A story on providing comfort for the dying - and the living
I received word that my grandmother was declining rapidly—a matter of days or weeks. I booked an urgent flight to Rhode Island despite being mid-chemotherapy (round 4 of 6). My doctors advised against traveling, but I needed to go.
On the plane from San Francisco, I reflected on her profound influence in my life. She represented stability during my turbulent years. I jotted down memories: the safety of sitting on her carpet as a child, the aroma of spaghetti and meatballs, breakfast invitations for Kasha with my grandfather.
Retrieving these childhood memories proved harder than expected—they felt buried, requiring deliberate excavation.
Before arriving at her assisted living facility in Rhode Island, I stopped to purchase elegant shoes. Wearing sneakers to what might be our final meeting seemed disrespectful. She embodied grace and dignity, yet possessed fierce determination. Years earlier, after the mayor's office ignored her complaints about street litter, this tiny woman personally cleaned up the intersection herself.
Her character was decisive. She'd once sold her fifty-year home simply because she questioned why she needed it. "Ari, when you make a promise, it's a strike of lightning," she'd told me as a child—a phrase that created a visceral, lasting impression.
I entered her sunny room overlooking the Seekonk River, unprepared for the transformation. My vibrant grandmother now appeared as a fragile figure in the hospital bed. Her emaciated frame weighed perhaps seventy pounds. Her jaw protruded sharply against wrinkled skin. Her mouth hung awkwardly open at a forty-five-degree angle.
I sat beside her, observing the mechanical operations of her body—the jugular vein pulsing like a locomotive, her labored breathing creating an unintended rhythm. For a moment, I forgot the emotional context, marveling instead at the biological machinery sustaining her.
My attention drifted outward toward the window's vista: yellow leaves beneath bare branches, a calm river. I contemplated how indigenous peoples once experienced aging and death in this landscape, without industrial surroundings.
I returned my focus to the present moment. Rather than sharing happy memories, I instinctively stroked her hair. I assured her of my presence, our family's love, and that it was acceptable to rest. I sang the Shema Yisroel, the central Jewish prayer affirming God's oneness.
Then I noticed something remarkable: a tear in her eye, fresh and glistening. Despite her unconscious appearance, some part of her remained present, aware of my presence.
She wouldn't have wanted this prolonged state. She'd expressed years earlier that she wished for the option to end things on her own terms. But her body was too resilient—a train still moving, gradually losing momentum.
My sole purpose became providing comfort to the dying. I hoped for her peaceful, swift transition.
After dinner with my aunt and uncle, I said goodbye, feeling I'd accomplished what I came to do. That night, my uncle informed me she'd passed. I felt both sadness and relief—primarily relief. I'd been granted a meaningful final moment.
The next morning, when I saw her one last time, her appearance had transformed. Her head rested naturally, her lips were closed, and a subtle smile graced her face. Death had brought unexpected peace and dignity to her expression—a meaningful final gesture. She embodied a spiritual truth: death isn't an ending, but rather "those last flickers of life/spirit (in Hebrew, ruach)" that catalyze continuation for those remaining.
This essay is excerpted from Chemolog.