On Her Own Terms

by Leslea Newman

FEBRUARY 4, 2008        TAGS: FAMILY, AGING, ILLNESS         ADD A COMMENT

Death was no stranger to my grandmother; He followed her around like an eager puppy nipping at her heels. Death loved my grandmother because she had always been kind to Him. Every time He visited she welcomed Him in and she never sent Him away empty-handed. She gave Him her grandparents, her uncles, her aunts, her mother, her father, her nine brothers and sisters, her husband, and all of her neighbors and friends. The only thing she refused to give Death was what he wanted most of all: herself. So Death cornered my grandmother, and forced her to move into new digs: the Pine Crest Nursing Home, otherwise known as God's Waiting Room.

"Feh," my grandmother said the first time I brought her there as she surveyed the other residents parked along one wall in their wheelchairs, waiting to get into the dining room. She wrinkled her nose at the smell of plastic, urine, and boiled cabbage. Then she turned to me and said, "I ain't gonna spend my old age in this dump." And she was right. Being 99 years old, she had already spent much of her old age in her tiny Brooklyn apartment that overlooked Coney Island and the sea. But lately she'd had trouble managing. There were reports of her forgetting to turn off the stove after making a cup of tea. My parents were afraid that Death would visit in the middle of the night when my grandmother was alone and defenseless, unable to outsmart Him. And so, amid much protest, she moved into the nursing home.

But if Death thought He was moving closer to victory, he was sorely mistaken. My grandmother was not giving up on life. On the contrary, she seized each day with a vengeance. She insisted upon bathing and dressing herself every morning even though it was against the rules. "Mrs. Levin, you can't take a bath unsupervised," the nurses would tell her. "What if you fell getting out of the tub?"

"You ain't the boss of me," my grandmother replied, though it was really Death she was talking to. My grandmother was determined to live " and die " on her own terms. She refused to use a wheelchair or walker, and strode through the hallways of the nursing home on her own two feet " in high heels, no less. She refused to follow the low-cholesterol diet the doctor tried to put her on. After all he was only one-third of her age " she referred to him as "the Boy Scout" " so what could he possibly know?

"Listen, darling," she said, patting his arm in a motherly fashion. "Instead of telling me what to eat, maybe you should ask me what I have been eating all these years, I should live so long." How could he argue?

I visited my grandmother every month, and even though I was well aware of her age, I could not entertain the idea that she wouldn't live forever. She was so alive, pushing other residents in their wheelchairs through the hallway, residents who were five, 10, 20 years her junior. Attending Bingo tournaments, mah jongg games, sing-alongs and whatever other activities the nursing home offered. She ate three hearty meals a day, with two snacks in between. She went to the beauty parlor on the first floor every week to dye her hair brown and paint her nails red. She tied a red string around her bedpost to ward off the Evil Eye. As far as I could tell, she had no intention of ever letting Death take her anywhere.

But as her 100th birthday approached, things began to change. I wanted to throw my grandmother a big party, but she wasn't interested. "Feh," she said, turning her hand over and pushing down as if she were batting away something that filled her with disgust. "A hundred years is too long to live for anybody."

"What about Rose Kennedy?" I countered. My grandmother rolled her eyes. She began speaking more and more about Death, denying His approach no longer. She told me to go to her apartment, which she still rented, and sift through her things. "Pick out something nice for your cousins," she told me. "Something for them to remember me by." She began to dream about people on the other side. "I saw a flock of birds in the sand," she told me one day as we sat on a wooden bench in the sun. "One had an apron on like my mother. One wore glasses like your grandpa." That night I had a similar dream: A dozen birds flew overhead forming the word soon with their sleek black bodies. I woke in tears, knowing what it meant: Soon " too soon " Death would come for my grandmother.

She knew this of course. Never wanting to be a burden, my grandmother decided to make things as easy as possible. Two days after a wonderful visit with her during which time she told me stories about her own grandmother whom she hadn't seen in 89 years, my grandmother woke up, got dressed, ate a good breakfast, put her head on the dining room table, and died. She was one month shy of turning 100. When I arrived at the nursing home, a resident who always sat at the same table as my grandmother during meals embraced me. "She was full of the devil and she died like an angel," she said, her voice choked with sadness.

A week after Death took my grandmother, I had another dream. There were two birds on the beach; the larger one spread its wings over the smaller one, sheltering and protecting it. I knew the birds were my grandmother and me, and I woke up filled with peace. The day she would have turned 100, I had a second dream: My grandmother, dressed in a glittery gown, waved to me, her painted nails sparkling like jewels. "Death is a beautiful secret," she said, before she disappeared. I have yet to dream of her again.





Lesléa Newman, the poet laureate of Northampton, Ma., writes frequently for Obit.

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