The Babysitter at my Grandmother's Funeral

The words flew from your mouth into my ears and heart with such ferocity, you will claim you don't even remember.

Well, guess what. I do.

They stuck to my young, developing self like super glue that has left lasting scars - I am just now trying to heal.

Alone. As an Orphan.

“It's far too late for a sorry now ‘cause I don't want you back around.”

When I was a teenager, my grandmother died on Christmas Day.

I remember standing around her hospital bed, all holding hands and praying over her days before, then, the next update came on December 25, 2002.

My parents received the call that she had passed, and we were told the news.

I remember my world just crashing down around me all of a sudden.

This woman was so influential in my life.

The woman who used to pick me up from dance class with either a York peppermint patty or a Three Musketeer candy bar.

They were our favorites.

I'd go to her house and open her chest of drawers that housed all of the grandkids’ toys.

Those weren't even really toys, just little trinkets and knick-knacks that we made into toys.

I remember making up so many stories and acting them out with these little trinkets.

It was my second home.

I felt so safe there.

So loved, so seen.

That woman had the cutest German accent on the planet and was the hardest worker I knew.

She was still out there in her later stages of life, working a physically demanding job of cleaning houses.

She is my inspiration for everything I do in life.

After that devastating blow, I didn't know where to turn or who to reach out to.

I did reach out to one friend, crying and telling them my Granny had just died and how sad I was.

They proceeded to tell me all about the awesome gifts they had gotten, including a new video camera.

I won't lie; it was a gut punch that has stuck with me all these years.

I don't hold a single thing against this person or those words, but it stung in a way that I felt like my sadness was invalidated by my friend’s excitement over Christmas gifts.

It was a selfish mindset on my part, I realize that, but it still stung.

A few days later, we were at the funeral home for the viewing services.

I remember seeing her lying in the casket, cold, stiff, lifeless.

My mind started playing tricks on me. At one point, I even thought I saw her breathing.

As we were standing around as a family, chatting with people who came to show their love, support, and condolences, I heard these words come out of my mother’s mouth:

"Yeah, I had to bring my babysitter along as well this time.

So I had to bring the younger ones."

With a glance over at me, who was only a couple of feet away.

She was referring to me?

I was the "babysitter"?

This was my grandmother.

I had EVERY right to be there as her granddaughter who loved her fiercely.

Instead, I was belittled, invalidated, and made to feel like an employee.

Those words resonate in my head from time to time.

"My babysitter"

That's all I was.

I was there to look after the younger ones.

It was just the story of my life.

My summers were spent not going to camp or staying with friends.

Except occasionally overnight, and I had to be back the next morning so I could babysit.

It was spent looking after the littles.

I know, I know, you are probably saying, Well, they had to work!

“Daycare was expensive! Help your family!”

I get it, but I was also their child.

I deserved to have my own autonomy and a right to fun, care-free summers.

I didn't have any part in the creation or making of these humans, so why am I the one responsible for them?

Because the economy was such crap, and we were so poor, and money was being spent on things that were killing them? Like alcohol?

As a parent now myself, I have recently experienced a personal medical crisis that required my children to be looked after.

I went to their other parent for help. If he weren't able, I would have made sure they were home with me, tucked in my bed, trying to keep them still while I rest.

I would NEVER put that responsibility on another child, especially an unpaid one.

EVER.

The cycle never ends.

Unless we BREAK it.

Straight up, I was parentified starting at 6.5 years old.

There is no way around this fact.

It is a fact and now a part of my history.

I've acknowledged that, I've tried to accept, forgive, and move on from it.

Yet, I have so much more work to do.