She Stopped to Say Goodbye

By Joan Leotta

Grandmas hold our tiny hands for just a little while, but our hearts forever.

~Author Unknown

Grandma was the center of my childhood world. My mother was often too tired to talk or do things with me when she got home from work, but Grandma had endless time to listen and talk, with a limitless supply of funny stories. I loved home and my mother, but life was more exciting with Grandma. The only downside to long afternoons or overnights at Grandma's was leaving. I especially hated to say goodbye. She knew that and when she died in November 1973, she made a special effort to reach out to me.

All of my friends were welcome at her home, but I most enjoyed spending time alone with her. While watching her knead bread or make soup, we talked. She shared tales of her own life, silly poems, and deliciously "naughty" stories about the exploits of my mom and her siblings. We fed the birds from her back porch. But whatever we were doing, we stopped to watch her soap opera, The Guiding Light, at noon.

On shopping forays into downtown Pittsburgh we haunted shops large and small. Lunch was my choice — chicken à la king at Kaufman's or barbecued chipped ham at Horne's. We rode the streetcar into downtown. If laden with packages, we often splurged on a cab to go home.

When I stayed overnight we stayed up late together, watching old movies from the perch of her bed on the tiny TV in her bedroom.

"We can eat cookies in bed if you want," she'd offer. We often did, and shook out the crumbs from the sheets in the morning. Then we'd eat cinnamon buns fresh from bakery home delivery.

Grandma took each grandchild, in turn, on a vacation with her. When I turned ten, Grandma and I waved goodbye to my parents as we boarded the train for a two-week trip to Atlantic City. My "turn" stretched into several years of vacations — Atlantic City before it was a gambling venue, a cruise to Nassau, a week in Miami, and more time in Atlantic City until my parents thought it too seedy for us to continue our trips there. The hardest part of any of these trips was returning home, bidding goodbye to Grandma and returning to regular life.

College took me away from Grandma and my parents for most of the year. While I was away, Grandma and I visited by phone almost as often as my parents and I did. After college I went to graduate school, using up all of my savings and taking out a loan for the first year. Grandma waved her magic wand and made my second year of graduate school possible by lending me part of my tuition. When I got a job and presented her with a repayment schedule, Grandma said, "Consider the money a gift."

After graduation in 1971, I moved to Washington, D.C. She visited once, with my mother. We talked about her visiting me alone. I wanted to take her to all of the new places I was discovering. Of course, we talked regularly by phone. She listened, as usual, never judging, but simply supporting and gently offering advice.

Late in 1972 she became very ill. For most of 1973 she was so ill that my mom and her siblings had to take turns staying with her. I took time off from my job that August to spend all of my leave with her. Alone again, we talked and laughed. She knew she was dying. When it was time for me to leave at the end of the weekend, neither one of us wanted to say goodbye. It seemed too final. When I left, Grandma simply hugged me. A few weeks after my visit, she took a turn for the worse and went into the hospital.

Mom and I spoke daily, not unusual in today's world of cell phones, but a difficult and expensive activity in the early 1970s. Each evening after hospital visiting hours ended, she gave me a report on Grandma's progress. On Sunday, November 11th, my mother told me I should fly back to Pittsburgh the following weekend.

"It might be your last chance to say goodbye," she said.

I didn't want to wait for the weekend. I decided that Monday morning I would ask my boss if I could leave on Tuesday.

Monday morning around 7:30, as I got ready for work, I rehearsed my request for leave. I had no roommate, so I wasn't disturbing anyone with my monologue. Suddenly, I "felt" someone in the dressing area with me. I was brushing my hair and my arm remained suspended in mid-air as I listened to a voice direct two words at me. Grandma's voice. She spoke what she had not wanted to say when I left her in August. Two simple words: "Goodbye, Joanie."

Filled with overwhelming sadness, I dropped the brush. I ran to my nightstand and picked up the phone. I dialed my mother. The phone rang and rang. When she answered, I blurted out, "How is Grandma?"

"As I told you last night, same, but growing weaker. Why did you call so early? I don't have any new information."

An hour later she called me at my office. "Grandma isn't fine. She went into a deep coma this morning about an hour ago. The nurse called to tell me not long after you called. This is the first chance I've had to get back to you."

On Tuesday I flew to Pittsburgh from Washington, D.C. and rushed to the hospital. Grandma's body was being kept alive. I sat with her until she was officially declared dead on November 15th. But I know that her spirit had left her body three days earlier on Monday when she slipped into the coma. I know, because on her way to heaven she stopped to say goodbye.

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