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Thelma Tobin (1912-2004)
Jul. 2nd, 2004 10:23 pmI had several lovely days at Lake Fletcher with my daughters, but it was also a hard week. Tuesday afternoon we arrived at the cottage to a phone message from my mother that Nana had died that morning.
It was quite unexpected—my grandmother was 92 and frail but in perfect health—so it seems ironic that I had posted something about her and my grandfather just a few days ago. I never felt close to her. Mom initially didn't want me to come out to her family, and I was unwilling to pretend, so I hadn't seen most of them since 1996. I only saw Nana once in the past eight years, at my parents' 50th anniversary in 2001.
When I spoke to Mom Tuesday night she discouraged me from going to the funeral, saying it was too far for me to drive and it needn't be a serious affair anyway. Of course other relatives would be coming from all over the continent. As for the mood, Tobin funerals have always been maudlin (we're not talking tears, but wailing, anger and denial), and this one would be too, regardless of Mom's wish for a celebration of her mother's life.
To her suggestion that I not go, I felt both relieved—because I would have felt uncomfortable—and resentful. Marian and Brenna had only met Nana a handful of times that they could remember. I discussed it with them and we decided to stay at the cottage. When I spoke with Mom on Wednesday she was more inviting, but I knew the cottage, alone with my daughters, was the best place for me to be.
I didn't need to grieve for my grandmother, but for the large, boisterous, hard-drinking, judgmental family that was always around me, but in which I never felt I belonged.
I'm back in Toronto for the weekend to celebrate something important to me that no one in my family knows about (except my daughters): an anniversary.
It was quite unexpected—my grandmother was 92 and frail but in perfect health—so it seems ironic that I had posted something about her and my grandfather just a few days ago. I never felt close to her. Mom initially didn't want me to come out to her family, and I was unwilling to pretend, so I hadn't seen most of them since 1996. I only saw Nana once in the past eight years, at my parents' 50th anniversary in 2001.
When I spoke to Mom Tuesday night she discouraged me from going to the funeral, saying it was too far for me to drive and it needn't be a serious affair anyway. Of course other relatives would be coming from all over the continent. As for the mood, Tobin funerals have always been maudlin (we're not talking tears, but wailing, anger and denial), and this one would be too, regardless of Mom's wish for a celebration of her mother's life.
To her suggestion that I not go, I felt both relieved—because I would have felt uncomfortable—and resentful. Marian and Brenna had only met Nana a handful of times that they could remember. I discussed it with them and we decided to stay at the cottage. When I spoke with Mom on Wednesday she was more inviting, but I knew the cottage, alone with my daughters, was the best place for me to be.
I didn't need to grieve for my grandmother, but for the large, boisterous, hard-drinking, judgmental family that was always around me, but in which I never felt I belonged.
I'm back in Toronto for the weekend to celebrate something important to me that no one in my family knows about (except my daughters): an anniversary.
