I recall my grandmother's final gift. During her life, our relationship was problematic. I do not mean this is in an arch or pathological sense, merely that we could have been closer than we were had we both been a little less conditional in our behavior. She was adept at guilt-inducement while I was adept at passive-aggressive withdrawal. Nevertheless, during my college years I found a kindred intellectual spirit in my grandmother whose curiosity and love of learning inspired my academic pursuits, which I enjoyed sharing with her. During this all too brief halcyon period we came to know each other better seemingly in the absence of family drama. Unfortunately, after I graduated from college our relationship returned, in large part, to its former status and we communicated less often.
Several years after graduating from college, my grandmother was diagnosed with ALS, still commonly known as Lou Gehrig's disease. I saw her more often during the last year of her life than had previously; however, one particular meeting near the end of her life remains with me because of the remarkable thing my grandmother gave me. It was December or January, I believe, and a fierce winter storm was pushing east across Minnesota. My father called and told me that I needed to see grandma because her condition had worsened precipitously and she might not last more than a couple of days. I assured him I would make the drive from Milwaukee to Appleton the next day.
When I set out, the first flurries were falling from the blank gray sky. By the time I reached Appleton, snow was accumulating on the highway and conditions were treacherous, which compounded my anxiety at the visit. I met my aunt in the lobby and she gave me an update on my grandmother's condition. Notably, my grandmother had difficulty speaking but could sometimes write out words that were difficult for her to enunciate. Also, my aunt informed me that grandma tired easily so we might not have a lot of time. I subsequently came to learn that this debriefing is a common feature of the way we encounter the direly ill or injured and that it has its own ritualistic peculiarities. At the time, I did not notice how stylized the experience felt, perhaps an importation of the medicalization of death into the social encounter with mortality.
At this point in her life, my grandmother had moved from her house to an apartment in what I recall was a hospice facility. Many of the accoutrements I remember from childhood visits to her house were there, including a set of vinyl red seated art deco chairs and a clock, the face of which was set inside the radiating arms of a sun. The clock always hung over the couch in the room where my grandmother and grandfather kept the television. This was before my grandfather died and my grandmother left the house after remarrying. These accoutrements jarred me into a reverie of recollection from those earliest days, so detached were the objects from their new surroundings. The objects appeared to me as disembodied portals to instances of our shared history, into which I was sucked involuntarily, heightening my sense of sadness, worry, and fear at this meeting with my grandmother.
She was diminished and sat, I recall, in a recliner. I sat next to my grandmother and we talked. I told myself to be confident and sage, pithy and good-humored, but the truth is I was scared shitless. I felt guilty, I did not know what to say, I felt like I would somehow screw this up, make an irreparably bad situation worse, profane a solemn moment ... Although I initially had difficulty communicating with my grandmother, we managed a combined system of speaking and an occasional written word that worked quite well. Soon the trepidation and sadness evaporated. She asked about me and what I was doing and how my mother was and my other grandmother (who she said she admired) and how my siblings were and how my wife was and what I was reading and where I was traveling and much more that I cannot precisely recall. In the process, she broke down whatever bullshit in the past had left some distance between us and she allowed me to get close to her without conditions. So sincere and complete were these queries and so complete was the collapse of distance between us that I lost consciousness of both time and her disease. I can write without hyperbole that our time together on that blustery evening was perfect.
Which brings me to her gift. Too often death, especially in the context of a terminal illness, becomes an anxiety-ridden narcissism for the living. While death ostensibly is about the dying person, in effect the living are often selfish in the way they regard the dead and dying. This is natural at some level because the living are left with the psychological, emotional, and practice consequences of death. As you will note from a number of passages above, I was worried and fearful about the meeting with my terminally ill grandmother because of how it would make me feel. I do not think I am horribly unusual in this regard. I must also mention that my grandmother tended toward hypchondriasis during her life. However, in a remarkable transformation, my grandmother faced her impending death with utter calm, preternatural grace, and compete acceptance. In our short time together that day, I not only sensed no fear or anxiety in her but she cleansed me of those feelings as well. Pick the image - the Buddha at the moment of enlightenment below the Bo tree, the peace that passeth understanding, the calm of the Lord who, "Dove-like satst brooding on the vast abyss." My attention was rapt, total, and she exuded tranquility. And so, without explicitly saying the words, she let me know that everything was okay, that we were okay. It was as if in focusing on me and letting me tell her things she longed to hear, she expurgated my soul or spirit or self or whatever; she broke down the barriers that stood between us and tossed out guilt and regret. She gave me the gift of freedom. In the face of her own demise, she let me go unburdened in a spirit of perfect peace and generosity.
One particular piece of our time together stays with me even now. My grandmother had the opportunity to travel later in life and she eagerly questioned me about a trip I planned to take in the spring to Italy. We discussed my plans and different monuments, but one thing she said struck me. She informed me, "Florence has the best ice cream." At the time I did not necessarily appreciate the significance of the statement, though my grandmother said it with such insistence and conviction as to render almost an exhortation.
I later learned she was telling me more than just to eat ice cream in Florence. She was in effect telling me that this death was okay, that we were okay, and that I would find ways to carry her forward with me. Forward in the freedom of delight, free from resentment and regret. This is the gift she gave me: facing imminent death she became selfless and allowed me to live beyond her death without fetters. And in so doing, she gave a bit of herself to me that I will never let go. I remember driving home to Milwaukee without tears or worry. Calm descended on me. I called my father and told him, "you know, I think everything is going to be alright."
The following spring I took the trip to Italy with my wife and some friends. I remembered my grandmother's exhortation about Florence's ice cream before we left, but the thought soon faded with the excitement of our arrival. Five days or so into our trip, we found ourselves in Florence. After a morning spend marveling at Michaelangelo's David and meandering from the Galleria dell'Accademia toward the Piazza del Duomo, my grandmother's words were still beyond my conscious mind. As we approached the Duomo the sun shone brightly and my wife spotted a gelateria and suggested we get some. The light bulb finally went off and I said, "Yes, let's." So she got a cone with tiramisu and I got a cone with mango and we walked into the piazza with our cones and I tasted mine which prompted a solitary tear of joy. I turned to my wife and said, "You know, Florence has the best ice cream," and silently thanked my grandmother for her perfect gift.
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