I Wish My Grandmother Would Hurry up and Die
By: Mason Sabre
Tags: Parents, Family History, Reltionships, Grandparents, Family

The shameful secret thought I have.

Photograph By De Visu at Adobe Stock

I do not wish anyone dead. I never have, even people who have hurt me, people I really can’t stand and those who I have chosen to keep out of my life. I don’t have that kind of hate for anyone.

A few years ago, I watched the film Eat, Pray, Love. I know, a weird movie for me to watch, but it was on, and I ended up sitting and watching it all. And one thing that stuck with me was the idea of sending those you have pushed out of your life, love and letting them go. It’s always been a thing that’s come to mind, now. Because we forget when we fall out that these people used to be our friends. We used to love them in ways, and they added value to our lives. Sure, they may no longer be part of our lives because certain things don’t fit anymore, so we separate. And it is that part of me that remembers what we used to be. I send love to the friend I once knew.

But my father’s mother. See, I don’t even call her grandmother because she doesn’t deserve that name. I had one grandmother, and she was everything a grandparent should be. She was loving and kind. She was funny and caring. And growing up, I felt the most love from her.

But my father’s mother … wow.

It’s Never Been Good Relationship

My father’s mother and I have a temperamental relationship. We clash in many ways.

I inherited my father’s mother when my father died a couple of years ago. They never had the best relationship. The strain on the mother-son dynamics started when he was around two, and she had left him locked in a closet under the stairs for the weekend with a plate of sandwiches, while she went out gambling, And yes, I do mean she locked him in there from Friday evening, until Sunday, although I do believe he was found on the Saturday with a soiled nappy and crying, as any toddler would do.

But it was the start of a neglectful life for him. His mother preferred casinos and bottles of vodka to the responsibility that came from caring for her son. And so, he grew up himself detached from the world, detached from her and seeing her more as a burden he had to bear until she passed away. I am sure he didn’t expect to be the one to die first.

Ironically, they are similar in many ways. While my father was an intelligent man, he was also a bad-tempered, abusive, a drinker (though not an alcoholic). They would fight often.

I can sympathise with him, though. When it comes to his mother and a spiteful tongue, she has one of the worst cases I have ever seen. When she pushes my buttons, we too, argue a lot. I know I shouldn’t. She is an old woman, and most of what comes of out of her mouth are rubbish anyway. But it’s hard. And the thing is, when I answer her with a rebuttal, it only makes it worse. I often think she has the mentality of a teenager. She is very obtuse.

She currently lives in my father’s house. As with most drinkers and gamblers, she has very little money that is her own, bar her pension, which I have to limit for her, or it would all be blown away on scratch cards, lottery tickets, and online bingo games. She has no sense of money at all. And granted, she doesn’t drink anymore. But can she handle her money? God no.