Slip Slidin’ Away – Laurel Felt, PhD

Wall clock in Gramma’s kitchen

A few days ago, I found myself singing these lyrics from my old friend, Paul Simon:

God only knows
God makes his plan
The information’s unavailable
To the mortal man

…

I’ve sung it aloud to Joe and Uncle Dick and Gary and anyone who will listen. It’s the only sense I can make of things. What did my dad say this morning, when I expressed my surprise to have slept through the night (and most of the morning)? “It’s not our timetable.”

She’s almost slipped away. She’s so close that I alerted my brother and had Mike book his ticket. Mom and I remarked on our new normal. On the one hand, this isn’t tenable, this isn’t the place where we would keep Gramma. She’s stopped swallowing. Every so often, she lets us know that she’s at least somewhat aware by moaning loudly in response to our direct address. Mom said goodnight to her — she moaned. I kissed her three times on the cheek — she moaned. The last thing I heard her say, which to Uncle Dick sounded like a moan, was, “What, sweetheart?” He had put his face close to hers and said, “Mom?”

“What, sweetheart?” she replied. Barely intelligible. But I caught it.

So, no, this isn’t a place we would have her stay. But on the other hand, we can still look at her. We can hold her hand and massage her forehead. Her stuff is still where it belongs, winter hats and scarves and decrepit, duct-taped house shoes in the closet. Turner Classic Movies is on 24 hours/day, only switched to WTTW (Chicago’s PBS station) when the TCM fare is just too intensely racist (for example, yesterday they played Bush Christmas and Doctor Doolittle — unbearable). So on WTTW, first Simply Ming stormed the small screen, and we criticized his pairing of lobster, eggplant, proscuitto and walnut, among other ingredients. Then Martha Stewart took the stage and claimed that baking bread is both easy and worthwhile, before doggedly working that dough on and on and on… “She’s a nut,” I leaned over and told Gramma. Her mouth was agape — that’s how it’s been for some time now — but it seemed like she was resting easy, and I liked talking to my gramma.

There’s the rub. That’s what fuels my mom’s and my ambivalence. We want her to be comfortable and well. Of course we do. We want her to enjoy whatever comes next. But then, when she goes, she’ll be gone forever. And we won’t be able to call her anymore, at least not on the phone. We’ll have to script her responses instead of accepting them straight from the horse’s mouth, as it were.

“Hello hello,” is how Gramma answers the phone. She did it in my presence twice this week, talking on the phone first with Helena and then with Jack London, Grampa Ray’s childhood friend.

I used to call her from the car on my way to or from work, and marvel at the magic of it. Not only was I contacting a house from a vehicle that was navigating traffic half a continent away, but I was casually chatting with a relative to whom most people my age had bidden farewell decades ago. I was touching 1922 and all of the history that’s transpired since. And rather than mining that sociological trove, I was accessing everyday/extraordinary love. There was my ever lovin’ gramma, as she sometimes refers to herself in her signature, who cares about all of the minutiae of my professional and personal life, who agrees with me always (except when I maintain that my doings aren’t so special).

“Hi Gramma, it’s Laurel.”

“Yeah!” she would exclaim.

“How are you?”

“How am I, how are you?” she would respond. “You’re the one who’s out in the world.”

So I’d launch into a story. At the end of the conversation, I would press again about her. Maybe I’d drop a name or two, inquiring about Goldie and Bernice, the aged sisters with whom she sometimes dines, or ask about her lunches at the bistrot. She wouldn’t provide many details. “Oh Laurel,” she would say. “The days pass so gently.”

Last night, Leanne and I said goodnight to her. After my kisses and her moan, I moved down the bed and said, “I’m holding your hand,” then signaled Leanne to approach. “And here’s Leanne.” Leanne told her to sleep well, and smoothed her hair. Finally I got out what I’d wanted to say for some time. “It’s okay to go if you need to go.”

“Yeah, Gramma,” Leanne echoed. “It’s okay to go.”

We stood in silence awhile.

“You told Helena that you’d see her on the other side. And that’s okay,” I whispered.

We kissed her again and left the room.

So I told my brother and my fiance, Get ready. Mom and Sarah and I talked about how we would handle a middle-of-the-night phone call. Then I woke up this morning at 11 am.

Sing it, Paul:

God only knows
God makes his plan
The information’s unavailable
To the mortal man

…