The Pingvin is on the move...

The upshot of all my calls and all my hunting for a soul who would help is this – I called the Ikea store in Edinburgh, and asked this nice person there to set aside a Pingvin or two for me, under my uncle C’s name. You see, when I called my mother after Christmas and asked her to call Uncle C. to help and she refused, she also refused to give me his phone number. She said she was simply too busy to look it up, being at the office and up to her eyebrows in mail and all. When I spoke to my Aunt L, and found out about my Great-Aunt R’s death, my Aunt L. said me she had spoken with Uncle C. several times in the past few days, that he was doing fairly well, and did I want his number?

I called him and asked him to go on a Pingvin Quest for me; he said he would do his best, but he was going into the hospital to have a stent put in, so he was not sure exactly when he’d get around to it. Well, that I can understand. It’s not quite as bad as having a mountain of mail to deal with, but it’s still pretty time consuming. But I hoped anyway, and called the Ikea in Edinburgh and reserved the Pingvins in his name.

Naturally, because I like to quadruple check things, and make it as easy as possible for people doing me a favor, I called the next day and left Uncle C. a message letting him know the address of the store, the location of the Self-Service desk, the name of the helpful person who had the Pingvins, and that I would be ever so grateful to see the birds sometime soon. I have not heard back, but I’ll call him when the time change is right to check up on him and his heart, and I’ll find out what he says.

I rather think he has NOT sent someone to shop for him, because when I called again on Wednesday, the 4th, the Ikea person said, in this thick Scots accent, “Och, no, the Pingvins are still here in a bag with your name on it.” As I flapped and fussed, the Ikea person said, “I know you really need these toys. Unfortunately, the only way you’ll get it is if someone comes in and buys it for you. If your uncle doesn’t come in by Saturday, I will buy them and send them to you.”

I was appropriately grateful for his kind offer.

On Saturday I called again, and spoke to the Self-Serve person yet again. He told me the birds were still in the bag, but now the bag bore his name, not mine, and that he was going to buy them at the end of the day and would get them to me, would I take down his email address and send him my shipping information? He is a college student, and he may actually be as busy as my parents (with all their mail to open) but he said he’d get the parcel in the post ASAP. We arranged to make the financial end of the transaction happen via Pay Pal. He said, “This will be my good deed for the year, you know, with Hogmany an’ all.” I said, “Now you have a valid excuse to drink and carouse instead of doing your studies.” Pleasant chuckles were exchanged and I let him go back to work.

Now it is Tuesday. I got the email to him and received my reply. It only remains nor for me to be patient, and trust a Scottish college student to do what it seems no one else can manage. I am mighty glad I finally spoke to a person with a heart!

My dear sister, who is jet lagged and fuzzy with a sinus infection said she didn’t quite see why I was so upset by our parents forgetting to tell us all about Great Auntie’s demise. My brother is practically apoplectic, so I know he feels what I do. I mentioned before that my parent’s excuse for not letting us know about the death was “I forgot.” A few reasons why come to mind.

One - they really didn’t care that much about Great Auntie, so her death was not really a big deal. Two – they really don’t care that much about anyone at all, so unless it directly involves someone they live with or work with, it’s forgettable. You see, if someone actually living in the house died, that might be hard to overlook, unless the housekeep was super quick in tidying it up. If someone in the office keeled over, well! that would be a disaster! Who would do the mail? And Three – since they only speak to their progeny when we call them, the death of a favorite Auntie of a venerable age is no reason to break the pattern. Therefore, they forgot.

What I feel is ignored, overlook, unimportant and hurt. I am upset by her death, and wounded by the callous behavior of my parents. It's salt on the wound. Yes, this is childish and yes, I feel rather juvenile, but in our youth obsessed culture, can ya blame me? It’s difficult to explain, but I feel as if by not being told about Auntie, I am being shown that I don’t matter.

When my grandmother died, my mother’s mother, it was 1997 and I was living in Atlanta, and not really doing much. Oh, I had two jobs and a boyfriend and a cat and all, but I had no real commitments, like I do now. I also had my parent’s AmEx card. They gave one to each child and said, “This is for emergencies. You know, if something happened to Grandmama and you needed to get on a plane or something.” Well, something did happen to Grandama, and when my mother called me and told me that she had died and that she was going to England for the funeral, I asked, “When and where? I’ll leave right away.” My mother said, “No, don’t come. We only want a small service and it’s going to be far away from London, so it won’t be easy to get there and I’d rather you didn’t, no don’t come.”

I wonder what she was trying to say?

When my father’s mother died in 1992, I was living in London. I not only attended the funeral, I also cooked for the forty odd people who attended it with me. I cried and talked with my Aunt L, her only daughter, and saw the grave and felt useful and close to everyone and felt closure. Neither my brother or sister, who were free wheeling students at the time, came over. It's not because they didn't care, I'm am sure it was a financial issue. I also think our parents gave them the same, “It’ll just be a small thing, don’t bother to come” line they gave me with Grandmama.

Now I have the resources, but not the freedom, and I could have gone to the funeral service, had I know more than two days ahead of time. I know how to get to the house (I lived there too for a while) I know where the cemetery is, and I know how to get to the church. I also know that Great Auntie was loved and respected and that Aunt L. is loved and respected, so any talk of "just a little service" is a load of hooey. I am sure they had a suitable party to celebrate Great-Auntie's life, to pay tribute and show respect. When I confronted my mother on this she said, “Oh, I am sorry I forgot, but it wouldn’t have made any difference as to whether you had gone over or not. L. told me she didn’t want your father and me to be there.”

Well Mummy, when I spoke to her she said she would love me to be there, with my organizational nature and cooking skills. I guess she just didn’t want you.