Nov 22
Somewhat more stable yesterday. My health continues to waver like a unicyclist on a tight rope. The struggle continues.
So. Yesterday. Got some serious news.
I spoke with my brother yesterday, who, I have been keeping half an eye on recently, the stresses of life and random bullshit have been assailing him of late, and whilst he is absolutely fine*, you can tell that in someone who is usually a good deal more upbeat, when they start bumping around the cellar, shit must really not be good. A quick rule of thumb. In perennially happy people, when their smile disappears, pay attention. In perennially unhappy people, a smile not there is the normal, but when they start skipping on stuff, behaving weirdly, pay attention. It's a relative thing.
Anywho, besides the point.
So in the aftermath of the bureaucracy of my moms death, a letter arrived yesterday for my brother.
Long story short, it's a bunch of shares that are quite the sum of money. Small house purchase sum of money.
Which is a bit of a shock. Both I suspect to my brother, and definitely to me.
I knew my parents had those shares, but, I had assumed they were pretty trivial in value. Not the value they turned out to be. Back in the day my mom was fully aware she had them. But as time passed, she had forgotten. And, poor mom, in the last 10 years when the MS was eating away at her memories, personality et al, well. That knowledge of them existing literally was gone. Devoured. By an uncaring disease.
My first reaction was sadness.
Sad because, that money could have helped mom out faster, better than the help she had got. We might have even avoided the worst of her experiences - the abuse. Because my dad always contolled the money. She had none. And yet. As it turns out. She had plenty.
My brother responded that the money probably wouldn't have made much difference.
No. No. No no no. No.
And this is where it gets messy and difficult and upsetting and drags the mud up from the bottom.
I was there, I said to my brother, the next day after she had been admitted to hospital having been found to have been abused by my dad. I held her hand. She was terrified. Ill. In grave health. She fretted about losing "another husband". What would become of her. That he had kicked her out. Treated her terribly. That she had no money at all. What would become of her. She had £5 in her purse.
The fear and vulnerability were awful. And it's that that does not get erased in my head. That's the reason I cannot forgive my father for that. The reason I would not, like everyone else, let that go quietly under the goddamn carpet. And yet. In the end. In the very long run. I let it slide. I tried. I got social services in there. Querying. Watching. And perhaps that mattered in the end. My mom got helpers. Watchers. And things improved greatly. But still.
Anyway. Yes. Dragging mud up from the bottom.
I said to my brother that had she realised she had all that money, at that key moment in time, things may have gone very differently indeed.
My brother admitted he had seen the same in the hospital. That she had kept repeating to him don't take me back there, don't take me back there.
Very. Dark.
And once again it stirs that angry mud. My father. Always a bit of a chancer. Had chanced his way out of the consequences of his actions. And over time had fudged that memory. Visited her everyday in the care home.
Guilty goddamn conscience.
Anyway. Anyway. Rrrrrr.
So.
The subject of the money. Was unsettling. Talking about seeing mom in that state made me emotional. It boiled up. Upset me. Made me teary.
I know I said. We had all moved on. The past is the past. Swept it under the carpet. But that shit happened. That shit was real. This would have made an impact. My tone was.. mm. Not chilled. Not at peace with it. Stirred up bitterness. Anger. Frustration.
But. Truly. The past is the past. And now there is nothing that can be done about it.
But that sum of money. For me. Is like a mini tragedy sitting there. I mean. It's ok. Shit happens. Life goes on. But.
There is something of an emotional bomb with it. It drags to the surface the very worst moments in my moms life. It drags to the surface a probable failure to protect her from my dad. It brings into the light the time when my dad got away scot free with being an abusive horrible shitbag asshole. And now swans around, slightly out of it, sad, tired, ill, and in and of himself a pitiable figure that needs a hug, but the fact remaining to having gotten away with being a dickhead. A dickhead til the end. Uncompromising. Refusing to change or admit his terrible flaws.
And I find a renewed steeling of my heart against him.
It's fine. It's ok. It is what it is. I accept reality.
But I remember what he did. And like a message from beyond the grave, the letter my brother got yesterday is a refresher of the wrongs that were done.
At the end, my mom truly appreciated my dad and his presence. Well. Mostly. Well. Sometimes. I think she worked hard at putting on a good show for everyone around her. I think in the end, a lot of her life was about that. Putting a good face on shit. Underneath was a ravaged traumatised girl.
Anyway.
The money.
It seems like the best idea at this point is to officially get a solicitor to sign the shares over to my dad. Dot the i's. Cross the t's.
There is, if you dwell on it, a little horribly injustice there too.
But. Don't dwell on it.
As it is, the money will be a curse to my father. Who ironically, cannot stand to have money now. He doesn't trust himself - with good reason. And fears getting conned out of his money, or losing it, or yada. All of which he has done. Been burned. And is now very anxious about it.
So I suspect the money will get given away. As soon as it comes in. I counselled my brother with some words and plans to basically do exactly that. Because. I could foresee the money would cause the old man no end of anxiety. So. Tell him about the money, but then, also give him options of what to do with it, so that it wouldn't prey on his mind. Then, if he so wished, he could deal with it then and there, and not have to worry about it. Because. Still. Bottom line. People shouldn't suffer. Alleviating anxiety is a good thing.
Assuming I don't think about it. Perhaps he deserves to squirm about it. But. That seems cruel.
You start to get into the murky waters of punishment and where you stand on doling out horrors to those who are horrible.
Ho hum.
As for my brother. I can tell. All of this is a weight to him. He does a great job. But he's not super enjoying life at the moment. There is little I can do to alleviate it. Well. Less than little really. I reminded him that I was always here, assuming I wasn't dead, even if I were half dead, I would be here to listen. Come talk to me whenever he needed. I know he probably wont. But the offer is there. And half the time. The fact the offer is there can be a great help in and of itself. It reminds one, that you are not alone. Someone else is out there. And they give a shit.
Which, as I've said before. If you ask me. Is really the only thing that matters in life. Everything else, is just noise.
I suppose, obviously, to some people, learning of a possible increased heritance would be good news. But for me. Here. It's not about the money. None of it has ever been about the bloody money. Ever. At all. The money that has so far been given to me by my parents - in one form or another - still sits in a bank account I have. Untouched. Sitting there. In case. They. Need it. Which. Is. Mm. Increasingly. Difficult. As my. Mom. Is. No. Longer. Ho hum. Here.
Oof.
It's so. Not. About the goddamn money.
I'd rather know. Of course. That it exists. Because, I would hate not to know. Even if it incurs an emotional cost. I want to know. Truth, over happiness. Because I'm an idiot.
I suspect. That knowledge is now going to haunt me. That money - whatever happens to it. Given away. Hoarded. Whatever. Is going to carry a burden with it. The what if.
Within its sum. Lies recriminations. Horrors. Things that could have been avoided. Doubt. Sadness. Anger. Suffering.
Sigh.
Breathe.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
At the time, yesterday, I recognised I needed to talk to someone about this. Let it out. So I pinged Hazel. All the way down in Cornwall. And talked to her about it. She understood my feelings. And listened. Hum ho.
I still needed to talk about it. But I shut my mouth.
The world is a cacophonous play. With drama and loss. Joy and delight. Full of flashing lights and bewildering displays. But. It is all just a dream. Ephemeral. It fades as quickly as you look at it. Distracts from the moment. From the breathe in, breathe out. Bill Hicks said it better than me :
Comments
Post a Comment