Goodbye grandma

A story on providing comfort for the dying - and the living

I got word that my grandmother was slipping. It was now a matter of days or weeks. I booked a last minute ticket to Rhode Island. I was personally going through chemotherapy at the time and was mid-way through treatment (round 4 of 6). The doctors cautioned me against it, but I had to go.

I leaned my head against the double-paned plexiglass in the window seat on the plane. Overlooking the SF Bay from probably 10k feet I thought about how blessed I was and the role she had played in getting me here, helping me become who I am. She was - always had been - the greatest source of stability in my rather unstable life (that’s for another time).

I jotted down the memories, talking point bullets in my notebook: the warm feeling of safety I got sitting on the carpet as a kid, the smell of spaghetti and meatballs permeating the air on a random weeknight; excitement being requested to come over for breakfast across the driveway for Kasha with my Saba (grandfather); etc. I wanted to sit with her and share those memories, I knew by this point she wasn’t likely to be lucid. Still, maybe she could hear/recognize my voice. And I could remember.

It was a bit annoying that I wasn’t able to will myself to a flood of memory. I was working to find those memories, as if they were buried in a closet under heavy piles. It had been a long time since they were accessed.

As time passes the ability to remember childhood events (nevermind their fidelity!) becomes harder.

On the way to Rhode Island from the Boston Airport I stopped to buy nice shoes. It was kind of a weird idea but I realized that showing up with sneakers to see her (perhaps the last time) was simply unacceptable, disrespectful even. What kind of an example had she set when her oldest grandson visits in sneakers? She was that kind of lady – elegant, dignified and poised. She had a nobility about her - always. And also she was always ready for action – feisty, decisive. As a younger lady (maybe late 60’s/70’s) she wrote the RI mayor’s office a piece of her mind (in impeccable handwriting) about all the litter on the street. And when after the third attempt they didn’t clean up that grungy intersection on Allens avenue, she literally parked her car, got out with the fullness of her tiny 4’10 or so frame, picked up the litter and put it in a trash bag herself. That’s how she operated.

One day, years after my grandfather had died, she just decided to sell the house she lived in for something like 50 years because, “why do I need all this?”. Once she decided a thing then it was done. “Ari, when you make a promise it’ s a strike of lightning” she told me as a kid, and that always stuck. I literally can feel the pulsing imprint of a blue bolt of electricity when I hear the word promise.

She would also tell me things when I was a bit older, like, “you cannot squire a lady like Michelle dressed like a THAT“. And, the classic, “you must always walk on the Streetside of the sidewalk when with a lady”.

Yeah, sneakers wasn’t going to cut it.

I arrived in her tiny Rhode Island apartment one of many in this quiet assisted living home. Thick old-people’s carpet softened my steps. She was always one of the most energetic and awake people there - light in a drab place. Several family members were already there as I arrived: aunt, nephew, etc. They told me she was in her room and that I could go in and see her.

I walked into her sunny room overlooking the Seekonk river, unsure what to expect. I turned the corner and was struck by the transformation, the diff against my last memory of her.

I look on her. I see a white skull, tiny and motionless in the large bed, peeking above thick covers. I closed the door gently behind me, as much not to disturb her as to take a beat to process reality. I wanted to be alone with her for a few minutes unencumbered by social norms, expectations, or frankly, even words. Just to be with her and provide some comfort (if possible) to a dying woman who to me personifies quiet dignity. But she is no longer the woman I’ve known.

I walk to the bed and orient myself to this reality. Here lies death. Wisps of white hair are still on her head. Her face is tilted 45 degrees leftward and up. Her mouth is awkwardly open. I suspect her head has been in roughly this position for some time. I think of a dessicated sunflower frozen while reaching for the sun.

I sit down on a forgettable chair beside her medical-grade bed (the kind with adjustable settings to go up/down etc). The blanket is pulled to several inches below her chin. She is roughly facing me as I sit. I study her face. The only hint of the rest of her body is the collar bone I can see just below the blanket. Her body is so emaciated that her jawline sharply protrudes against her wrinkled neck like a fossil against striated rock. She cannot weigh more than 70 pounds. She is pale as plaster and her eyes are closed.

Her body has it’s own agenda to live despite the lack of movement. The mechanical workings of breath and pulse form a somewhat jarring backdrop to her stillness: the jugular vein pumps like a locomotive; her breath is steady, though labored and involuntary. It’s musical. For a while I forget the social context, losing myself as I marvel at the machinery underlying my grandmother.

My eyes drift. I notice the scene outside the window. A carpet of yellow leaves below barren winter trees and branches. The river is calm and I think for a minute what old age and dying was like for the Native American tribes that were here first. The room is a mixture of sculptures, family pictures, paintings and small accumulations from the years. What would it be like if we were not surrounded my industrial things, but rather outside in the natural world in organics vs. synthetics? Stop - these things don’t matter.

I bring myself back to present. It was dumb to think I would talk about memories and good times etc. That’s the last thing I want to do. Instead this is visceral. Instinctively, as with a child, I reach over to stroke her hair. I tell her that it’s me; that it’ s ok and that we’re all here for her; that we love her; that my kids send their love to her. I tell her it’s ok to relax. I don’t say much more. Just stroke her hair and try to be present. At one point I quietly sang the Shema Yisroel (שמע ישראל, one of the most important Jewish prayers confirming that G-d is is One).

My eyes come back to her face. I am shocked to notice moisture – yes, a tear – in one eye. That single, nascent tear was welled up, trapped in the folds of her eye. I was sure I’d have noticed it earlier. I took this as a sign that she, or some part of her, was still there with me and perhaps she was more aware than her appearance would suggest.

She would not want this. She would have ended it years ago if she could have. She would have taken a pill and ended it on her own terms - as she lived. Once she even told me she wished she had this option. That’s how she did things, decisively.

She decided she didn’t want to live years ago. The problem is her body was too strong. I suppose it’s not so easy to stop a moving train - it’ll stop when the momentum runs out. That’s what this is, a train coming to a stop.

All I can do in this situation is to provide comfort to the dying. I wish for her to go calmly, painlessly and peacefully. And quickly. There is nothing to hold onto.

I left the apartment with my aunt and uncle as the hospice nurse stayed behind. We got dinner. I said my goodbyes and felt like I had done what I came to do. There was nothing left. I shifted my focus to what would come next for the family. We went to dinner and discussed logistics – what the first 30 days look like after she passes, e.g., funeral prep, selling her place, etc. It was kind of cathartic to discuss all these things openly. And yet kind of strange to mix the mundane with the biological.

I spent that night with my uncle in Portsmouth RI (beautiful place if you haven’t been). The next morning he told me that she passed last night. I was both sad and relieved. More relieved actually. I was pleased to have had the opportunity for a brief yet meaningful goodbye and to be there for her in some

tiny way.

The next morning I went to see her for the last time. Her face had changed dramatically. It was no longer positioned in that awkward way. Her lips were closed and I swear there was a slight smile on her face. Certainly there was a peacefulness about her. It was amazing to see - and it felt meaningful. Death is not the end. Those last flickers of life/spirit (in Hebrew, ruach/רוח) can serve as a catalyst for the life that continues.

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This is a short essay is excerpted from Chemolog.