Bruised

I’m feeling bruised. Not literally (although the BH has move me up from Never-a-sex-bomb to Novice-sex-bomb), but emotionally, like I’ve been through some drama or upset. There’s no reason for it (apart from a dead grandmother I’ll explain about in a minute) and I can only assume my dreams weren’t pukka last night.

And going into town first thing didn’t help. It was quiet enough, but knocking a stack of cups and saucers off a shelf was traumatic! And who in their right mind puts these things on the bottom shelf where your bags might hit them inadvertently?! Thankfully the only thing damaged was my pride as I hurriedly stacked them up again and grinned at the man next to me.

But back to dead Grandmothers. Apparently mine died a week ago yesterday. I only got called yesterday, so I don’t think anyone is wanting me at the funeral. In fact the person telling me, made a point of saying it was just close family going and I suppose I should be grateful he thought to call.

And it’s not like I knew her. Only met her once. At her youngest daughter’s funeral, nearly eight years ago to the day. Her youngest daughter was my mother.

Geeze how I hate using that word (mother, in case you’re already confused). I could add ‘biological’ in front to make the point that she wasn’t anything other than host. Do I sound cold? I don’t mean to, it’s just there aren’t any suitable words for a person who just gives birth to you, but nothing else.

Funny but of late I’ve been wondering about whether to continue this blogging lark, but I didn’t want to stop till I’d told this story. I suppose more for me than anyone else. But it’s not an easy subject to get in to, though things like birth and death days come around – but how and where do you start? I guess here, with my biological- grandmother dying.

She had a good innings, made it to eighty-nine and only lost her husband three years ago. At least I think that’s a good innings, after a world war and four kids. No doubt broke her heart to bury one though. I spoke with her at that funeral. Her and her husband, my biological-grandfather. He didn’t say a lot, but then he’d probably long figured out he was blamed by my biological-mother for my adoption. But I didn’t blame him, but neither did I tell him that. When I was there she asked for a picture of me and my son (my last three weren’t yet born, though I was pregnant with P). I thought maybe it meant they had some interest in me. That maybe the family stayed away because my biological-mother had still been angry, but she's dead and they could have written or phoned occasionally if they’d really wanted to know me.

That funeral was weird. My mother’s husband (not my biological-father) invited me, and on the morning, after visiting the funeral parlour, I was shown to the lead car. I had to sit in it with her parents. They didn’t speak to me then. Not a word. I stared at the back of my grandmothers head, wondering if she would ever look at me.

And the church was even stranger. I could hear people asking who I was. Didn’t hear the answers mind. No one spoke to me there. But by the end of the service they all knew about me. Complete bloody run down of how she got herself pregnant, and couldn’t keep her child. Looking back it reminds me of Princess Diana’s funeral with some family members making the point of sticking the knife in to others, because they could. Would have preferred it not to have been at my expense, but then no one asked me.

It really threw me too. I didn’t know she’d tried to get me back. Can you imagine doing that to a child you gave up? Waiting till they were six and believing they had a mommy, daddy and baby brother, and then going to court to try and destroy their world and take everything they knew away? Of course it didn’t happen, and I never knew about her efforts. Made me feel bad though, that her pain never eased with the knowledge I was loved.

The wake didn’t get an easier either. The older people who’d known about me all kept their distance, no doubt wary. There was one man though, Andrew, who came over and asked me out-right if I was Michelle.

No is the easy answer. I’m not Michelle. Haven’t been Michelle for a very long time, but I was once. He told me his mother had tried to adopt me within the family, he said he would have been my big brother if our grandfather had of allowed it. That made me cry. I always wanted a big brother, and he was so nice. Very good looking too, which felt like an odd thing to notice about a man who could have been my brother, and is biologically a cousin.

And there was a woman, another cousin. She talked with me as I stared at her. It’s a very strange thing to meet someone who looks like you and twiddles their hair in the same way you do, when you’ve never met anyone related by blood before. My hair twiddling has always driven my Dad mad, goes to show some things you can’t help.