Fathers

Parental Secrets

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Today is the day I would normally pull an excerpt from a book I love and share it with all of you.  However, I got some news I never would have expected to hear in my life on Saturday night, and I can’t seem to tell enough people about it, thus this blog entry.  I hope to get back on track later this week with other posts.

Here’s the bombshell news:  I have another sister I never knew about!  This is the first I’m hearing about my father having had another daughter besides the sister I grew up with, and the daughter he had with his second wife.

My family history is a bit complex, so first, a quick background.  My parents split when I was three and my sister, a year and a half old.  After the split, my sister and I lived with my mother for a year and a half or so, then we were sent to live with my father.  My father’s girlfriend had two sons, one my age, one three years older than me, so we became a blended family of four children, ages 3, 5, 5, and 8.  Three years later, my father and my step-mother had another child, so now we were five children, ages baby, 6, 8, 8, and 11.  When I was ten, my sister and I were sent to live with my mother again because my father was leaving my stepmother.  We had a hard time maintaining contact with my half-sister, who was 2 when we left, and my ex-step-brothers.  Periodically, I’d reconnect with them, but as the years have passed, they are less and less open to maintaining communication with me.  We lived through some hard times, which perhaps I’ll write about in the future, but suffice it to say it was a pain-filled period for all of us, and my father abandoned everyone at that time.

Saturday night, the mother of my half-sister told me she had been contacted by a daughter that she and my father had given up for adoption just before I came to live with them.  I had absolutely no idea they had another daughter.  My new half-sister had contacted her birth mother and asked if any of her newly discovered five siblings would communicate with her online.  She is five years younger than me and lives in England, and that’s about as much as I know.  Of course, I said I’d be happy to communicate with her – the ridiculous drama of our family life back then was insane, but regardless, if I can do anything to satisfy the curiosity of someone who has been adopted and clearly has a strong desire to learn about her birth family, I absolutely want to help.

This has raised a number of interesting conversations among my friends, my sister, and a few of my relatives on my mom’s side of the family.  Everyone is shocked to know I have another sister – personally my mind has been spinning, but somehow spinning with lots of emptiness – it’s hard to think about concrete things when you have a bombshell like that dropped on you.  I have yet to decide whether I’m going to talk to my father about the situation.  Many people have expressed shock that he never told me or my sister about this other daughter, but that doesn’t actually shock me at all.  Whatever the circumstances were that they chose to put this baby up for adoption, the decision was certainly theirs to make, and I don’t believe they had any  obligation to tell the rest of us kids.  I’m curious what perspectives others have, as I struggle with talking to my father about this.  I almost see it as an invasion of his privacy.  I’m the only child that has any contact with my father, so if it turns out my new sister intends to contact him, I may be the best suited person to talk to him about it, and if that happens, I will do so.  But, not knowing yet what her perspective is, I’m holding off for the moment.  Needless to say, this has interrupted my ability to think much about anything else.

A funeral in winter

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A more somber post today. The writing prompt that struck me in Old Friend from Far Away was “Tell me about a funeral you attended in winter,” so I went for it. For those of you who have read my previous post, Memories with my grandmother, this story is not about her – it’s about my other grandmother, my father’s mother.

My grandma died in 2004, in January, just days after the New Year. Few of us had come home for the holidays that year. Not me or my cousins; not my sister, her kids, or my uncle. It was a smaller gathering than normal at Grandma’s house on Christmas Eve, but I don’t think she minded. She was proud of all of us for the lives we lived in faraway places she’d never seen, doing complicated jobs she never understood. She’d lived through The Great Depression, some of her childhood spent in an orphanage when her widowed mother couldn’t raise enough money to provide for her and her brother. She understood that people didn’t always have money to spare, and never wanted us to feel badly on those years we didn’t make the trek back to Wisconsin.

We minded, though. We minded a lot. We had been too busy or too broke to come home just a week and a half earlier, yet here we all were, travelling for a funeral instead of a holiday. It seemed fitting punishment that we experience her death in the darkest, windiest and most wickedly cold days of the year.

In the first couple days after her death, my aunt was a wreck, unable to decide what to put in Grandma’s obituary, afraid she’d left someone out of the “survived by” list, but by the time we got to the wake, she’d stopped torturing herself and decided she’d done the best she could.  The mood at the wake was somber, but not excessively so. She was 90, had lived a long life, and she was ready to go. In many ways, she had been ready since the day her husband died thirteen years earlier. We were sad, but we knew her last days had been full of joy, despite some of us missing the festivities.

I remember being astonished at the vigor in her voice when I called her on Christmas Eve. We talked for a half hour, about everything and nothing. She told me about the latest electronics my aunt bought her, laughing her infectious golden laugh at how she’d never be able to figure out how to use them. She chuckled that still no one visiting could outlast her in the evening.  For years, she’d kept late hours, watching TV and doing crossword puzzles until 4am, sleeping into the afternoon.  She was eager to hear anything I could think of to tell her. I spoke with my dad after we finished. “She sounds great, Dad! It’s like she’s ten years younger! She hasn’t sounded so good in such a long time. I just can’t get over it!” He agreed, with a smile in his voice, and I hung up a minute later to sounds of laughter and music in the background. They say that happens for some people right before they die – they feel wonderful and alive and healthy for no reason anyone can point to. It’s the body’s way of sending you off with a parting gift. I hope that happens to me.

The day after the wake, we held her funeral. We drove in a few cars to the cemetery and gathered in the snow next to a dark and frozen hole in the ground. Everything was gray that day. The sky, the bare trees, the casket, the light, my father’s face. I don’t remember what words were said. I don’t remember who stood where. In those moments, in the punishing cold, surrounded by my family, I was alone with only my thoughts, and even they were fleeting. I simply stood and existed in the whipping wind and desperate cold for what seemed like both an instant and a day all at once.  The wind went through me and I didn’t fight it.  I just felt it in every bone in my body.

After the funeral and lunch at a nearby restaurant, we all gathered at Grandma’s house, determined to deal with her things as a family, as a team, so my aunt wouldn’t have to handle it all alone.  Everyone was encouraged to find something of Grandma’s they wanted to keep, whether for practical or sentimental reasons.  We packed boxes of bedding and dishes, marking them with the name of whoever it was that would take them home.  Her furniture and jewelry was split among family members, and her clothes packed away to give to Goodwill.  After everyone else had claimed what they wanted, I chose a print that I’d always admired.  It was a Picasso print, something that stood out in my mind when I thought of her house.  It hangs on my dining room wall now, a happy reminder of my grandmother that I look at every day.

Piles of papers had to be reviewed and lists made of who needed to be contacted with the news that she was no longer with us.  Social security, a realtor to list the house, her credit card company. As I rummaged through odd notes and papers in Grandma’s bedroom, I found an obituary she’d written for herself.  When I realized what it was, I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me.  I couldn’t comprehend writing my own obituary.  I read it a few times, slowly, imagining her lying in bed in the wee hours of the morning, jotting a few paragraphs in a pocket-sized notebook, writing her own brief summary of her life.  It was simple, not very wordy, written with pride about those she would be leaving behind, and focused mostly on the idea that she’d gone to be with her husband.  Though I don’t believe in heaven, when I read her handwritten notes, I sincerely hoped I was wrong, and that she had found Grandpa again.