My Grandmother Passed Away Last Night
My grandmother passed away last night.
This is a day that, oddly enough, I’ve envisioned in many different ways throughout the last decade of my life.
My grandmother was a survivor of one of the most treacherous moments in all of humanity. She was born in 1929 in Czętochowa, a town between Lódź and Kraków. She and her family lived through the Holocaust in Poland, surviving in a ghetto, during which time she would sneak out to complete tasks as deemed necessary by her father. She harnessed a sly mobility given her size, which was small, hence harnessing the nick name “Mawa Polcha”—an endearing nickname playing off of her given name of Pola.
From what I hear, my Mawa Polcha had met my grandfather, Zamol (Sam), before the war, as he was friends with her older sister, Rivka (who I had the fortune to meet just once while I was staying in Israel for a time). To me, some of the details are a little blurry, but what I do know with certainty is that my grandmother escaped Poland by boat to Cyprus, sometime after which she landed in Israel with her family. They settled in Tel Aviv. Sometime after, she reunited with my grandfather. They married sometime after in Israel, giving birth to my uncle, Eli, in Tel Aviv in 1952.
My grandfather came to New York City seeking work, Brooklyn, in particular. He had a cousin living and working as a mechanic in the city and as a natural fixer of all things, they decided his coming to the United States is what would best serve their family. Regrettably, I am missing details. But what I can say is that they did long distance for about two years, after which my Mawa Polcha left her family in Israel, brought my uncle, and moved to this new place that would become home for the foreseeable future.
My Aunt Ilana was born in 1959, with my own dad, Danny, to follow in 1962.
My grandparents never conveyed to me that they felt deeply attached to Judaism as a religion. However there was always a strong undercurrent of connection to the traditions and heritage for which so many of our people died.
I think that after the war, my grandfather had a hard time connecting to religion. Even today at nearly 97 years old when asked about religion, whether it be Judiaism, Christianity, or Islam, he will undoubtedly retort with “when my people were dying, where was the God? Where is the God in all of this?”. So for us, we would light candles on Chanukkah, we would prepare a classic meal on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur (otherwise known as the High Holidays in Judiaism), and gladly cultivate a Seder on Passover. We would recite the prayers in Hebrew, feeling a connection to what was represented by the coming together of family and ritual.
Both Zamol and Pola carried thick Polish accents, despite seventy plus years of life on American soil. For me, it was normal. I adored it, in fact. My favorite was when they would ask if I wanted a “roll with butter”, with a rolling “R” more aggressive than any Spanish speaker could’ve mustered.
When communicating with one another, they often switched between Polish and Yiddish—or “Jewish” as my grandfather would say. Aside from offerings of food, my favorite words out of their mouths were typically Yiddish ones. For me, any uttering of the word “mameleh” had me reeling in the best way, as there is no better term of endearment that could be conveyed with such warmth and tenderness as that leaving their tongues. When someone was acting erratic or worse, “chalariah” (cha-LER-iah) was often the label of choice.
Given their time in Israel, Hebrew was also in their repertoire of dialects.
“Ema” in Hebrew means mom, while “Aba” means dad. Regardless of this elucidation, their kids, grandkids, and great grandkids alike called them Ema and Aba alike. That’s what they were to us.
Looking back, my Ema and I did not necessarily have the closest relationship, but I respected her strongly as the matriarch of the family. She prioritized family over everything, and at times, this was challenging for me, particularly as my parents went through a brutal divorce during virtually all of my teenage years.
I was extremely close with my mom at the time, and this created an altered perception in which I viewed my dad. I wanted to prove my loyalty to my mom in such a way that I was blinded by anything else. I believe this tore my grandmother to shreds, as she wanted nothing more than to celebrate the beautiful family that was the Goldachs.
In my teenage (and even college-aged) immaturity, I would go weeks or even months without calling them at their Delray Beach home, because in my mind, the phone worked both ways and “she could call if she wanted to call”. Respect had bequeathed me at this time, I am so sorry to say, feeling like I had something to prove to a woman that had lived more life than I possibly could’ve imagined.
When I was 19, the situation between my Dad and myself peaked, resulting in a six year period at which point we did not speak.
I thought I was doing the right thing. And perhaps given the situation, given the learning that was required of me at the time, it may have been. Who is to say.
During this time, I sought to tread lightly around my grandparents, particularly my grandmother, who wanted nothing more during this time than for me and my siblings to “come back to the family”. I resented the feeling of being blitzed by this conversation while simply trying to maintain a relationship with my grandmother and grandfather. During these six years, there was never a moment at which these conversations would arise and it did not feel like an ambush. I was deeply hurt by this at the time, feeling unheard, un-believed, and unprotected.
So in that time of not speaking to my father, my biggest fear was that my Ema would pass away. I would be faced with such a decision to see him for the first time in a moment of unadultered rawness, devastation, and loss. I was terrified.
Anytime I heard of her feeling less than or having a fall, my heart would sink, partially for a potential loss of her, but largely at the prospect of seeing my dad for the first time after an experience resulting in tremendous hurt. As the oldest sibling of three, I also felt a tremendous (and continued) responsibility to lead the way for my sister and brother.
I played out countless scenarios in my head.
In some I would cry uninhibited, in others I would stand stoic, holding a steady ground for my brother and sister.
In others I would stand at the back, keeping my distance from my dad and his family, maintaining a tight leash on my feelings in public. In some I would say “fuck it” and embrace my dad, knowing deep down that this fighting, this distance, this rage, no longer served me, nor was most of it even mine to begin with.
I saw this scenario play out over and over again, and each time I turned inwards, asking myself what I would do. Until one day, I finally settled on the fact that it didn’t matter. I would know in the moment. I didn’t have to decide now. For all we know, maybe she will live forever!
In the fall of 2018, largely through my journey of becoming a chiropractor and allowing healing to happen by way of chiropractic, I realized I was not at peace with how things had settled with my dad. An impermeable wave of clarity rocked my insides, as I realized that I had zero attachment nor expectation to what would happen on the other side of a conversation, but I knew I had things that I needed to share with him.
In January 2019, six years after we had put our relationship on pause, I reached out to him telling him that I thought it was time we sat down together.
In reuniting with my dad in this way, the visions and nightmares and torments that I had envisioned surrounding the death of my grandmother dissipated. I felt relinquished. I felt freed.
And in so doing, a palpable weight was lifted from my grandmother, my Ema, my Mawa Polcha. I think she felt it, too.
Upon hearing the jovial news of reconnection, I received phone calls and facetimes with cries of joviality for my “return to the family”.
It was all she wanted. For the family to feel whole.
My siblings were not quite to the point that I had reached, and that is okay. I found that it was absolutely not my job to convince them of anything. It was and will always be up to them to follow the path of reconnection when and if they feel it is time.
I feel this return allowed for my grandmother and me to soften around one another, unraveling a deeper form of mutual respect and truce, if you will.
For the last four years or so, every time I would leave my grandparents in Florida, I felt like I was preparing myself for that goodbye to be the last one in person. I would cry pulling out of their driveway, as she stood at the top of the terra cotta colored, slanted drive leading into the garage (always with a tennis ball hanging on the right side so my grandfather would know exactly how far to pull in, with this tools and things with which to tinker on the left) waving to be as I departed.
I have been so fortunate in my life to have not experienced death in a grand way. I never knew how close or far it was, and in hindsight, it always seemed much closer to my naïve self than it ever really was.
My grandmother passed away last night.
Ema and Aba are always fully mobile. One of their favorite past times is to go to the flea market and walk around in Delray, not far from their home. As children, they would take us there to walk around, perusing the booths, stopping at the produce stand in the back, perhaps getting a bagel with cream cheese or lox from the food court.
They would go out for dinner at about 4:45pm on the dot, often deciding between an old time Jewish deli called Three G’s, or a buffet style restaurant with soups and salads called Sweet Tomatoes. My sister, Talia, has a gnarly memory of a man fainting in that place when we were kids, she if it is up to her, Sweet Tomatoes lands at the bottom of her list.
In early March of 2022, Ema had a stroke. This left her left hand, wrist, arm, and shoulder in a decorticate posture, wiping her clean of the use of her left arm and her ability to walk freely. This challenged much of her short term memory, ever-interestingly leaving her long term memory mostly in tact.
She always had an extremely sharp memory, particularly when it came to addresses and phone numbers. Perhaps I get my same aptitudes in this department from her.
Her and my grandfather had moved from their home of thirty plus years up to Columbus in April 2022 to be closer to family, as this has become home base for most of us Goldachs. Aba had been driving them from Florida to Columbus for the summers for the last several years, but it became the general consensus that my grandfather just couldn’t quite do everything on his own to care for her. Not to mention, he reeks of stubbornness when it comes to anyone doing anything in a way other than how he deems it to be best.
My dad’s siblings decided that it would be best for Ema to go into a memory care facility, a place where she could have constant care and support. Aba was set up in an apartment in a retirement facility not far away.
For my siblings and I, this broke our hearts to see them separated, not to mention to see Ema in a place in which she was being taken care of my strangers. I didn’t feel that I was in a place to voice my thoughts on this matter, nor provide adequate support to allow for anything better.
Since her stroke in early march, Ema’s memory continued to decline. As a feeler, it was extremely challenging for me to go visit her in the memory care facility just five minutes from our house. Admittingly, I harbored quite a bit of fear in what feelings I would be able to perceive from my grandmother, in addition to the other residents who would forever remain behind the punch-code locked doors of the facility.
One of the most pervasive feelings that arose within myself was the fear of her feeling alone. That was the last thing that I wanted for her. The staff at the nursing home would say that no one has had more visitors than Pola. Her kids, grandkids, and great grandkids were stopping in daily to feed her meals, to sit with her, to simply hold her hand. Not to mention Aba, her husband of over seventy years, who focused the entirety of his day around feeding her breakfast and dinner by hand, regardless of what was already prepared for her in the facility.
He would prepare her cereal, or kasha, with fruit and oatmeal for breakfast, varying what he prepared for her for dinner. He would always leave there telling us what a “good eater” she was, finishing all of her food almost always.
My grandmother passed away last night.
My grandfather has remained extremely independent, operating more efficiently than most seventy-something year-olds, if you ask me. He repeats to me often that “we are old-timers” and that “we are the last ones standing of our people”. He says that not in a dismal manner, but in one to say that he has coped.
Personally, I cannot fathom. Perhaps this is due to my short 29 years on this planet thus far. Maybe at 96 I will be more equipped to report back.
On Wednesday, December 21st, 2022, my dad texted me upon my arrival at work letting me know that Covid was going around the memory care center and that Ema had tested positive. While most people walking around can strengthen their terrain to decrease the severity of a bug, regardless of what it may be, I did feel a tickle of worry creep in, perhaps reading between the lines of the words presenting on my screen.
By Wednesday afternoon, a hospice nurse had been called in. Fluid was quickly mounting in her lungs. Dad had spent the afternoon with her, with his siblings hastily booking flights back to Columbus from San Francisco and Florida.
We cried.
I was afraid to go to visit her. My mind went to worst case scenario, whtaever that may have been. The prospect of sitting along side a looming death generated a deep uneasiness that chilled me to the bone.
I just didn’t want her to suffer.
Ilana and Eli arrived late Wednesday. My dad returned home Wednesday night unsure that she would even make it through the night.
I cried. Low viscosity tears of grief, of longing, of sorrow streamed down my face.
I sat, absolutely torn, as to whether or not to go and visit her in her last days or hours or minutes.
We called it a night on Wednseday, waking on Thursday morning to find out that she was still with us earthside.
Thursday evening, I debated. I didn’t know if I would be able to handle going and sitting at her bedside, listening to her labored and gurgled breathing, straining for air.
Of all of her grandchildren, I am the only one in close enough proximity to reach her in time. Everyone else is out of state at the moment. I wrote to a cousin of mine, asking what she would do. Her advice was loving, honoring, and convincing enough for me to get in the car and drive the five minutes to visit her for what would most likely be the last time. I sobbed the whole way, attempting to breathe through a deep convulsing deep in my chest.
I arrived to find my Dad and Theresa, the hospice nurse in the room with her. I cried when I saw her.
A women who used to be a bit robust, yet petite, had shriveled to the size of a child. Mawa Polcha, I thought.
Her breathing was strained. She was turned about half way onto her left side, as that is where she seemed to be able to take in air with the most ease. The bubbling of fluid was almost surreal. I really hadn’t seen anything like it in real life, perhaps not even in the movies or shows.
She didn’t seem like she was suffering. I deeply felt that she knew we were around. I couldn’t muster much for words without breaking down into tears, so I opted to sit and hold her hand instead, knowing that these would be the last moments that I would get to feel her skin with the warmth of flowing life force.
With each strained breath, she would reflexively lift her head, neck, and chest, opening her airways and doing her best to pull usable oxygen into her body.
She was not awake, per se, but it felt like there was something conscious about her. She was being given morphine hourly to keep her comfortable and to slow her respiration, which was peaking at around 30 breaths per minute.
I did my best to settle in next to her. Holding her. Letting her know, energetically, that it is okay if she wants to let go.
My aunt and uncle returned together. I almost felt uncomfortable in the room, feeling like an intruder as someone who was not directly birthed from this woman dancing on the line between worlds. I asked her children if they wanted the room to themselves, it they felt that it was better that I go. They all said it was fine that I stay, maybe out of politeness, maybe because they wanted me there—who is to say. It doesn’t matter.
Ema had a fever that was building. Her body was so intelligently prioritizing more vital aspects of staying alive, allowing for the homeostatic nature of basal body temperature to take a back seat.
The hospice nurse reminded us that dying can absolutely be equated to being born. The body just knows. Given my background as a chiropractor and not only working with, but reminding others of, this innate intelligence every single day, this remark by her brought about a much welcomed sense of peace to my heart and my soul.
Dad and I stayed for about two hours. I could’ve stayed longer. It still felt like Ema had some fight in her. He wanted to go, and I wanted to be where he was to lend support in any way I could to a father who is losing his mother, regardless of how long anticipated this moment may have been.
We said our goodbyes, sharing our love with her for the last time.
I walked out, arm in arm, with my dad. We didn’t cry. We didn’t say much. We just walked back to the car, feeling the sudden temperature drop as we walked through the doors of the facility one last time.
I woke up this morning with no messages from my dad or any other family members alerting me to any change.
I went to go check on my dad, to see if he was still sleeping. Upon entering his room, he nonchalantly let me know that Ema, our Mawa Polcha, had passed away last night about ninety minutes after we left.
There were no tears. Just a strain in our hearts, a yearning. While a simultaneous undulation of peace dissipated throughout my core.
She was a fighter up until the very end.
And I sit here now, writing this loquacious piece on the intertwining nature of death, life, and everything in between. Softening into the what is, into the nowness of what it means to depart this earth and transition on to something else.
My grandmother passed away last night.
