Babu’s Last Story

For about a week before my Grandmother (who I called Babu) passed away, she was in the hospital. I hate hospitals almost more than I hate police stations. Both are places where you are out of control. Where others control everything, and you can only hope to escape unchanged.

Babu laid on the hospital bed semi-lucid. She had suffered a stroke, which seemed to accelerate her dementia, and her once piercing eyes had clouded over and she constantly looked around as if she knew what was happening but couldn’t believe it was happening to her.

I had come home from Colorado when I heard she had gone into the hospital for what was probably the last time. I didn’t want to come. I don’t like hospitals. Almost more than I don’t like police stations.

Growing up, Babu and I had a special relationship. She never shut up and I focused entirely on being the biggest smart ass I could. The more exacerbated she became, the more my grandfather, who sat silently on the couch, smiled. I am pretty sure than in the entirety of their marriage he uttered a dozen words, most of which were “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

When he was in the hospital, I didn’t even come. I couldn’t. He was a barrel of a man, who had silently endured all those years. Taking his family all over world; sneaking out of Thanksgiving dinner for a donut and a smoke; escaping from the Nazis in the Second World War; and cracking jokes quietly under his breath while Babu and I went back and forth.

When he died, I asked for only one thing from their house. The clock I used to watch while I spent time with my grandparents. The clock that seemed to lose time as hours passed like minutes. How could I go to the hospital? I hated those places. He wasn’t a hospital guy. He would never die in a place like that. Instead, he would just walk off into the sunset with a cigarette dangling from his mouth and a class of vodka in his hand with that clock skipping hours ahead while only minutes had passed.

When I arrived at the hospital to say my goodbyes to Babu, my mom walked out of her room. My mom was tired and sad, but was at that point where as long as she could keep moving, she wouldn’t realize that soon, her mom would no longer be around. She started talking as soon as I walked up. I knew she just needed to get out words, so I just gave her my gaze and my ears.

“I think she is totally out of it at this point, Micah,” my mom muttered. “She keeps talking about things that never happened or happened long ago. Be aware that she may not be aware of you.”

Taking a deep breath and a pause, I walked into the room.

My family has been built around story telling. Babu had written 11 books, her father ran the Jewish community newspaper in Shanghai where she was born, and my grandfather’s step mother was notorious for the stories she told over moldy apricot dumplings and cake. Yes, as Pepi aged, she decided that a little mold was ok, and so you had to be a bit careful when picking up a stray cookie at her house.

It not a surprise. Among Jews, storytelling is held in high regard. In fact, the Maggid, who were somewhere between rabbi and court jesters are integral to our way of life. Perhaps, we come from a long line of maggim.

All I know is that from birth, my grandmother told me stories. All kinds of stories, mostly made up on the spot. I told many stories growing up (I think my dad called them lies), and even spent time reading the Princess Bride to my sister, Natalia, when I was in high school.

The hospital room was littered with bottles of water, snacks and books. It was like my mom had moved in, which truthfully, she had. There are few people that are as committed to their family as my parents, if I learned anything growing up was the importance of loyalty and giving.

The Palo Alto Medical Center is one of the best hospitals in the bay area. It was clean, it was bright, but it wasn’t private. Babu’s section was in the back half of the room and as I made my way past another sick old person, the voice in my head that reminds me that I much rather enjoy my own company than the company of well, most any one, screamed for me to run.

As I approached her bed, she looked small. Never a large woman, she almost no longer existed, except for her mouth that never stopped spewing words.

It was like she had spent her life holding in stories that would seep out now and again, and the dam of control had finally broken. Some were stories I knew, some were variations, and others were brand new. (I learned she was once a Russian spy and perhaps even a cosmonaut.)

For a couple of hours she kept talking and the stories kept flowing. Some made me smile, others made me sad. Most confused me and all of them were her.

Then suddenly she stopped. Everyone had left the room, even the other old sick dude was out of the room for tests.

Her eyes cleared up and the spark of Babu that made her the person I would spend hours with being a smart ass, trading barbs, watching my grandfather just enjoy the entire exchange in his silent way, came back. She turned and looked at me smiling.

“Micah,” she whispered as she my patted my hand in that way she always did. I smiled at her. “Yeah, Babu?”

I got nothing. She retreated back into her mind, her eyes clouded over, and she turned her head to go to sleep.

About ten minutes later, my mom came back. “How is she?”

“Sleeping.”

I hugged my mom, and left.