My great-grandmother passed away in March of 1998. She was an extraordinary woman; strong, full of sass, stubborn as anything, and very much like me. Family members pointed out that we were like the unstoppable force and the immovable object. We couldn't out-stubborn the other, so we didn't even try.
She was, at most, 4'11". One did not make the mistake of messing with her. If they did, it was only once. She had a tiny head, like a grapefruit. Her dentures were far too big for her mouth, so she rarely wore them. She could still chew Italian bread like someone with a full set of teeth. Her fingers were slender, but her knuckles were knotted like ancient twigs. Her skin was papery, dry, and thin. She called pizza "tomato pie", tomato sauce was "gravy", and she always offered us "soder" (soda, for those of you who don't know).
Her eyes were the feature that stood out the most to me. They were deep, and narrow set. Like mine, they changed from bright blue to the steely grey of an overcast sky. But they always glittered with so many things. Life, strength, vitality, wisdom, intelligence, joy. She wasn't always one for great shows of emotion, but her eyes were open windows to what she was thinking. She was never doddering, her faculties were always there. In her eyes.
Gram worked until she was in her mid-70's, when her company basically laid her off so she would retire. She was only sick on the weekends, and I'm not even sure if she took vacations. Once she retired, her health declined to the point that she was in and out of the hospital, and couldn't walk up the hill anymore. She moved from the three family building she owned to the small summer house she had next door to us.
I used to sit with her while she watched her "stories" on television. She coughed a lot, and would use a green bean can as a spittoon. She cooked Italian food all the time, and would talk about the big street festivals and feasts for Catholic saints that used to go on. She talked about shopping at the Newark Slip (or Nork Slip, as it was pronounced by those who lived there). We would discuss our shared love for Paramount bread. When she lived in her building, it was a short journey to pick some up. She always brought it to us when she would visit.
She told me stories about Lake Hopatcong in the heyday, when this was the only house on the entire street. She told me about going out on the town in her custom made gowns, how she loved to dress up. There were stories of her friends, her sisters, her parents. The good times she had growing up. How I wish I'd written some of them down.
There were also bad times that she would remember. She told me of the pain of losing her only brother at a young age due to illness. Even then, almost fifty years later, her eyes shone with tears when she spoke of him. Such a good boy, he was. So full of life and promise. She touched on my great-grandfather, whom I'd never met. She talked about his temper, and that he became violent on occasion. She didn't say much, but her eyes would harden to determination (and a bit of old fear?) when she mentioned those times. This woman who was made of steel, never sick, always taking care of business... she was vulnerable after all. I never pushed her, nor did I get too sappy (she wasn't like that). But one time, I reached over and held her hand for a moment. She looked at me, I looked at her. Her eyes looked grateful for the understanding in mine. For a moment, I thought she would say more, but she never did.
Not long after that, she had another attack where she couldn't breathe. She was brought to the hospital again. This time was different. The doctor decided this time to perform a tracheotomy. I sometimes wonder if that decision is the reason we didn't have her around longer. She contracted an infection, and I wasn't allowed to visit her for a while because of my asthma. I only saw her once that time around. She had been there a while by that time.
Her eyes. That's the first thing I noticed. The first thing I saw, happiness. Then pleading. As I looked down, I noticed why. Covering her mouth was a layer of dried foam. In her neck, a tube shoved through the hole her doctor made. On her tiny arms, black bruises from where IV lines had been, and her wrists bound to the sides of the bed. For a split second, I'm sure my eyes registered the horror and grief I was feeling. But I moved to the bathroom to get a towel. I moistened it and wiped her mouth clean. I brushed her hair back from her forehead. I asked her what I could get her. She pointed to an extra pillow on the chair, and motioned for it to be placed under her arm that currently held an IV. She then started mouthing "water" over and over again. She couldn't talk. That goddamned tube in her throat.
I went to the nurse's station and asked them why my Gram had been left for so long that a layer of foam had been able to completely crust over her mouth. They said it was normal with a trache. I told them that she is thirsty. They said she can't have any water, because she would choke on it. There was a sponge with a cup of water that I could use to dampen her lips, but she couldn't drink anything. I then asked why she was tied down. Because she tried to pull that goddamned tube from her throat.
I went back in. Her eyes pleading. I explained that I couldn't give her water to drink, but that I'd get her some water for the sponge. She mouthed "cold", so I got her some fresh cold water. I moistened her lips, and she opened her mouth so that some of the excess could moisten the inside of her mouth a bit. I kept apologizing to her over and over again because I wanted to give her a drink so badly. I apologized for not visiting more. Understanding in those eyes. I talked to her for a while, about the family, about the silly things I had been up to. I told her about a trip to an anime convention I was leaving for in a few days, and how excited I was for it. She smiled. Her eyes smiled. She was still there. Her eyes, still glinting with strength and determination, even with that goddamned tube in her throat.
I stayed for over an hour with her, re-positioned the pillow whenever she needed me to, gave her more "water", and held her hand. When it was time to go, I stroked her hair again, told her I loved her very much, and gave her a kiss. She mouthed "I love you" and beckoned me down. With her parched lips, she kissed me on the cheek. I promised to come and visit her again once I came back from my trip. She smiled at me. I didn't realise what I saw in her eyes at that moment. Not until later.
When I came back from my trip, I was told that Gram had died early that morning. I collapsed to the floor, and I cried. It was not until hours later that I realised what her eyes said to me that last moment I was ever going to see them.
They said "good bye".
