In My Family We Bury What’s Dead.
Narcissist Of The Living Dead: Always expect a sh*t sequel with an even worse cast.
My Grandmother had some choice words from the side of my Grandfathers death bed; I had never had a kind word to say about anyone, that I was cruel and heartless, that I was wicked. A woman who’s main discussions with me have been her concluding I am a worthless liar who ruins family photographs, and has nothing particularly interesting to say; cruel or not.
I have to agree that the feeling is mutual; I think I have had longer and more in-depth exchanges with strangers in the two years of covid than I have had face-to-face conversations with my Granny in my entire life. And I do look very awkward in family photographs.
I still went to the hospital on hearing that this would possibly be the last opportunity I would have to see my Grandfather after a year of writing to him. Seven hours of waiting to say my farewell to the only remaining grandparent I have any semblance of affection for to recieve a shove of my wheelchair, shrieks of lies about my Grandfather’s care, my father being a “liar”, and an accusation that my disability was made up and they could ask my “lying” father about it. My Granny told me that I wasn’t wanted by anyone.
I did not give up so easy though. Forgiving the assault on me, I insisted that, as my Grandfather was still able to communicate, that the nurse ask him. There was that typical haughty gleam of cruel satisfaction from my darling Granny’s eye as she proceeded to shove my chair again. He squeezed no. And then I was escorted off the ward for my own safety. On his insistence, and admittedly because I am absolutely petrified of the woman, the fight was lost.
My Grandad was anything but well-behaved or forthright when it came to my Granny and her whim. He would mischievously break any and all of her rules for an easy life. Sneaking an extra slice of cake, having a cheeky nudge and a wink at her expense, giggling at her temper. And that is how I accepted that. If he could have winked, I know he would have.
It is probably the worst trait passed down from Patricia Cooper, to my father, to one particular sibling; a distinct lack of empathy. Or maybe a fear of emotions. I don’t want to distract myself with the nature vs. nurture element of arm-chair diagnosing Narcissism; I do believe I received more comfort in my grief from the taupe walls I stared at in the hospital that day, than I have ever been privy to from those people combined.
I am thankful that my best friend of 27 years was there to witness the great, depressing finale that finally validated my feeling of family scapegoat. The night ended being sat with two veritable strangers.
My father came first, amiable enough and armed with his phone ready to film my Granny stridently leaving the hospital, assuming she would ignore him, or maybe kill us both. He had long told me that he had said his farewells to my Grandad every day he had seen him until now. And then my sister, whom my father insisted to all was coming to support me. She sat in a chair opposite me making eye-contact with Instagram, and interrupting or ignoring every word that came out of my mouth. Neither there for me. But the real horror was that neither was there for Grandad dying not one floor up from us on Ward 7
In the cold, fluorescent light of an empty hospital reception, I saw the dead of our past that I had unknowingly dragged with me to terrify them both simply by existing around them. There is a true difference between dealing with your past, and burying it alive. Zombies.
Emotions, especially grief, are hard to quantify. And for logical, problem solving brains like The Coopers, there are far more coherent and material things in the world to manage; finances, dress measurements, test scores. Healing is for the body, not the mind. And, in turn, this leads to a lot of gangrenous brains swilling around a few skulls like barely fizzling mulch, producing emotional charge that would render Frankenstein’s monster a genius by comparison.
The dying man on Ward 7 was all of us; holding on to whatever remained of the family dignity like we were the goddamn Corleone’s. And, as his life wavered, so did we. Not a single ounce of love was there in that waiting room. Just a horde of unresolved, long festering grudge lurching aimlessly between the three of us.
I 100% chose the wrong -time- to have it out. But one has to ask, when is the best time to confront the living nightmare of narcissism?
I don’t think the circumstances could have been more ideal, or more terrible. My best friend watched as my father turned from loving and thankful to accusing and critical; my sister resorting to enraged insults and blame. And me, the cowardly weakling, apologising only to be met with admonishment for apologising, and then more, and more, and more of their past that was supposedly 6 feet under with no soul.
It certainly hurt like a soul would hurt. It made my sister angry like a soul would be angry. It made my father lost as a soul would be lost.
I have very often, proudly, stupidly, taken the role as martyr. As though I deserved the honour of distracting the emotion-hungry horde so everyone else could get out brain intact. True, I would gaslight myself so the illusion of “The Coopers” could remain alive, well and with all their intestines in the right place.
But for the first time someone who had witnessed every gnashing, grasping, guttural, gut tearing scene for 27 years was there; My best friend spends her days working hard and her nights devoting herself to her joys and her passions and our way of life. My true, present and loving friend who had also sat those seven long hours after driving across the country, certainly did not deserve to be entertaining this. Especially when my father, who had thanked her for bringing me, instructed her to “take me away” with a non-committal wave of his hand; the other primed on his phone to film my Granny leaving the hospital. Found footage proof that this narcissistic nightmare was no-where near over.
This loss, this grief, this anger, this arrogance, these lies, this heartlessness. This d-list Romero/ Godfather shit show had to end; We had already watched this reel not an hour before, I was in no mood for a double-feature. The unspoken Cooper promise that one should bury ones past so carelessly and without feeling, with no respect. It was time for me, atleast, to archive it.
I will acknowledge it, learn from it, shelve it like those DVD cases I have on display but never play. The relics of a bygone era that serve more as a discreet display of how far one has come rather than what is most valued now. Just background scenery enough to catch the eye but not detract from the main feature event.
Unless of course you are a Cooper. In which case that DVD has the same level of discretion and respect as human taxidermy.
My grandfather died on the 3rd of February. I was told by my mother. I sent my father an email asking him to put my sentiments (intended for the hospital) in his pocket, maybe take it to the furnace.They cremated my Grandfather on Monday 21st February, 2022. The last I heard from my father was on the 22nd informing me that he was attempting to revive the series.
Not 24 hours before Grandad’s funeral, he had no idea what to do with my words.
My father spoke his Eulogy. And with no true emotion of his own he finished his adage to his father with my words. Not for me; no. And not for the dead man. To throw another barb at his mother, my Granny, my sister, a room of people who he knew wanted me to have no part in this family death or were, atleast, indifferent to my absence. To slake the hunger of The Cooper horde.
I am not bitter. It’s just the overexaggerated gesture that gives way to really bad sequels and shit remakes.
I’m not auditioning this time.
