by Michael Moore

The small brick, wartime house, on the quiet suburban street with an addition built onto the back always brought back fond memories for me.

Memories of water fights fought under the old maple tree that still stood proudly in the front yard. Of the numerous afternoons spent playing road hockey in the street with the neighbor's kids, or quietly learning how to pick rhubarb, while my Nan gave me sound advice.

Whenever I found myself walking up her front steps, the memories would always flood my mind and bringing a smile to my face.

My Nan was no longer able to garden or even get out of bed. In fact, she could barely string together three sentences without coughing up phlegm.

"Hi, Nan, it's Mike!" I would yell, upon entering the house. Since Nan couldn't get out of bed to see who was there, I only thought it polite.

From around the corner would come her reply, beckoning me into the bedroom where she lay. Often she would have a pile of yarn in her lap, a crossword puzzle, or a dog-eared book and she always had a smile for me.

However, that smile couldn't cover up the fact that her body was crumbling around her. Tired, watery eyes and a body, which looked like it was made of sharp angles of bone with no flesh, were always the first things I noticed.

My Nan had suffered from Emphysema for about twenty-five years, and it showed. She was also diagnosed with angina, chronic bronchitis, osteoporosis, cracked disks in her back and a hiatus hernia. Yet, despite this, she still somehow retained her sense of dignity and purpose. Although watery, her gaze was still keen, and full of wisdom.

A pile of yarn and some knitting needles lay in her lap, as I walked over, smiled and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

"Whatcha working on, Nan?"

I made my way across the room, spreading open the curtains, which hung by her bed to let in the thin autumn sunlight.

"Oh, you know.just some hats and mitts for the Salvation Army. I might be old, but I still have my uses."

I nodded my head, and took a seat in the armchair, which always sat like a silent sentinel by her bed.

"So, what's new?"

I proceeded to tell her, leaving nothing out. It was never wise to leave out details, or try to hoodwink my Nan. Her mind was still as sharp as ever, and while her body was emaciated, her tongue could be as rough as sandpaper, if she had a mind too.

During our conversations, she'd ask polite questions, and watch with a gleam in her eye as I answered them. She'd once told me I was the worst liar ever.

"Mike, you have no business lying. You're terrible at it, and your eyes tell everything," she'd said while shaking her head and doing her best to look stern. "Now wipe that stupid grin off your face."

But although I couldn't lie worth a spit, I knew the grin was my secret weapon. My Nan would always tell me to wipe it off my face, but deep down, I knew she adored it.

On this particular day, as I was thinking about leaving, she decided to tell me something that shook my world.

Folding her hands in her lap, she regarded me with sad eyes. "This is going to be my last year. I'm going to make Christmas, but after that, I think I'm done with this world," she said, her gaze steady on mine. "I've seen everything I want to. I saw your cousin go to College, and I was lucky enough to see my great-granddaughter born. My hands shake so badly that I can barely knit now-a-days, and I'm tired."

I sat there unable to speak, my mouth opening and closing like a guppy out of water. The ever-present air conditioner-Nan couldn't breathe unless the air was just right-hummed in the background, adding a backdrop for my racing thoughts.

I wanted to tell her not to give up. Although she'd been lying in the same bed for the last seven years, I'd never seen her look so vulnerable. Even though sad, her eyes were determined. Her hands were clenching and unclenching on the coverlet, as if she were nervous and unsure of herself.

Then I realized she was worried about my reaction. Although she was talking about her own death, she was more worried about my feelings than she was hers. I looked down at my hands, more to break eye contact than anything, and noticed they were wrapped so tightly around the chair arms they were turning white.

My mind raced, picking up and then discarding things to say. I relaxed my hands, and felt them tingle slightly as the blood returned. Then, like a hammer to the forehead, another realization hit me; Nan wasn't admitting defeat, in her own way she was saying goodbye.

Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, and silently I got up and hugged her. It was the only thing I could do at the time. I hugged her fiercely to my chest, careful not to hug too hard, not knowing if I'd be able to hug her again.

Just before Christmas, my Dad called me, and told me Nan was in the hospital, and wasn't going to make it. She had been hooked up to life support systems, but the doctor said there was no chance of survival.

Without the machines, Nan had less than three hours to live.

"As per her wishes, I've ordered that she be taken off life support," my Dad said, his voice cracking with doubt, and probably a little bit of guilt, with a boatload of sadness thrown in for good measure. "There's no reason to come down to the hospital. She'll probably be gone before you could get here. I'll call you."

When she's gone, my mind added silently.

I could hear my Dad struggling with his grief, and knew it had cost him a great deal of pain to make this phone call.

I put the phone back on the receiver and waited.

The doctors unhooked the machines and watched as her blood pressure dropped steadily, and her vital signs faded.

I can picture my mom, surrounded by linoleum and the smell of antiseptic, holding my father as if she could shield him from the pain with her body.

But Nan had other plans. With death knocking on the door, and with no hope of recovery, she woke up. She didn't just wake up, but sat bolt upright in the sad aluminum affair that was supposed to be her death bed, and said: "It's not Christmas yet!"

Nan made it to Christmas, just like she'd promised me that sad autumn day. She not only made it to Christmas, but also almost made it to Christmas the following year.

Nan died October 15, 2000, at 4am.

I'll always remember my Nan's silent courage, and her funny, wisdom filled anecdotes. Her strength, intelligence, wisdom and spirit live on in my memory.

Sometimes, when a big decision of life altering proportions confronts me, I find myself wondering what my Nan would do.

In fact, sometimes I hear her voice in my head at such times, counseling me in soothing, conciliatory tones, as if she were still here with me, sitting in her bed, and listening to the small problems of my life.

In a way she is still here with me. I know, because she lives on in my heart.