Marriage of the Matriarch
If it was anybody else, I would think it was an oppressive, sad relationship.
My grandmother couldn’t be on the phone too long because my grandfather would get upset. She couldn’t go anywhere by herself because he would get jealous. She had to give special treats or money to me and my cousins in a clandestine way so he wouldn’t find out and get mad about her wastefulness. He would never listen to her when she told him things about the yard, the garden, money, or anything else. He always thought he knew best, and if something went wrong, it was always somebody else’s fault, usually my grandmother’s. My grandfather told her he loved her only three times in their whole relationship.
I asked my grandmother about her marriage one time, probably in the middle of some high school romance drama I was going through. She said it didn’t matter to her that he never told her he loved her, she knew he did. She understood that it was hard for him to talk about that stuff. She also knew that when he got upset, it was less about him wanting control, and more about him feeling left out.
When he got upset, or mad, he would storm around the house, but say almost nothing. Just a few quips here and there. One of his favourite things to do when he got mad was go to bed early. And he would make a production out of it, making sure to walk past my grandmother as much as possible while he was getting ready, sometimes he even said “well, I might as well go to bed since nobody wants me around here.”
He treated other people the same way, but to a lesser extreme. My aunts, my uncles, people at church, they all suffered under his tantrums, if they noticed. Sometimes, he would get pissed off at people, and they wouldn’t notice him purposely giving them the silent treatment, and of course, that would make him more angry. He was never threatening or violent, not until the Alzheimer’s took control of him.
I’d like to blame it all on the Alzheimer’s, or his strokes, but his immature behavior extended back beyond those incidents.
My grandmother deserved better. She deserved a husband who wouldn’t get upset when she wanted to catch up with an old cousin on the phone, or wouldn’t throw a fit when she wanted to go out to visit somebody when he couldn’t go.
But I still can’t view my grandmother as a poor, underprivileged house wife. She saw what he was, and accepted him for it. She loved him, and took on all that went with him because of that. I could see it when she talked about him, when she had to clean up the mess he made in his pants when he started to lose control of his bodily functions, how she consoled him and read to him when he lost the ability to read, and how lonely she feels now that he’s gone and she can do all the things she couldn’t before.
And I’ve always thought of it as a beautiful example of love and understanding.
Maybe I’m deluding myself, because I don't want my entire world turned upside down. But I just can’t bring myself to see my grandmother as anything but the strong, compassionate matriarch I have always imagined her to be; someone who knowingly, willingly, and lovingly made sacrifices to be with her emotionally crippled husband.
My grandmother couldn’t be on the phone too long because my grandfather would get upset. She couldn’t go anywhere by herself because he would get jealous. She had to give special treats or money to me and my cousins in a clandestine way so he wouldn’t find out and get mad about her wastefulness. He would never listen to her when she told him things about the yard, the garden, money, or anything else. He always thought he knew best, and if something went wrong, it was always somebody else’s fault, usually my grandmother’s. My grandfather told her he loved her only three times in their whole relationship.
I asked my grandmother about her marriage one time, probably in the middle of some high school romance drama I was going through. She said it didn’t matter to her that he never told her he loved her, she knew he did. She understood that it was hard for him to talk about that stuff. She also knew that when he got upset, it was less about him wanting control, and more about him feeling left out.
When he got upset, or mad, he would storm around the house, but say almost nothing. Just a few quips here and there. One of his favourite things to do when he got mad was go to bed early. And he would make a production out of it, making sure to walk past my grandmother as much as possible while he was getting ready, sometimes he even said “well, I might as well go to bed since nobody wants me around here.”
He treated other people the same way, but to a lesser extreme. My aunts, my uncles, people at church, they all suffered under his tantrums, if they noticed. Sometimes, he would get pissed off at people, and they wouldn’t notice him purposely giving them the silent treatment, and of course, that would make him more angry. He was never threatening or violent, not until the Alzheimer’s took control of him.
I’d like to blame it all on the Alzheimer’s, or his strokes, but his immature behavior extended back beyond those incidents.
My grandmother deserved better. She deserved a husband who wouldn’t get upset when she wanted to catch up with an old cousin on the phone, or wouldn’t throw a fit when she wanted to go out to visit somebody when he couldn’t go.
But I still can’t view my grandmother as a poor, underprivileged house wife. She saw what he was, and accepted him for it. She loved him, and took on all that went with him because of that. I could see it when she talked about him, when she had to clean up the mess he made in his pants when he started to lose control of his bodily functions, how she consoled him and read to him when he lost the ability to read, and how lonely she feels now that he’s gone and she can do all the things she couldn’t before.
And I’ve always thought of it as a beautiful example of love and understanding.
Maybe I’m deluding myself, because I don't want my entire world turned upside down. But I just can’t bring myself to see my grandmother as anything but the strong, compassionate matriarch I have always imagined her to be; someone who knowingly, willingly, and lovingly made sacrifices to be with her emotionally crippled husband.
posted by deadwriter at 11:19 p.m.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home