the table and eat foods that made me gag when my cousins didn't have to. 

Some of my best remembered memories aren't necessarily pleasant. 

Being forgotten one Christmas because it'd been done the week before with the cousin's, who got stockings and expensive Christmas presents.

Having to work another 'Christmas' - usually celebrated the week before on a Sunday - but managing to get off early.  I still missed the exchange of presents because of someone leaving - who was still there an hour after I got there - even though it was the first year I'd paid for presents. I didn't even get to see the presents I gave being opened by the recipient and I was excited about that.

Being called fat because my shirt shrunk in the dryer and I couldn't get a new one before a wedding. 

Being ignored. Crying for hours in the hallway while she was baby sitting me. (Only Grandddaddy could get me to stop. Only he tried to.) 

I have a few good memories. Sitting around the table watching her decorate cakes.  Sometimes that's even tainted by my cousin's wedding cake and there not being enough room in the van for me because of the cake. (Dad put his foot down there.  Granddaddy was too drained from a bout of Lyme Disease.)

But it's all cakes.  The mixer. The cake pans.

The past two years haven't been pleasant. Refusing to eat. Catering to her likes and dislikes while meal planning. Eventually seeing more of my grandmother that any granddaughter needs to see.  Taking care of her while the favored son and granddaughters made their excuses. 

Because family is family and nobody, not even a grandmother with a mean-streak, "it's gotta be done my way", controlling attitude deserves to be uncared for while her body is being racked with Alzheimers and congestive heart failure.

Even when her memory isn't one of a typical grandmother.

Rest in peace, Grandma.  I am thankful you're no longer suffering.