Leaving home, going home.
Jun. 11th, 2008 12:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gementGrandma left last night, 1:40 a.m.
Mom came into my room, crying, and I hugged her. Reminder to self: I've written more about this on paper, some of which may or may not make it to the journal.
I got up, touched the pulse point in Grandma's shoulder to feel it Not Going, called the nurse paging service, and turned off the bed. (It inflates and deflates to prevent bedsores. If she's not breathing anymore, it shouldn't be either, because I have this phobia about inanimate things moving and Zombie Grandma would not be cool.)
Then I got a bowl of ice cream with whipped cream on top and ate it sitting with Aunt B who had a bowl of cereal. We pointed out to any Grandma-consciousness that might be present that we are continuing the tradition of making sure we have PLENTY to eat any time we're in her house. Then we sang a couple songs (B: some of Grandma's favorite Christian Science hymns, Me: Turn the World Around), and then I went back to bed and hugged Mom some more.
Then I got up this morning and had to say goodbye to the house I lived in when I was five years old. They're going to clear it out as soon as they can manage all the logistics, find Aunt B a place to live, move Grandpa in with Aunt S. I've gotten back there once in five years; they'll almost certainly have cleared it out and sold it by the time I get back again, if I get back again. Statistics say Grandpa will probably be dead in six months; he's already very vague, and husbands often follow wives quickly.
The house, the old sprawling split-level with the hazardous stairs and the fake-stained-glass hanging in the entryway windows. The ghost of the swing in the front yard (a ridiculously high-flying swing, suspended from 30 foot high pines.)
The living room full of warm artistic clutter, dominated by a huge television, a large abstract found-bits mural made by Grandpa, and picture windows that look out on pine trees. The god-awful blue-green carpet that is as old as myself. The extra sofa-bed out in the weird little corner between the kitchen and the living room, with a blanket that matches the god-awful carpet. The studio which was useful for art about six months before it was filled with spare everything.
The kitchen with the defunct intercom master control and doors at both ends (very impressive when I was five). Grandpa's art hung everywhere. Glass paperweights bright with fake flowers. Bookshelves creaking with Grandma's books on mysticism, aliens, and the afterlife, here and there dotted with Grandpa's art books.
The back yard. I had to crouch to see the back yard from the right angle, and then I just sobbed and sobbed. Where I dug for Mount St. Helen's ash, and destroyed G.I. Joe dolls that I found in a toy drawer by the studio door, shaded by the ugly translucent plastic awnings. With the tree that had bright red berries that were poisonous, so I tried to trick birds into eating them to see what would happen. With the absence of a cherry tree up the stairs in the next neighbors' yard, which I got to pick when the tree was still there. Where Grandpa taught me to spin the long plastic tubes so they sang. (I'm told since that they're called bullroarers. This makes no sense. Hoooooooooowheeeooooooowheeeeeeeohhhhhhhhheeeeeeee sounds nothing like a bull.)
The downstairs, where I lived but have few clear memories of my room. What I remember was THE PINBALL MACHINE. I burned many happy hours playing four players at a time of Spiderman Pinball in that dark little basement room, with Asteroids at my back. I never liked Asteroids. Not tactile enough. I'd make up names and competitive rivalries between the four pinball players, and celebrate their little soap opera victories and defeats, or tell fortunes from which one won. I could still almost feel the RSI I got in my thumbs from that thing.
Uncle Ken says it's still in storage, and if I was serious, he might get on fixing it up for me and send it over to Seattle. I'm giving it some serious thought. I could keep it in the garage quite happily. Anyway.
I sobbed over the back yard. Haven't cried over Grandma. The whole thing was just too surreal. It's probably coming later. Or not. We'll see. Grandma and Grandpa were the house to me, and vice versa. The weird little alien thing in the bed had little in common with Grandma. That kitchen had everything to do with Grandma, that studio everything to do with Grandpa. I'm glad I took the time to walk through it.
Probably more fallout later, but I'm coming back to Seattle now. My boss told me to call him when I knew when I'd be coming back, so while that will probably be tomorrow, I'm not ruling out sleep dep as a reason to take one more day. We'll see after a full night's sleep.
Mom came into my room, crying, and I hugged her. Reminder to self: I've written more about this on paper, some of which may or may not make it to the journal.
I got up, touched the pulse point in Grandma's shoulder to feel it Not Going, called the nurse paging service, and turned off the bed. (It inflates and deflates to prevent bedsores. If she's not breathing anymore, it shouldn't be either, because I have this phobia about inanimate things moving and Zombie Grandma would not be cool.)
Then I got a bowl of ice cream with whipped cream on top and ate it sitting with Aunt B who had a bowl of cereal. We pointed out to any Grandma-consciousness that might be present that we are continuing the tradition of making sure we have PLENTY to eat any time we're in her house. Then we sang a couple songs (B: some of Grandma's favorite Christian Science hymns, Me: Turn the World Around), and then I went back to bed and hugged Mom some more.
Then I got up this morning and had to say goodbye to the house I lived in when I was five years old. They're going to clear it out as soon as they can manage all the logistics, find Aunt B a place to live, move Grandpa in with Aunt S. I've gotten back there once in five years; they'll almost certainly have cleared it out and sold it by the time I get back again, if I get back again. Statistics say Grandpa will probably be dead in six months; he's already very vague, and husbands often follow wives quickly.
The house, the old sprawling split-level with the hazardous stairs and the fake-stained-glass hanging in the entryway windows. The ghost of the swing in the front yard (a ridiculously high-flying swing, suspended from 30 foot high pines.)
The living room full of warm artistic clutter, dominated by a huge television, a large abstract found-bits mural made by Grandpa, and picture windows that look out on pine trees. The god-awful blue-green carpet that is as old as myself. The extra sofa-bed out in the weird little corner between the kitchen and the living room, with a blanket that matches the god-awful carpet. The studio which was useful for art about six months before it was filled with spare everything.
The kitchen with the defunct intercom master control and doors at both ends (very impressive when I was five). Grandpa's art hung everywhere. Glass paperweights bright with fake flowers. Bookshelves creaking with Grandma's books on mysticism, aliens, and the afterlife, here and there dotted with Grandpa's art books.
The back yard. I had to crouch to see the back yard from the right angle, and then I just sobbed and sobbed. Where I dug for Mount St. Helen's ash, and destroyed G.I. Joe dolls that I found in a toy drawer by the studio door, shaded by the ugly translucent plastic awnings. With the tree that had bright red berries that were poisonous, so I tried to trick birds into eating them to see what would happen. With the absence of a cherry tree up the stairs in the next neighbors' yard, which I got to pick when the tree was still there. Where Grandpa taught me to spin the long plastic tubes so they sang. (I'm told since that they're called bullroarers. This makes no sense. Hoooooooooowheeeooooooowheeeeeeeohhhhhhhhheeeeeeee sounds nothing like a bull.)
The downstairs, where I lived but have few clear memories of my room. What I remember was THE PINBALL MACHINE. I burned many happy hours playing four players at a time of Spiderman Pinball in that dark little basement room, with Asteroids at my back. I never liked Asteroids. Not tactile enough. I'd make up names and competitive rivalries between the four pinball players, and celebrate their little soap opera victories and defeats, or tell fortunes from which one won. I could still almost feel the RSI I got in my thumbs from that thing.
Uncle Ken says it's still in storage, and if I was serious, he might get on fixing it up for me and send it over to Seattle. I'm giving it some serious thought. I could keep it in the garage quite happily. Anyway.
I sobbed over the back yard. Haven't cried over Grandma. The whole thing was just too surreal. It's probably coming later. Or not. We'll see. Grandma and Grandpa were the house to me, and vice versa. The weird little alien thing in the bed had little in common with Grandma. That kitchen had everything to do with Grandma, that studio everything to do with Grandpa. I'm glad I took the time to walk through it.
Probably more fallout later, but I'm coming back to Seattle now. My boss told me to call him when I knew when I'd be coming back, so while that will probably be tomorrow, I'm not ruling out sleep dep as a reason to take one more day. We'll see after a full night's sleep.
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no subject
Date: 2008-06-11 07:48 pm (UTC)Ah, yes.
*hugs you*
no subject
Date: 2008-06-11 08:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-11 08:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-11 10:59 pm (UTC)The Jason Webley song with the bullroarers (what a silly name) always reminds me of the back yard there.
no subject
Date: 2008-06-11 11:21 pm (UTC)The only time I ever cried about my father's death was when I remembered how he used to carry me on his shoulders at our local public pool. So the next day, it was fitting when his older sister Aunt H told me, "I remember carrying him."
no subject
Date: 2008-06-12 12:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-12 12:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-12 03:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-12 11:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-12 09:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-13 04:10 am (UTC)