You probably know my grandfather passed away not long ago. (I feel like I should add that this is yet another post I wrote about a month ago, it’s now been almost two months since he passed.)
What he left behind was the knowledge that his life was in ruins. The suffering he went through is unfortunately not limited to physical pain, even though that alone ought to have been more than what he deserved.
It’s a long story.
Maybe all families are like this. Maybe all families have dark secrets hidden in their past. Our family has several strange secrets and rumours about anything from physical abuse, people stealing insane amounts of money and others walking away from it, to small disputes over a table cloth that lead to family branches breaking away never to be heard from again.
Dark secrets in families are common, right?
In any case, most of these secrets I won’t talk about, because they don’t hold any power over me or my mind, but most importantly, those secrets are not mine to share and now, many of those people who the secrets belonged to are no longer in the world.
This secret, and I call it a secret because my grandfather struggled to keep it hidden, is something that makes it difficult for me to grieve. I need to talk about it to let it go.
My grandfather’s parents build the house he lived in for the latter part of his life. My grandfather expanded and improved the house and his girlfriend helped make the garden beautiful, not just practical.
My grandparents divorced before I was born, and though he married a second time, no one ever talk about her. She was apparently, if the rumours are true, not a very nice lady. My grandfather has been living with his girlfriend for 30 years now and they were very happy in spite of their challenges.
My mother and me moved around a lot all my life and this house, build by family, is the only constant I have ever known. I’ve walked the paths, played in the trees and playgrounds, fallen and hurt myself, I’ve cried and laughed and lived my life here, with the people who matter most to me.
I love this place because of the memories that surrounds me every time I’m here, just like I hate it a little because of those very same memories. I have never experienced anything like this, because it’s the only place that didn’t change since I was a child.
Needless to say, it’s a place that is important to many people in my family.
The house used to be worth quite a lot, but now it’s difficult to say. It’s fallen into disrepair and needs a lot of love – but more importantly a lot of money – to become a proper home to anyone again.
I’ll get back to the house. You need to know this first.
When my grandfather was married to my grandmother a very long time ago, he was very close with her younger brother. They cared about each other like they were brothers too, and they partied and supported each other always.
My grandmother’s younger brother had a bar or club. It wasn’t fancy, but it was a pretty great place, I’m told. My mother and her younger brother used to work there when they were young.
This place must have been successful for a while, but in time it became less and less so. It struggled to survive and debts grew to the point when it became impossible to keep the place open. They, my grandmother’s brother and whoever else might have known about the circumstances, they knew the place would go under and yet… they still went to my grandfather and asked him to co-sign a loan. They could save it all if only they had this money, they argued, in spite of knowing it was impossible. They cheated him, there is no doubt about it and one can only wonder where all that money that they borrowed ever disappeared to.
My grandfather should never have co-signed the loan. Obviously. He was foolish to just believe the word of someone else, even if it was someone he cared deeply about. I am not saying we shouldn’t trust others, but what if the other person has made a mistake?
What happened after he co-signed the loan as guarantee is a bit uncertain. The facts I have are these: My grandfather spent many, many years going through the different courts until he reached the supreme court. Also, at some point my grandmother’s younger brother spent some time in prison because he cheated my grandfather and he has no money or any right to own property now. My grandmother’s brother’s children are all rich and have several apartments in different countries, so I guess he’s not missing much since they are good to him too. My grandfather struggled with debt until the day he died and now those of us left behind are dealing with the fallout.
The saddest thing, I think, is that my grandfather and my grandmothers brother didn’t speak again since it all happened – except for once at my grandmother’s funeral. It was obvious that my grandfather still cared deeply about him, even though he cheated my grandfather out of a lot of money.
The debt is more than the value of the house and for years he wasn’t able to pay the bills every month. He borrowed money to survive and by the end, even his girlfriend supported him as much as she could. She never had to pay rent before, and even though he held on as long as he could, in the end she had to pay some rent so that they could stay in the house.
My grandfather didn’t ever want to spend money and fought to use as little as possible. He cried a lot and became greatly depressed and irritable. He absolutely refused to talk about these money issues and as a result, none of us knew the extend of their trouble and none of us could help him.
We all thought it had to be okay. I don’t know why.
Maybe it was because he was the strongest man I have ever known and I used to think nothing could break him – he could do anything.
I never would have guessed that breaking him simply happened over so many years that no one noticed.
I wish I had seen it before it was too late, but even if I had, could I really have done anything?
When they told him at the hospital that no one could visit him because of the covid-19 pandemic – that was the day he pulled out the feeding tube and refused any more treatment. But, because of the years of struggling, I can’t help but wonder if we could have had him longer, had we been able to give him some hope.
He waved and waved, unwilling to let his girlfriend leave when they kicked her out, and then he pulled the tube out – already firmly decided.
If money had not been such a great source of suffering, could he have survived long enough to come home and die in peace surrounded by his family instead of spending his last weeks mainly alone in a hospital bed?
When my grandmother’s younger brother tricked him, he lost not only money and all that he had worked to built, he lost a friend and a brother as well. The two barely met since those days and until the end, my grandfather couldn’t even hear his name mentioned without almost breaking into tears.
He was heartbroken because of the betrayal and, for some reason, in front of me he never hid how deeply he was hurt, although he fought tooth and nail to keep the reason for the hurt hidden.
If he had asked for help, then something could have been done. Something as simple as selling the house could have made a huge difference, but he refused to do so as well.
I am angry that he didn’t ask for help. I’m angry that he suffered, in my opinion, needlessly. I am angry that he was tricked in the way that he was, even though the culprit, my grandmothers younger brother, was punished as well in some way.
I’m just generally angry because it didn’t have to be like that. But because he wanted to protect us and himself, he refused to be honest about the situation almost until the end. It was only those last weeks that he opened up about just exactly how bad it was, but it was only after his death that we got the facts and numbers.
I’m also heartbroken that he suffered so much without saying anything.
I miss him and I want to mourn losing him, but I’m also angry with him and others. I don’t know how to do both. Right now I feel slightly numb. The grief will come, I’m sure. It will hit me hard when it does, but right now I just feel so empty and numb – like the shock of it all is still holding me in its grasp.
The pressure of trying to figure out how to fix the ruins left behind is luckily not mine, but a responsibility my uncle has volunteered to take on. I am grateful for that, because it is such a mess.
We are all affected by this, however, because we need to sort out all his things, like his car and his house and such. His girlfriend needs a new home and I want her to find a good place where she can be happy. She deserves to find happiness and be comfortable, because my grandfather loved her deeply and I can never forget that.
But, everything costs money. The will left by my grandfather is written to protect his girlfriend and gives her some money and other necessities that will help her re-establish herself in a new home, as it rightly should. The problem is that there might not be even anything to help her.
She’ll be fine because, even if my mother and me can’t help her financially, we will help her in whatever way we can. Everyone wants to help her, so that we support her in whatever way we all can. She’ll be fine.
Nothing can change the fact that there might be a few hard months in front of us. Nothing can change that I have to both allow myself to grieve the loss of a most beloved grandfather and at the same time, forgive him and others their actions.
Nothing can change that my grandfather was sick for a long time without admitting how much pain he was in or that the doctors didn’t realise he had cancer until a few days before he died. Nothing can change that he was refused visitors because of the Covid-19 pandemic or that he decided, on that day, that enough was enough and pulled out the tubes refusing any treatment.
Nothing will change the fact that there is no way to keep a house we thought would be our home forever. In the end, nothing is left.
I guess, in the end, nothing is all that is ever left when we die.
Nothing except whatever ruins are still standing when the dust settles.
