Today I found myself not feeling sorry when someone died. I hate to admit it, but... there it is. Here's what happened:
My mother had twin older brothers, Ray and Fay. Fay was tall and strong and smart and wonderful, and he was killed in Europe in WWII. Ray suffered some oxygen deprivation at birth, and was much smaller, with an IQ at the low end of normal. He also fought in WWII (though he should never have been accepted, with his various weaknesses), and he suffered not only shellshock, but also the loss of his twin brother, whom he adored. It left him emotionally fragile and dependent -- the sweetest, kindest person in the world, but afraid of his own shadow and unable to take any kind of initiative.
After the war, Uncle Ray went back to his folks's house in northern Ohio and never left. He worked the same manual-labor job for 40 years, helping to support his parents. Eventually, it was only him and Grandma, and when Grandma died, his niece helped set him up in a tiny apartment in a Catholic retirement community. With support from a brother and sister who still live back there, Uncle Ray established a nice quiet routine that he seemed happy with.
And then came Rosemary, another resident of the community, a widow about 15 years younger. Uncle Ray had never had a date, let alone a girlfriend -- so when she took an interest in him, he was instantly wrapped around her finger.
At first, we were happy for him. But then Rosemary began running his life, making him put her name on his bank account, having his pension checks sent to her apartment instead of his... and while he was out here in Texas for his annual visit, she sold all his things! Even keepsakes that were his mother's, and paintings my mom had done for him... all gone, and she also convinced the landlord that Uncle Ray didn't want his apartment any more and would be living with her. So he lost that, too.
He was heartbroken, but when we tried to intervene and help him get out of her clutches, he would not agree to it. "I can't leave her," he would tell us sadly.
So it continued for several years. Rosemary took over Uncle Ray's life in every way, cutting him off from his family almost entirely. There were no more annual trips to Texas, phone calls very rarely got through... even the sister and brother who live right there in town could only see him if they showed up at the door and absolutely demanded it. And even then, Uncle Ray would barely speak. He seemed to be afraid of upsetting her, and would not defy her word on anything... so he remained isolated.
Then one day, neighbors called the police because they thought burglars had broken into Uncle Ray and Rosemary's apartment. What the police found was that Rosemary had beaten him up... and not for the first time.
But Uncle Ray refused to press charges against her, refused to be taken anywhere for treatment, and refused to let the police notify anyone. The next morning, Rosemary packed their things and moved the two of them into another apartment in a neighboring town -- this time with no telephone at all.
It was only by the good sense of the landlord that the family found out this had happened. After a week or so, an address for the new place was obtained, but knocks on the door were no longer answered.
When we heard about this, of course, we wanted nothing more than to fly up there and bodily remove Uncle Ray from the premises -- but the family back there said they would take care of it, and certainly Mom and I had our hands full with Papa's declining health... so we trusted them to handle it, and they do seem to have tried, though perhaps not as aggressively as I feel was warranted.
Another incident occurred a month or so later, when Uncle Ray was so humiliated by the way Rosemary treated him in a restaurant that when she went to the restroom, he just walked out and headed home (leaving her the car). It was dark and it was snowing. After about three hours, the police found Uncle Ray at the side of the road, an 84-year-old man stumbling along in the snow with no hat or gloves.
His sister and niece tried to persuade him to come live with either of them, but he refused. Without Uncle Ray's consent, there was no way to stop what Rosemary was doing to him... until this morning, when she died from a blood clot.
Despite the abuse he has suffered at her hands, Uncle Ray is stricken, of course -- he just doesn't have the ability to recognize her as the monster she was. But I hope he will soon realize that in losing her, he has regained his family.
So I find that I can't really be sorry she's gone. If this was the only way to stop her... so be it.
My mother had twin older brothers, Ray and Fay. Fay was tall and strong and smart and wonderful, and he was killed in Europe in WWII. Ray suffered some oxygen deprivation at birth, and was much smaller, with an IQ at the low end of normal. He also fought in WWII (though he should never have been accepted, with his various weaknesses), and he suffered not only shellshock, but also the loss of his twin brother, whom he adored. It left him emotionally fragile and dependent -- the sweetest, kindest person in the world, but afraid of his own shadow and unable to take any kind of initiative.
After the war, Uncle Ray went back to his folks's house in northern Ohio and never left. He worked the same manual-labor job for 40 years, helping to support his parents. Eventually, it was only him and Grandma, and when Grandma died, his niece helped set him up in a tiny apartment in a Catholic retirement community. With support from a brother and sister who still live back there, Uncle Ray established a nice quiet routine that he seemed happy with.
And then came Rosemary, another resident of the community, a widow about 15 years younger. Uncle Ray had never had a date, let alone a girlfriend -- so when she took an interest in him, he was instantly wrapped around her finger.
At first, we were happy for him. But then Rosemary began running his life, making him put her name on his bank account, having his pension checks sent to her apartment instead of his... and while he was out here in Texas for his annual visit, she sold all his things! Even keepsakes that were his mother's, and paintings my mom had done for him... all gone, and she also convinced the landlord that Uncle Ray didn't want his apartment any more and would be living with her. So he lost that, too.
He was heartbroken, but when we tried to intervene and help him get out of her clutches, he would not agree to it. "I can't leave her," he would tell us sadly.
So it continued for several years. Rosemary took over Uncle Ray's life in every way, cutting him off from his family almost entirely. There were no more annual trips to Texas, phone calls very rarely got through... even the sister and brother who live right there in town could only see him if they showed up at the door and absolutely demanded it. And even then, Uncle Ray would barely speak. He seemed to be afraid of upsetting her, and would not defy her word on anything... so he remained isolated.
Then one day, neighbors called the police because they thought burglars had broken into Uncle Ray and Rosemary's apartment. What the police found was that Rosemary had beaten him up... and not for the first time.
But Uncle Ray refused to press charges against her, refused to be taken anywhere for treatment, and refused to let the police notify anyone. The next morning, Rosemary packed their things and moved the two of them into another apartment in a neighboring town -- this time with no telephone at all.
It was only by the good sense of the landlord that the family found out this had happened. After a week or so, an address for the new place was obtained, but knocks on the door were no longer answered.
When we heard about this, of course, we wanted nothing more than to fly up there and bodily remove Uncle Ray from the premises -- but the family back there said they would take care of it, and certainly Mom and I had our hands full with Papa's declining health... so we trusted them to handle it, and they do seem to have tried, though perhaps not as aggressively as I feel was warranted.
Another incident occurred a month or so later, when Uncle Ray was so humiliated by the way Rosemary treated him in a restaurant that when she went to the restroom, he just walked out and headed home (leaving her the car). It was dark and it was snowing. After about three hours, the police found Uncle Ray at the side of the road, an 84-year-old man stumbling along in the snow with no hat or gloves.
His sister and niece tried to persuade him to come live with either of them, but he refused. Without Uncle Ray's consent, there was no way to stop what Rosemary was doing to him... until this morning, when she died from a blood clot.
Despite the abuse he has suffered at her hands, Uncle Ray is stricken, of course -- he just doesn't have the ability to recognize her as the monster she was. But I hope he will soon realize that in losing her, he has regained his family.
So I find that I can't really be sorry she's gone. If this was the only way to stop her... so be it.