I made it to Minneapolis!
The trek involved seven hours on a bus, crying when I found out that I was 30lbs over the newly observed luggage restrictions, and making a new friend who agreed to put my textbooks and several pairs of my shoes in her suitcase and sit next to me. Seriously, girls from Minnesota are the nicest.
I slept most of Tuesday to recover from the complete lack of sleep on the bus and then woke up to attend a surprise band concert for my little brother. It should be noted that it was only a surprise to my mother and myself as my brother forgot to bring home the note announcing the even from two weeks ago. My mother was pissed, I was amused, hilarity ensued.
We (my mother, brother, grandmother and myself) headed to some place for dinner after the concert and that’s when things got really interesting. Now, to be fair, my grandmother is officially losing her marbles. I’m not clear if it’s dementia or Alzheimer’s because I usually tune out when it gets to that kind of conversation. Call me cruel, that’s fine. I already watched my other grandmother waste away in front of me from Alzheimer’s, having the correct label doesn’t make it suck any less.
As dinner was wrapping up, she turned to me and said quite loudly, “Megan, do you have any idea who your biological father is?”
What the hell do you say to that?
So, I awkwardly told her “no” and tried to wrap things up and get the hell out of there. It doesn’t bother me that I don’t know who my father is. I have more than enough family to go around. I have more fannish family that I can count on all my digits and I have never wanted for love in my entire life (even as the typical teenager when I was convinced that nobody cared about me). But even so, it stings a little when your own grandmother (marbles lost or no) asks you that question, in public of all places.
Later, as we were getting out of the car, she turned to my mother and asked “Have I ever met Megan before? She’s my granddaughter and I’d like to get to know her.”
I think I should be hurt. Mortally offended that my own grandmother can’t remember the afternoons we spent making cookies or cooking the fish that I caught with my grandfather. But I just can’t. I cannot bring myself to care. I am not hurt. I am not angry. I just want to know where my brother hid the 12 pack of Coke. I think that might make me a bad person.
Perhaps I am still in shock, and in a few days, or weeks, or months this will hit me like a ton of bricks. Or maybe I’ve been aware enough of her slipping away to be able to properly distance myself. I really don’t know. That’s it. That’s all I’ve got tonight.