Still Standing. By that time, they were both well into their 80s. They talked on the phone every morning. Hannah used to joke, "We need to find out if we're both still breathing." Mainly, they worked on the L.A. Times crossword puzzle together, supplying each other with words that the other one hadn't guessed yet.
Hannah adored Mom. Very few did. My mother could be prickly. Mom wasn't all that nice to Hannah. I think it was because she was insanely jealous of Hannah's plentiful descendants. While my mother had one (admittedly fabulous) granddaughter, Hannah had four grandchildren and ... eight maybe?... great-grandchildren. AND Hannah had the jewelry to prove it! You know, one of those necklaces with a charm for each human descended from somebody who's descended from somebody who's descended from somebody who came out of your body. Hannah wore it all the time.
How could my mother compete? Besides the aforementioned fabulous Rose, all Mom had was money! Once Mom complained to me, after we'd come home from eating out together, that Hannah expected my mom to foot the bill too often. I blew up.
Here's why: During the Great Depression, my grandfather's furniture store in Omaha went bankrupt. His three children -- my father and his two sisters Sarah and Hannah -- were obligated to support their destitute parents. My father couldn't contribute because he was going to GRADUATE SCHOOL! He had to work to support HIMSELF when he wasn't studying. He couldn't contribute to supporting his parents.
So big brother Macy went off to Columbia University in New York City to study journalism. Older sister Sarah moved with her new husband to Los Angeles to look for work. It had to be better than Omaha! Sarah's parents (my grandparents) followed, perhaps hoping to help with grandchildren soon to arrive. So younger sister Hannah, who was supposed to be starting college, was left in Omaha to work full-time and send money to her parents in L.A.
It's an old story. The daughter has to sacrifice so that the son may advance and thrive. No one questioned such priorities at the time. After all, times were really hard. The family had to work together in order for the family to survive. Better to invest in a smart son than a smart daughter.
So Hannah never went to college.She sacrificed her own future for MY family's future financial well-being! In my opinion, my mother owed Hannah a hell of a lot more than a few lunches. Of course Hannah was a very sweet woman and held no grudge against my dad. He was, according to her, "the best older brother anyone could ever have, always looking out for me." She had always adored him.
I fiercely monitored Mom's behavior toward Hannah. But Hannah herself never seemed bothered by anything Mom said or did. When my mother died at 92, Hannah was devastated. I think she felt the loss more than anyone. When it was time to decide what to put on the plaque for Mom's crypt, I was having trouble figuring out what to say. I knew the traditional word to use was "beloved." But I was having trouble putting that in stone. I asked Hannah's help. She immediate volunteered "Adored sister-in-law!" And I thought, Hannah adored Mom, certainly Dad did. So "adored" she shall be for eternity!
A while after Mom died, Hannah had a bad fall at home. My cousins Miriam and Sam decided she needed to move to live closer to one of them. Hannah was reluctant to leave her life in L.A. She was surrounded by helpful neighbors, but her kids felt strongly that wasn't enough. So she agreed to move up to Modesto to an independent living setting near Miriam.
Modesto is an hour and a half from San Francisco, so Miriam was able to bring Hannah to one of my giant garden parties. It wasn't so easy for Hannah to navigate down the half flight of stairs into the backyard. But once she'd ensconced herself at the large round table under the flowering tamarisk tree, she was set.
She introduced herself to everyone the same way: "Hello, I'm Hannah. My name is a palindrome, which means it reads the same way backwards and forwards. That's perfect for ME, because I don't know whether I'm coming or going!"
Needless to say, Hannah was the belle of the ball. Everyone wanted to sit near my auntie, the wise-cracking Jewish grandma, so often encountered in sit-coms but rarely in real life.
Hannah stayed until the almost all guests had left. As she pulled herself up the backstairs with Miriam's help, she turned back to me and announced, "I'm coming back next year!"
Hannah had come to watch Carolyn and me perform MOISHE at our December show, CRONES FOR THE HOLIDAYS, in San Francisco the year before. Sh was totally tickled by it and thrilled to be introduced in the audience as the brilliant lyricist. The next year, she was very much looking forward to attending CRONES FOR THE HOLIDAYS -- THE SEQUEL, to hear her masterpiece performed once again and to be honored as its creator.
So when the doctor told her that her heart was giving out and she didn't have much time left, she asked him if she would live through the holiday season. Hannah told me, "And when that doctor told me I probably wouldn't live that long, I told him, 'To hell with you! I'm not dying until I see my song MOISHE performed onstage again in San Francisco!"
This from someone who had made it very clear to everyone that she'd had enough of life! She was 94 and she'd told Miriam she did NOT want to stick around to see a cake with 95 candles. And yet, her desire to hear an audience laugh at MOISHE one more time was so powerful, she wanted to hold out a little longer.
But in the end, it was not to be. Although she was still alive, she never made it to a performance. While our show was having its run, Hannah was in a coma in a hospice in Modesto. I asked Miriam if I should come visit and say goodby, but she said, "What's the point? She won't even know you're here."
I kept waiting to hear that Hannah had passed. I would call Miriam to check, but, nope, Hannah was still alive. She was not receiving food or water or medicine of any kind. But she just wasn't dying. The hospice people told Miriam that sometimes happens. When I asked if I should come visit, Miriam's reply was always the same -- "What's the point?"
Hannah lay there for several weeks. Miriam was very upset that Hannah seemed to be caught between life and death. She longed for her mother to be released. I finally decided that I just had to see her. I rented a car. I had no one to leave my new puppy with, so I took him with me. I didn't know what I would do with Nikki when we got to the Hospice, but it turned out it wasn't a problem. Every room had a porch that led to the garden. So I could bring my puppy in through the porch. Nikki, young as he was, knew someone was dying. He huddled in a corner, as far away from Hannah as he could get.
I went over to Hannah's bed. Miriam stood on the other side. Hannah was a small woman. Now she looked like a tiny dried-up bird lying under the covers. I sat down next to her, told her about the performances of MOISHE, how much everyone loved the song. I told her that I loved her, that I felt a special connection with her. Not only was she a comic lyricist, Hannah was my most political relative and the only one who contributed to my political campaigns. Theater, politics -- she and I had a lot in common.
Then I said goodby. I don't think I hugged her. I don't remember even touching her while I sat next to her, talking. I hugged Miriam goodby, pulled my puppy out of the corner, got in the car and started driving home.
I was on the road about 45 minutes when the phone rang. It was Miriam. "Hannah just died," she said. "I think she held on so long because she was waiting to say goodby to you. Thank you for coming."
I pulled off the highway and cried, hugging Nikki, and and remembering my special palindromic auntie. She had left the planet after I'd said goodby.
And every Chanukah since, I sing MOISHE THE GREEN-NOSED HERRING and watch the video of Carolyn and me performing my auntie's song, and send out a link to that video, so all my friends can enjoy Hannah's song too.
BELOW: Miriam, Hannah & Me in Modesto for Hannah's last Thanksgiving | 
No comments:
Post a Comment