Aaron Wolfe - Ruthy's Dinner

 

 

So, as we cross the Triborough Bridge into Queens, I'm suddenly gripped with this terror that I'm going to die one day. It's something I think about all the time. The infinity of nothingness that awaits every one of us when we die is basically the only thing that's scarier to me than making small talk at a party. [audience chuckle] But this time crossing the bridge, it's different because this time I'm going to see my Grandma Ruthie. Growing up, I would spend my weekends with my grandparents. They'd pick me up on Friday nights at my parents’ apartment in Washington Heights and we'd go out and spend-- I'd sleep over and then in the morning I'd have Saturday with Grandma Ruthie. These long adventurous days that were like packed as though she was trying to pack all of the world's knowledge into one 12-hour period.

 

We'd wake up early and we'd drink coffee with lots of sugar and then she'd give me trillion vitamins. [audience chuckle] And then we'd head into the city and we'd start at the Central Park Zoo and she'd teach me about marsupials and watching panda bears and then we'd go to the MoMA and it was about learning about Monet and impressionism and how he was going blind at the end. And then we'd walk downtown past all the shops to Sweet Basils in the West Village where we'd see Doc Cheatham play trumpet. And she taught me that you need to hear bebop when the sun is still up in the sky. And then we'd go across to Chinatown and. And she taught me how to use chopsticks at Petit Soo Chow on Bayard Street where we'd eat lamb with scallions and the Fujianese waitresses would laugh at us. [audience chuckle] 

 

And then finally we'd go back to her place in Bayside, Queens and she'd teach me how to lose at rummy. [audience chuckle] She always beat me at rummy. And it wasn't enough to just beat me. She'd wait for me to reach for one more card, and then she'd slap my hand and she'd say, "Rummy, kiddo." And she'd throw her cards down and laugh until she peed in her pants. [audience laughter] And even that was a lesson. She wanted me to know that it's not enough to beat your grandson at cards. You have to squeeze every last little drop of joy out of beating him. [audience chuckle]

 

But I'm not thinking about that as we cross the bridge. And I'm not thinking about that as we pull up outside of their apartment building in Queens. I'm not thinking about that as I walk into the door and see my grandfather and my mom and my grandmother sitting on the couch. I'm thinking about death and dying. Because where once she would have been the loudest person in the room, now she can barely move. And where once she would have, like, wrapped me in this huge bear hug, now it seems like the couch is going to swallow her alive. And where once her belly was ground zero for the ongoing battle between sweet pork and Jack LaLanne workout classes, now there's just cancer. And I know that I'm supposed to go and sit at her feet and hug her and kiss her and hold her hand and say goodbye. I know I'm supposed to do that, but I want to flee.

 

I want to run as fast and as far away as I can. I don't want to see her like this. I don't want to see me like her. I don't want to even make eye contact with this woman that I love so dearly, because if I do, maybe death will, like, reach out from over her shoulder and touch me, too. And then she says, "So, where are we going for dinner?" [audience chuckle] And I look at my mom with this look of horror because I don't know what food goes well with dying. And she never taught me that lesson. And I'm like these wide eyes to my mom, like, "Do something. Please say something." And my mom says, "What are you in the mood for, Aaron?"

 

And so, we had passed a Chinese restaurant around the corner, and I say, "Well, we could just call Great Wall, and I'll go over and pick it up." And my grandmother, dying of ovarian cancer, pulls herself to the edge of the couch and straightens herself up and says, "My grandson doesn't eat takeout food with me." And that's how we end up carrying her off the couch, down the steps, into the car and driving 30 minutes to the closest Japanese restaurant that was suitable for her and her grandson. And we sit in a booth by the window. And when it comes her time to order, we all kind of hold our breath. She hasn't managed solid food in weeks and she can barely do a sip of water because of the pain.

 

And she looks at the waitress and she says, "I'll have a Sapporo. [audience chuckle] In a mug, please." [audience chuckle] And we eat our rolls and she drinks half of her beer. And she tells us about the time that she and my grandfather and my uncle Irving and aunt Rachie went to China together, and how they traveled through Siberia on the railroad and how she once hitchhiked with her sister Hilda and these incredible stories about her life. And for a moment, there's no death. There's no cancer. We're all immortal. Time stretches out forever. There's a moment like that in every meal that's great if you pay attention, it's there where oblivion is replaced with infinity. And then the cheque comes and then we go home.

 

And it's time to do that thing that I've been dreading, that thing that you only truly ever do once in your life with another person, saying goodbye. And we do it outside of her apartment building. And she hugs me and she kisses me on the cheek and she cries a little bit. And then we do it. We say goodbye. And I'm waiting for the dread, the icy cold hand of death on my heart. But I don't feel it because she's built this shield around me. This meal has been this shield where she didn't want me to learn that final lesson of what happens when you go. And a few days later, she's sitting on the couch next to her son and her husband and she says, "It's time." And they help her to the bed and she lies down and she says, "Do you think there's a heaven?" And my grandfather says, "I don't know. [audience chuckle] Are you scared?" And she says, "No." And then she closes her eyes and dies.

 

When it gets too much for me, my therapist Carl told me to do this thing [audience chuckle] where I'm supposed to look over my shoulder and say, "Hello, Death. Nice to see you again." [audience chuckle] My therapist Carl says that a man that's not afraid to die is a dangerous man. And a dangerous man is a sexy man, [audience laughter] And that's why I went to therapist Carl in the first place. [audience laughter] My therapist Carl is a genius samurai warrior poet with an MSW, but he's wrong. [audience chuckle] He's wrong. The last lesson my grandma Ruthie taught me is one that I hope I know when I stand on the edge of infinity. It's that “It's not enough to say, ‘Hello, Death, nice to see you again’ You have to say, ‘Hello, Death, nice to see you again. Listen, before we go, I'm going to have one more beer.’" Thanks, guys.