The Last of Her Family

I got an email today from my father's cousin letting me know that his mother (my father's aunt) is dying. They are moving her from the hospital to their home and will have hospice care in her final days.

I dutifully called my dad. I followed up with a call to my mom.

That is where my filial piety ends.

In my pre-child days, I was the family go-to girl for genealogy. We have an unusual last name. So unusual that my family is the only family with this name in the US. No joke. I was even published in a computer journal for the work I had done on my family tree. It was a hobby that I was passionate about.

All of this is necessarily on the back burner now, but at one point in my early twenties I reached out to my great-aunt. My grandfather had been dead for nearly ten years. She is my grandfather's sister, and the last of the siblings living. It felt special to me to possibly have some connection with her. That through her, maybe I would know my grandfather in a way I hadn't as a child.

The one and only time I called her, she was so horrible to me on the phone. So nasty. She talked about burning all our family pictures, and I could feel her smug smirk behind the receiver as the tears rolled down my cheeks.

What a heartless, evil bitch.

One might not think a great aunt to be so important, but my grandmother's sisters and I had a fabulous relationship. I always felt so loved. So included. They loved me, and I loved them fiercely in return.

My grandfather had three sisters. What did I learn about them in my wanderings? They were mean. Spiteful. They were drunks. They held grudges just because they could, and they locked their children in basements because children should be seen and not heard.

It is not much of a legacy for me. To be one of the few women in the family that share this name. I was always so proud of it. Granted, they changed their names when they married and I didn't, but somehow it casts a pall over what could have been something really special.

I have come to the depressing realization over the years that nearly all the women in my family are heartless, horrible women. They are mean. They are bitter. They revel in the misery of others. Even my MIL gives me no reprieve. The only source of open affection were my grandmother and her sisters. Her sisters are all but gone, and so is she.

Am I glad my great-aunt is dying? No. Do I feel badly that she is having a long, drawn-out death? On the human level, yes. Personally, no. I hope my grandfather kicks the shit out of her once she crosses over. I imagine him saying Who the fuck are you to speak to my granddaughter that way?

It probably won't happen that way, but it makes me feel better to picture it.