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So, my grandparents died last week.
They've both been in the most severe level of hospice care for some months now, so this is not particularly a surprise. IIRC, Grandma Brin passed on Wednesday, and Grandpa Perks on Friday. Strictly speaking, this is my mom's father and stepmother, but given that they married when I was about two, for me they are entirely "my grandparents". Anyways, mom called me on Sunday to let me know.
It sucks, and I am grieving sometimes and being blank sometimes, which is as much a function of "the rest of the fucking world right now" as anything else. I last saw them a few years ago, which feels in some ways rotten --I really couldn't make time again since 2021? But that last visit also felt very good as a send-off. There was no covid risk because it was that glorious moment post-vaccines-pre-delta, we all could eat lunch and I could hear stories of Grandpa Perks when he was a boy.
He's my grandfather the NASA engineer. He's the one who wrote up the story of the beautiful blue and silver mylar computer tape garland that's been on a Christmas tree every year since 1963 and very well might've sent the tree to Russia if one had the correct equipment. He values education and intelligence and learning things. Somewhere I have a notebook from a visit as an adult where he was explaining how to make a perpetual motion machine. Sometimes he was a bit bawdy, in the way that makes it pleasant to gasp "grandpa!" at the telling of a dirty joke. He loved puns _loved_ puns and would go to great lengths to come up with them and pull them off.
He loved the family and said it, constantly, every time. He was not a stoic man, so entangled in toxic masculinity that he couldn't have feelings or share words. He is probably part of why mom gives such good hugs, which is part of why I give such good hugs.
Grandma Brin was a quieter presence, harder to get to know (no children of her own, straight into having grandchildren and never quite sure how). But she was full of love too. She sang songs and played our piano sometimes, I think? She was tiny and delicate and doted on us the best she could. Loved reading books and watching the telly and helping solve puzzles. She sang in a church choir, and I think at least once we went to go hear her. She collected owls, thought they were wonderful. I know that she had her saucy side as well, mom tells me stories of years where she and Aunt Sara, snickering, swapped playgirls in Christmas stockings, and Brin would ask to join them when they all snuck off to the bedroom to admire their ill-gotten gains. I think she'd be politely shocked to know that's one of the memories I have tied up in her, but I like it, I like that she's a whole person and can be horny or messy or sharp as well as sweet and caring and gentle.
They were both whole people and now they're gone, and death will never stop being a cruel and heartless thing for this most mundane of reasons. It is staggering, the cost we have paid collectively for being willing to rise above animalia, losing every one of us along the way. Somehow, we continue to decide that it's worth it?
I have my grandfather's slide rule --I got it this past Christmas, a slide rule that "helped us go to the moon". I have his drafting tools tucked away in my art box, carefully collected lettering stencils and compasses and french curves. I have his engineering background tucked in my heart, and an alternate reality where I followed more direct in his footsteps, instead of one more step apart.
And I have many of his old shirts, riots of colours and designs --the man loved a Hawaiin shirt, and I am the grandchild most suited to take that on. Some ties. And more recently a stack of handkerchiefs. When I cry for him, I can blow my nose on the same fabric he would use. One last memory, him napping on the floor between presents and Christmas dinner, a red bandana over his eyes. I own at least two of those now, with "Perks" carefully embroidered in the corner, ready to be used for my own naptimes.
The memorial service is in two weeks. It's the first time since my childhood that I'll actually be attending one of those --the timing just keeps not working out, and also I am lucky that so few of my loved ones are gone so far. I will be there to hug my mom and my aunt and anyone else who wants one. It's what they would've wanted.
~Sor
MOOP!
They've both been in the most severe level of hospice care for some months now, so this is not particularly a surprise. IIRC, Grandma Brin passed on Wednesday, and Grandpa Perks on Friday. Strictly speaking, this is my mom's father and stepmother, but given that they married when I was about two, for me they are entirely "my grandparents". Anyways, mom called me on Sunday to let me know.
It sucks, and I am grieving sometimes and being blank sometimes, which is as much a function of "the rest of the fucking world right now" as anything else. I last saw them a few years ago, which feels in some ways rotten --I really couldn't make time again since 2021? But that last visit also felt very good as a send-off. There was no covid risk because it was that glorious moment post-vaccines-pre-delta, we all could eat lunch and I could hear stories of Grandpa Perks when he was a boy.
He's my grandfather the NASA engineer. He's the one who wrote up the story of the beautiful blue and silver mylar computer tape garland that's been on a Christmas tree every year since 1963 and very well might've sent the tree to Russia if one had the correct equipment. He values education and intelligence and learning things. Somewhere I have a notebook from a visit as an adult where he was explaining how to make a perpetual motion machine. Sometimes he was a bit bawdy, in the way that makes it pleasant to gasp "grandpa!" at the telling of a dirty joke. He loved puns _loved_ puns and would go to great lengths to come up with them and pull them off.
He loved the family and said it, constantly, every time. He was not a stoic man, so entangled in toxic masculinity that he couldn't have feelings or share words. He is probably part of why mom gives such good hugs, which is part of why I give such good hugs.
Grandma Brin was a quieter presence, harder to get to know (no children of her own, straight into having grandchildren and never quite sure how). But she was full of love too. She sang songs and played our piano sometimes, I think? She was tiny and delicate and doted on us the best she could. Loved reading books and watching the telly and helping solve puzzles. She sang in a church choir, and I think at least once we went to go hear her. She collected owls, thought they were wonderful. I know that she had her saucy side as well, mom tells me stories of years where she and Aunt Sara, snickering, swapped playgirls in Christmas stockings, and Brin would ask to join them when they all snuck off to the bedroom to admire their ill-gotten gains. I think she'd be politely shocked to know that's one of the memories I have tied up in her, but I like it, I like that she's a whole person and can be horny or messy or sharp as well as sweet and caring and gentle.
They were both whole people and now they're gone, and death will never stop being a cruel and heartless thing for this most mundane of reasons. It is staggering, the cost we have paid collectively for being willing to rise above animalia, losing every one of us along the way. Somehow, we continue to decide that it's worth it?
I have my grandfather's slide rule --I got it this past Christmas, a slide rule that "helped us go to the moon". I have his drafting tools tucked away in my art box, carefully collected lettering stencils and compasses and french curves. I have his engineering background tucked in my heart, and an alternate reality where I followed more direct in his footsteps, instead of one more step apart.
And I have many of his old shirts, riots of colours and designs --the man loved a Hawaiin shirt, and I am the grandchild most suited to take that on. Some ties. And more recently a stack of handkerchiefs. When I cry for him, I can blow my nose on the same fabric he would use. One last memory, him napping on the floor between presents and Christmas dinner, a red bandana over his eyes. I own at least two of those now, with "Perks" carefully embroidered in the corner, ready to be used for my own naptimes.
The memorial service is in two weeks. It's the first time since my childhood that I'll actually be attending one of those --the timing just keeps not working out, and also I am lucky that so few of my loved ones are gone so far. I will be there to hug my mom and my aunt and anyone else who wants one. It's what they would've wanted.
~Sor
MOOP!