We moved her around the house in her wheelchair. To transfer her either to or from the wheelchair one of my nephews, Johnny or Pat, both young and strong in their early 30’s, would turn her so her feet would go to the ground. Then one of them would embrace her by putting their arms under her arms and carefully lift her to a vertical position, being careful to keep their own back straight and lifting with their legs. Then, ever so carefully, they would move one hand at a time under her butt. In this position they could lift her off her feet, turn and move her a few steps, to or from the wheelchair, couch, toilet or shower.
So the night before last she was in her usual place on the couch where she would be throughout the day unless the boys were taking her to toilet or shower or she was being bundled up for a walk with Zutie, the dog, or an adventure to a restaurant or the beach. The outings had ceased the last few days but family life went on around her and including her. As she faded away one of us was sitting with her most of the time, touching her with our shoulder or holding her hand or stroking her soft Buddhist monk like hair. During her last day there were no signs of consciousness. Late afternoon Pat leaned over her and told her it was OK for her to go, “you rocked your life mama. It’s OK.” A few hours later the gap between her breaths slowly began to increase in length and her breaths slowly became more shallow. We all sat around her, John, Pat, Anitha and her parents Umapathy and Vejaya, and me. Anitha put on a heartbreaking version of “Going Home.” It was almost too much to bear. We all had a hand on her and we just watched her and listened to her breathing,… waiting,… not wanting to miss a second, every second precious. Zutie our sweet dog lay on the floor beside us, happy and content with his people, shredding a toy. Were we sitting there silently with her and each other for 30 minutes? More? Less? I don’t know. We were there. We were with her. We were loving her. We were letting her go and we were saying goodbye. She looked so peaceful. Her last breath, so gentle and soft. We waited silently, listening, watching, all of us together with her and each of us alone with her in our love and grief. Minutes passed. Umapathy tenderly put a stethoscope on her chest and listened carefully. Seconds passed. He looked up and nearly whispered “nothing.” And then we cried for a few minutes, touching her. It was about 9:35pm. As death released the muscles in her face she looked as peaceful and as beautiful as I ever remember seeing her. A few minutes later a bottle of Jameson’s was fetched from the garage and as we toasted with Irish coffees, Johnny called Hospice to come and declare her death so we could release her body to UCLA’s body donation program. We sat down around her on the couch and turned on the TV to wait for hospice to arrive and watched “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty” with Ben Affleck and Sean Penn sipping our Irish Coffees. Almost, but not quite, a normal family evening with Susie. The movie was surreally perfect in so many ways. The central character challenging his fears and limitations on a mission around the world though magnificent wild vistas trying to find someone. After the movie was over we convinced Umapathy and Vajaya that they could return to their hotel. After they left we put clean underwear on Susie and, after a short discussion, stripped off the shirt she was wearing and replaced it with a t-shirt that said on the front, “REPEAL AND GO FUCK YOURSELF,” “GOP”. We all agreed that she would approve of making a political statement on the last leg of her journey. Then we covered her up to her chin in a soft blanket, Johnny, Pat and Anitha went to bed, and I laid down on the couch and dozed and waited for UCLA to arrive to pick up Susie. About 4am the doorbell rang and seconds after I opened the door Johnny, Pat and Anitha were in the living room nearly instantly. The guy was very quiet and very respectful. He laid out several documents on the kitchen table for Johnny to sign and then went out to get a gurney from his white van parked at the foot of driveway. He wheeled the gurney just inside the front door. As he waited silently we went to the couch, removed Susie’s blanket and the four of us, Johnny and Pat at her head and feet, Anitha and I in the middle on both sides, and carefully, tenderly, and reverently as Pall bearers, picked her up, carried her to the gurney and laid her down. Her UCLA chauffeur carefully covered her with a gleaming white sheet and tucked the edges underneath her. Then, to my surprise, he unfolded a beautiful green velvet shroud and laid it over her before wheeling her our to his van for her ride to her final gift, to help some strangers in ways we wondered if we would be notified about. We agreed that it would be cool to know but not necessary. We talked for a few more minutes and then we went back to bed. Zutie curled up at my head and shared my pillow as we drifted off to sleep.