On the way to seeing her I jotted down the memories, talking point bullets in my notebook: the warm feeling from sitting on the carpet as a kid, the smell of spaghetti and meatballs permeating the air on a random weeknight; coming over for breakfast across the driveway for Kasha; etc. I wanted to sit with her and share those memories, I knew by this point she wasn’t likely to be lucid but still, maybe she could hear/recognize my voice. And I could remember. I must say that I didn’t have that flood of memory that sometimes happens. I really had to dig to get those neurons firing – it had been a long time since they were active. I find that as time passes my ability to remember childhood events 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. And she was always ready for action – feisty, decisive. As a younger lady (maybe late 60’s/70’s) she would give 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, 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. She would also tell me things when I was a bit older, like, “you cannot squire a lady like Michelle dressed like a THAT“. Yeah, sneakers wasn’t going to cut it.
I arrived in her tiny Rhode Island apartment nestled in an assisted living home. She was always one of the most energetic and awake people there, light in a drab place. Several family members were there as I arrived: aunt, nephew, etc. They told me she was in her room and that I could go in and see her. As I walked into her sunny room overlooking the Seekonk river I was struck by the transformation, the delta against my last memory of her. Her skull is tiny and motionless in the large bed.
I closed the door gently behind me. 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. She is also the person who has been the most stable fixture in my life. 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 left and up, as if reaching for something. Her mouth is awkwardly open. I suspect her head has been in roughly this position for some time. I sit down on a basic chair beside her medical-grade bed (the kind with adjustable settings to go up/down etc). A 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 skeletal 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 must weigh 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 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. These things don’t matter so I come back to present.
I 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 said the שְׁמַע יִשְׂרָאֵל (Shema Yisroel, one of the holiest Jewish prayers). I must have missed it but as I looked again at her face I noticed 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 from the start. Perhaps it was just what happens. But I took this as a sign that she - some essence of her - was still there with me. 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 her life. She even told me she wished she had this option several times. That’s how she operated, decisively. She decided she didn’t want to live years ago. The problem is her body was too strong. 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 on the living and what would come next for the family. This is the family matriarch and the glue holding things together. 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 an 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. If my presence in any way helped then taking a two day trip when not fully recovered from my last chemo infusion, then it was completely worth it and I wouldn’t trade it for a thing.