The Final Act

For years Nanna had told me that she wanted to die in her sleep, peacefully. “I doan’a vant to be a burrden,” she’d said. Back then, I thought she might get her wish: she had survived the war in Europe only to endure a toxic, sixty-year marriage with my grandfather. Surely the God she loved would be merciful?

The mild forgetfulness and tendency to repeat things could have just been symptomatic of growing old. Whenever Nanna realised she was doing this, she would slap her forehead, chastising herself, “Schtoopid, schtoopid.”

As her dentures became increasingly uncomfortable, her head would drop in embarrassment as she wiped the dribble from the sides of her mouth, piling up golf balls of tatty tissue in her pockets and on her dresser. It confused her, as her daughter-in-laws were always telling her there was nothing wrong with the false teeth. I knew they would have already spoken with her dentist about it, but Nanna was pleased when I offered to ring him and ask if he could check them at her next appointment.

“I’d be happy to check them,” he assured me, “but I don’t think the dentures are causing the problem. I believe your nanna has had a series of small strokes. Her gums are deteriorating and the muscles around her mouth don’t work properly. This means that she can’t contain her saliva.” 

It took two years for motor-neurone disease to end Nanna’s life. Her brain atrophy was not caused by lack of blood from a stroke as we had thought, but by the destruction of her nerve cells. The electrical signals from her brain to her muscles remained lost in synaptic space.

When she had entered the aged-care residence, she could walk unaided, but she soon became dependent on a Zimmer frame to help her get around. Sometimes, she would stray to other wings of the home and forget to bring it back with her and I’d find her wandering the corridors unbalanced. A burly resident, Ian, would yell at Nanna when he found her in his room, taking his walker by mistake, using what she thought was her toothbrush or sifting through his drawers.

I understood her speech for the most part; when only every fourth word had been clear, we could still communicate. Gradually her words regressed to sounds, like when you teach a child to read, except they were very long and drawn out and they all sounded like aaah-arghh-hh. Frustrated, Nanna eventually resigned herself to silence. Her mouth rudely mocked her by staying permanently open, the dryness grotesquely ulcerating her tongue. But I had never needed the words. The brightening of her eyes whenever I visited told me enough. She could still hold my face, caress my hair and make me feel like I was her little granddaughter again.

Most family members avoided visiting at meal times. I understand why no one had wanted to see Nanna being spoon-fed the glop. Her swallowing reflex choked her. Her throat would gag and any food that had not gone straight down would come back out. In her fastidious efforts to wipe her mouth and chin dry, she would soil a stack of laundered bibs. I did not cry at meal times … on the outside. 

I remember the last day that I spent with Nanna. Having been told that she was nearing the end, I had caught an early morning flight to be with her. I tapped on her door and entered hesitantly when I heard an OK come from within. I steeled myself, and even though I had seen her only two weeks before, I was shocked by her wasted outline, so frail beneath the bed sheet. My throat ached and my tear ducts skipped straight to the fat drops: the ones that fall directly from your bottom eyelid to the floor. My uncle rose from the bedside chair, embraced me and muttered about getting air before quickly leaving the room.

A woman stood next to the bed. “Come in dear,” she beckoned. “You belong to …?”

“I’m Peter’s daughter.”

“Well, sit here. And you can hold her hand, like this. No, no; here you go. That’s right. Nice and tight so she knows you’re here.”

Who the hell was this woman? Her floral blouse adorned a name tag that told me: June—Volunteer. Helpful June’s shoulders broadened with community goodness as she introduced me to my nanna’s hands; hands that had milked udders dry, tilled the earth, cooked for our family and emerged every evening from scalding dishwater: pink, steaming, pure. Working hands that had nurtured us and now lay stiffly cupped on the pillow.

A portable CD player on the bookshelf whistled woodwind notes over the keys of a piano.

“They say the hearing is the last sense to go,” June soothed. “I’ll go and make some tea, give you a moment alone, shall I? Just call, if you need me. It’s a very difficult time, I know.”

Nanna slept. I held her hand, kissed her forehead, swept her soft white hair away from her face. Her lungs rasped with the labour of each breath. I was acutely aware of the long pause between each one. The hidden morphine pump clicked its relief directly into her subcutaneous fat cells. Her temple was a gully and a tiny pulse flickered with lifeblood underneath. A ravine ran under her cheekbone, from her ear to her mouth which lay slightly open, her bottom teeth raking upwards whilst her top lip, sagging without her dentures, drooped onto the pillow. Her eyelids were ajar and her eyes exposed. They were grey and vacant.

We spent the afternoon together, occasionally disturbed by the nurses who turned Nanna over every hour to prevent bedsores developing. Relatives dropped in to check on her throughout the day; it was mostly nice to see them.

I cringed when Aunty Nina patted Nanna’s alabaster skin with her garish acrylics—orange, with gold swirls on the tips. “It’s time for her to go,” she told me. “Isn’t it Nanna? You just need to go now.” Inviting me to share in her conspiracy, she turned and asked, “Now, is there something special you would like to do for the funeral? Everyone has a role. The grandsons will be carrying the coffin and I’ve got prayers organised for the girls.”

I asked her if we could continue this conversation outside Nanna’s room. I agreed with Volunteer June; Nanna could hear everything: woodwind hymns, Aunty Nina’s request for her to hurry up and die, and the order of events that she had arranged for the impending funeral. She promptly dismissed my suggestion that the grandchildren might like to write something, and put me down to read a Prayer of the Faithful that she had prepared. The stink of Aunty Nina’s perfume stayed on my cheek long after she went home.

Later in the day, I left Nanna’s bedside and crept to the ensuite to use the toilet. When I returned, her eyes flew open, looking panicked that I had gone without saying anything. I quickly crouched and grabbed her hand. We squeezed our grip on each other, stealing lucidity from the narcotic haze that numbed her wretched body. She tried to speak but in all of her desperation, she could only elicit a gurgle. She looked so happy, so excited to be able to see me. Then her eyes dimmed and again, she slept, for three more days. 

On the day of the funeral we performed the roles dictated by Aunty Nina. Afterwards, many of the congregation congratulated my father on the powerful eulogy that he delivered; they were moved by Nanna’s story and her lifetime of graceful resilience. Aunty Nina need never know that in writing it, I had thwarted her attempts to keep me silent. The priest publicly praised Nina for being such a devoted daughter. Nanna had only three sons. He spoke of the bittersweet blessing of her death. Bitter and sweet: two sensations that I enjoy during entrée and dessert. 

After the burial, Nina’s daughters wandered from Nanna’s fresh grave to the headstone of our grandfather in the next row. It’s a double headstone. On the left side is his gold-lettered epitaph and on the right side, there is empty space, expectantly awaiting the details of his wife.

I watched my cousins unobserved. The youngest one slowly shook her head, clearly confused. Her moving lips carried her faint voice to me. “I don’t even know why Nanna’s not buried here,” she remarked. “Someone said she didn’t want to be, but I don’t think that’s true.”

It is true. I know why. Nanna’s final, silent act transcends the gift of words. 

On the first anniversary of Nanna’s death, I went back to the cemetery and sat by her grave. I talked to her, about how my life had changed without her gentle understanding, how I was so grateful for her sacrifices and admiring of her strength, how I missed her.

Walking back to the car, I stopped at my grandfather’s headstone. The right-hand side that had been blank now contained a photograph of him in his sixties. It captured him overstuffed in a dusty-coloured suit from decades past, his face red and puffy from alcoholism. Intent on keeping his secrets buried, Aunty Nina had coloured over Nanna’s graceful silence.