Nonna blowing kisses to her circle, with Pashta behind

Nonna's Perfect Death In the 1950s, Nonna and my mother taught ballroom dance together at Arthur Murray's School of Dance.   They had a student named Bill — he was the love of my mother's life, but it was Nonna who married him.   Later in life, the three re-connected and became fast friends; and Nonna was responsible for my mother finally making peace with my biological father after 60 years and a nasty divorce. After my mother's online memorial — which Nonna attended with her son — Nonna insisted that I come and support her in her dying.   That was not a trip I could make, so I had to say 'no'.   I am not sure why Nonna felt so connected to me — it is likely that I did meet her when I was a small child, but I hadn't in adult life until the zoomed memorial. Nonna's first attempt to have MAiD approved was not successful — strange since she was 92 years old, had gone through one stroke that severely compromised her memory, and knew that a second one would take away her mental capacity to consent to the procedure.   Let's just say that her faithful son did not give up advocating for his mother, and Nonna was eventually approved.

Nonna, her son and daughter, and a few other family members arrive to the friendly funeral home in the early afternoon.   Her son passes out champagne as all stand in a circle. I suggest that each person share their favourite memory of Nonna, but she is not having it………………. she wants to tell her favourite stories.  And she does —- in true Russian style, with great gusto, arms waving in the air.   Two of the stories recall events when she believed that she was visited by God — both times in the form of a black man, one old and one young.

The doctor and nurse arrive and begin unobtrusively setting up.   I ask Nonna if she would like one last dance — the music is ready, though we hadn't planned this; and I dance with Nonna, her son filming it.   It is not ballroom dance — Nonna is playing with movement in her arms and hips, winding her arms in and out of mine, laughing when we bumped into each other, stopping only to turn around in the centre of the circle and blow kisses at each person.   Others begin to dance as well, while the doctor sits nearby — beaming at the spectacle.

All is ready, so I tell Nonna that it is time to lie down on the bed that has been provided.   The family gathers around.   As she waits for the nurse to put in the IV, Nonna does sit-ups and brags about still being able to do them.   Unbeknownst to me at the time, the doctor has positioned herself behind the couch that I am sitting on — all of the focus is on Nonna.

Once the IV is in, I ask her if it is time to start singing — that I sing her into her death was planned.   Nonna nods and whispers 'yes' — that is the last time she speaks or even moves: as she lies perfectly still, one rattled breath and she is gone.

Tears fall and flood, and the family tells stories about Nonna as they take in the reality of her death.   More champagne is passed around — there is no hurry.

Nonna dies by her choice: she is in control of what happens: she fills her last hour with what is important to her — and she dies while she is still able to do so.   The funeral home has set up the space as a neutral, but warm, environment: the staff person is upstairs, but available for any need: the afternoon has been given over to Nonna and family.   The doctor and nurse are quiet but friendly: they willingly wait through Nonna's choices in her last hour, and clearly delighted in them: as soon as the IV is in, they move out of the circle —- giving the whole focus over to Nonna and family — only reentering momentarily to ensure that Nonna is dead.   This is one example of a perfect death.

April 30, 2026 ~ Pashta MaryMoon By My Heart and Hand teacher