I didn't want to see my grandfather die. Watching the process, such as
it was, happen slowly, and from a distance, was hard enough. This was
May 2005. I had just returned from studying abroad, and the still
undiagnosed illness that led to my paternal grandfather's death finally
overwhelmed him. The great Robert Abrams, a WW2 vet and the founder of
the Levvittown Tribune, died of complications from dementia-like
symptoms. Bruce Abrams, my father, told me that the immediate cause of
death was pneumonia. I still remember the impatient, distracted way he
said, "pneumonia."Prior to his death, Robert suffered from memory loss for months. It wasn't Alzheimer's, but it might as well have been. Eleanor Abrams, my grandmother and his wife, lived and took care of him. But Robert was also cared for by his two children, Bruce and Beth. They put up with his mood swings, helped Robert when his body failed him, and doted on him with all the love and attention he deserved.
I was not there. There were several times when I could have been, but I wasn't. When he was rushed to the hospital for the last time, my dad offered me the chance to go (he didn't really ask). But I didn't want to go, and said as much. It hurt too much to see my grandfather in pain, confused, angry, helpless.
A year after that, my maternal grandmother, Ellie Moschou, died. Again, I didn't want to be there. I had lived with that stubborn 95 year-old Greek woman for a couple of years, though some of those years were predominantly spent at college dormitories in Manhattan. Again, nobody expected me to help in an extraordinary way. My mother, Catherine Abrams, constantly cared for Ellie, especially when the caretakers she hired couldn't do everything she needed them to. But again, while I did as much as I could bear to, I regret not having been more present, nor more patient.
