Filled out the hospice's survey / questionnaire re: my grandfather's care (with a black pen, and yes, I was certain to fill in the entire bubble): 10+ when they showed up the day he died, 4-5 for the week and a half I didn't see them between admission and death-eve but hey at least they're paying the postage now and they did get him that bed he liked.
Every time I go into what used to be my office to put on clothing or punch a punching bag and see all the boxes on top of the closet door on saw horses and all the boxes on the shelves and all the boxes on the floor and across I tell myself that I've got to get on with cleaning this shit up. Even get notions of how, exactly to go about doing it. But I haven't brought myself to do it yet: I only finished emptying his house a month ago and I was able to do it only by not caring about the things I put in the boxes in the name of meeting a closing deadline. To embark upon this great cleaning and organizing means that I have to care about the things I put in those boxes. And I'm not ready yet, no matter how nice it'd be to take a full swing at a punching bag.
Insofar as it’s been evinced by the lawyers I've worked with over the last two years, one of the primary reasons to become a lawyer is to take vacations.
Evidence: the week my mother died, her lawyer was on vacation; the week my grandfather died, his was on vacation; this week, I emailed same for an update on estate / probate, and guess what? Again on vacation (as was the person handling the probate part of it). Clearly I went into the wrong field as I haven't taken a vacation in 20 years and wouldn't have the slightest clue of how to do so.
Must be a law school class?
Wrote the first book by the light from this little lamp in my grandparents' basement when I first moved back to Ohio, 12 years ago now. Suppose it's poetic (for want of a better word) that it's now lighting part of The Paintshop. It'd be nice if some of the energy that pushed me to write that first book in five months lived inside its little gated community but yeah no probably not. Glad it’s here, regardless.
While I've no belief in the concept of god or in an afterlife (if I'm wrong, I'll be the first to admit it – but only at my own end and probably muttering George Carlin's seven dirty words as I trip and stumble into the fire) I have, over the last few weeks, become increasingly paranoid that my dead grandfather is watching everything I do – a paranoia that's become worse since I finished The Emptying and have, for the first time since September, time to process the events of the last four months.
Backlogs suck.
Anyhow, working theory is that this is my brain creating a way to maintain its inherited and oftentimes paranoid perfectionism – as much as I adored that man, more than any other human on the planet, I will fault him (and myself) for instilling said perfectionistic streak, one bordering on pathological – in this new normal. It's my brain's way of holding on to what it knew, the prison it created for me.
Worth noting that this phenomenon didn't happen when my grandmothers (adored) nor my mother (loathed, especially by the end) died – but my bond with my grandfather was something special: as I've written before somewhere, I know I was lucky to know unconditional love for 42 years – many don't get it for 42 seconds – but that doesn't make it easy to navigate its absence. At all. I miss him terribly.
Solution: perhaps working to let go of this extra-corporeal manifestation is the first step towards living my life as it is now – which is what he would have wanted anyhow – and build it into what I've always wanted it to be (whatever that is, TBD). Trick is to figure out how to go about doing that.
It'll come to me, probably.
Done, done, done: keys with the lawyer. Sale closes tomorrow. Bittersweet end. Now to figure out what to do with the rest of my life.
House empty, all in the outbuilding at the inlawn; pet-odor neutralizing powder + vacuuming round one million. Day off tomorrow, then final bits and key drop-off to the lawyer on Tuesday. Still very weird having the place empty and yes I did cram all the vacuums in Huey’ passenger seat because it was raining on the way home and those are good vacuum cleaners.
After more fun with a reciprocating saw, the house stands empty. Sitting in the emptiness was tougher than I thought: I miss both of my grandparents terribly; today was the first time I let myself feel it since he died.
All rooms, save front room, are clear. Mattresses and sawed up / scrapped entertainment centers go out tomorrow. Shed work and garage finishing also this weekend. Oh, right, final vacuuming and cleaning also this weekend; I reek of Oxi-Clean: it pervades my pores and my person.
Downstairs done: all shit (figuratively and literally) removed, all final bits and bobs ready for transport to outbuilding this weekend. Deep clean vac doing its thing, though I'll have to do another round to vanquish the litterboxing of the carpeting. Attic also done, bowling balls and such, as are all the bedrooms, and, thanks to titular fun with reciprocating saw, his office. Should be able to finish up shed and garage this weekend, then toss the keys at the lawyer's office on my way the hell out of town.
