A Profound Effect

He was 91 and healthy as a horse. Despite his advanced age, his mind and body were in excellent condition. He lived with his wife of 35 years, whom he could no longer stand or tolerate. His great-granddaughter, her friend, and their two children lived with him. They were supposed to make his meals and take care of whatever he needed while they were at home from work.

Nobody understood the stress that Frances lived under daily. His wife told him that if he truly loved her, he would stay home and help her get out of bed to go to the washroom and eat. A 91-year-old man has no business looking after another 90-something-year-old. She belonged in a home.

Things quickly deteriorated from bad to worse. Since they were siblings, my mother served as his sounding board. But she was unavailable because she had lung cancer to deal with, and he went about four weeks without speaking to her. The day she got out of the hospital was the day he killed himself with one of his guns.

The halfwit's daughter's (1/4 wit) boyfriend found him by the wood pile. It serves him right to have to stumble on seeing a bloody carcass since he was one of the causes of the shooting in the first place.

The suicidee had his chin and half his face blown off. Challenging to take for someone who lived with him and treated him like shit, I would suppose. But I can't say for sure. I'm guessing. But Jessica, the quarterwit, now she's someone that should have felt something written about knowing a man of 91 years would take his life on his boyhood farm, where he lived his entire life there, and before them and even his wife, he lived happy times and was always good for a visit and a laugh.

His wife, Pat, was older than him and had so many problems she was bedridden. She expected her husband, Frances or Sam, to them, but Dode or Dodo to us, to take care of her every need and to never get out and do anything on his own.

My mother's youngest sister, Pauline, served as his sounding board. He never made suggestions unless he solicited her input. He knew what was right and what was wrong, but he just couldn't bring himself to throw out the younger couple—who paid nothing to live there—and put his ailing wife into a home.

We are talking about a man worth four million dollars or more. He owned three farms and a fortune-sized acreage. The land around his farm sold for $1.5 million. His gun was still smoking, and the wife, her kid, and his kids were celebrating in style. Everyone deserved a getaway this year for Christmas to somewhere warm; that's what they did.

Her grandchildren couldn't even tell her about his death. They said to her that he tripped on the wood pile, hit his head, and died. But you see, Dode was calculated, and on the day of their 35th wedding anniversary, he went out consciously to the wood pile, and with a loaded gun's safety removed, he pointed it under his chin and pulled the trigger. His last kiss-off to his wife and her dimwit son and his children.

No note, no explanation, and no return. Very much did he know and believe in what he was doing. He showed his wit and his anger and contempt for his wife. Mostly, he showed his hatred for the entire bunch of them.

This year's Christmas was low-key for my family and me. I miss him so much. I was very fortunate to have great uncles. Growing up, I lived close to him and saw much more of him than any other niece or nephew. He spent so much time at our home and ate dinners with us on every special occasion. When he married Pat, that all stopped, and she forbade my mother to enter the house where she grew up.

Dode never knew that until much later in time. But he knew that Pat was selling all of his mother's stuff for money. Money because she didn't want my mother or aunt to get any of it. It meant nothing to her, and yet she wouldn't allow them an opportunity to claim it for themselves for sentimental reasons.

She told them, "Sorry, but everything in this house belongs to me now. And you are not welcome here any longer."

My mother responded, "Well, that's certainly nice of the Catholic Women's League leader to do as a Christian. Don't worry, I won't be back."

My aunt didn't even acknowledge her with a comment.

They only saw each other again recently at Dode's funeral. Nobody wanted to see her or her brood, so we were cordial until we all went to my cousin Bobby's house after the burial. After we all got over the shock of Dode taking his life and talking about it, we took a family photo of every cousin who attended.

His presence was missed, and Christmas was dark for me. I had a sparse tree of gifts this year. I told my kids that I wasn't going overboard anymore for Christmas. Dode's birthday is the same day as my December anniversary. I always toast to him, and I shall continue that tradition.

The holiday was meant to be about the birth of our Lord, but it became bittersweet for me just like that. I struggle daily knowing that he was so upset that he thought pulling a trigger was his only way to get away from those dimwits.

That's how my first Christmas went after a major life change. I had to manoeuvre through the dark stuff and celebrate with my children while I was stuck in another funk over the death of my uncle that burned like a rug deep into my heart. Painful and invisible, I suffered silently because nobody wanted to talk about Dode or mention his name. Alone in my grief, I wore two faces and couldn't keep from feeling worse as the day went on.

Now Christmas is over, and my blues stayed. Something I never knew before has profoundly affected my life. Who knew? Not me.