The Incredible Sandy Stein - a short play

I wrote "The Incredible Sandy Stein" for a contest at the San Diego Center for Jewish Culture. There were only two rules for submissions:

1. Must be very short

2. Must include some aspect of Jewish life or culture.

To my delight, 'Sandy' was selected to be performed in a professional reading ~ a big honor as there were many submissions.

In case you're wondering, the story is complete fiction, although there's a little bit of me in the narrator and some elements of both my parents in the main character. 

CAST:

Rebecca Stein – middle aged woman (narrator)

Sandy Stein – her mother

Rabbi Ackerman — a young rabbi

TAG LINE:

The only thing harder than dying when you want to live, is living when you want to die

REBECCA: My mother did not die the normal way. Oh believe me she tried. My mom, Sandy, was a force of nature. Two PHD’s, two wonderful marriages, and a rich, full life anybody would envy. A lot of girls say their mom is their best friend. Not me. We fought over everything. My failures, and there were many, were never met with “Oh, Becca, you’ll do better next time.” They were met with intense analysis of why the “C” wasn’t a “B” or the “B” not an “A.”

SANDY: Oh for God's sake, I wasn’t that bad.

REBECCA: (SIGH) She was that bad. But despite a thousand disagreements, a few huge fights when we didn’t speak for days, and my complete melt-down when my mother replaced my father with a second husband, I knew deep within my soul how much my mother loved me.

SANDY: More than anything.

REBECCA: (flashes smile) Just a bit about my dad, because he, and mom knew this, was my favorite parent. I worshipped him. He called me his ‘baby-girl,’ and I had him wrapped around my finger. His death, when I was twenty-two and Mom only fifty-four, destroyed us both. At the time we were ‘unaffiliated’ Jews, so finding a rabbi to officiate the memorial was tricky. Mom handed that task to my father’s older sister who was all too happy to take charge and cast aspersions on my parents for being secular Jews, the kind who go to temple only on Yom Kippur to atone for going to temple only on Yom Kippur.

SANDY: Your aunt was a difficult woman, but she did step up.

REBECCA: She really did. Anyway, somehow, we muddled through those dark years. I went to grad school—became a teacher myself. Not like my mother who was a professor and then a dean, but an educator none-the-less.

SANDY: Don’t dismiss your achievements, Becca. Elementary school teachers work much harder than college professors.

REBECCA: I believe it. Mom and I were great for the next few years until she met the man who would become my step-father. That was rough. I put up a fight, but I came around eventually and grew to love him. They had a glorious eighteen years together. Eighteen, such a significant number. My marriage also lasted eighteen years. Then the shit hit the fan.

Inside of six months, Mom lost her husband to a heart attack, and I lost mine to a twenty-three year old yoga instructor who could—well, never mind that, but go ahead, use your imagination.

SANDY: Get to the important part, Becca. We don’t have all night.

REBECCA: Right. Fast forward a whole bunch of years. Mom worked until she was eighty-six. She retired with little fanfare, preferring to slip away unnoticed, and entered her twilight years along with other octogenarians. She moved herself into the Jewish Home, telling me she’d made this decision so that I wouldn’t have to. I appreciated that more than I could admit. It’s a tragic day when the child takes over her parent’s life. Mom saved me from that, at least for a while. I’ll tell you, her brain should have been donated to science. It remained clear and sharp to the bitter end.

SANDY: Finally, we’re getting to the good part.

REBECCA: The Jewish Home had its own Mensa-like group. And Mom was the leader. Of course anyone could join—senior living environments cannot discriminate.

SANDY: Don’t forget to tell them that the dummies dropped out after one session.

REBECCA: Not nice, Mom. Oh, that’s the other thing. Once you’re past ninety, you have no filter. Every thought comes out, whether you mean it to or not. Anyway, the group, which called itself  “AAI” for “Above Average Intelligence,” discussed everything from theology to astronomy to history. They debated current events, politics, and Israel. Which brings us to Rabbi Ackerman.

SANDY: Finally!

RABBI: Yes, finally!

REBECCA: Rabbi Ackerman was the spiritual leader at the home. You know, Friday night services, holidays, counseling. Although much younger than the residents, he joined ‘AAI’ after leading a discussion on the esoteric teachings of Jewish mysticism.

RABBI: I did! The AAI group had among its members physicians, pilots, war heroes, an archeologist, even a state supreme court justice. They were some of the most brilliant people I’d ever met. And Sandy Stein, well, she was a born leader. (whispers to audience) Have to admit, even though she was the same age as my grandmother, a little piece of me fell in love with her.

REBECCA: My mom thrived for years at the Jewish Home. But then, at ninety-six, she tripped over her own feet and broke a hip. A couple months later, she was hospitalized with an infection. She bounced back from that, but not as far. Her walker, which usually sat in the corner of her apartment, was needed all the time. Then, pneumonia. She kept getting pneumonia, and each time, it weakened her a little more. By now, I was visiting Mom four or five times a week. I put my life on hold to be with her, not because I had to but because I wanted to. She had finally become my best friend. I relied on her for advice. I peppered her with questions about her life and my father’s life, so that nothing would be forgotten. I loved joining her for dinner with her super smart “AAI” friends. We watched old movies together. She adored Cary Grant, Katherine Hepburn, Jimmy Stuart, Deanna Durbin, and anything with Sandra Bullock. My love and admiration for her grew and deepened. She was my everything…

Everyone knows that a phone ringing in the middle of the night is bad news. Mom was in an ambulance headed to the ER. I met her there. Her skin was gray and pallid, her fever high, her voice raspy.

SANDY: Tell the doctor I have a DNR. No heroic measures, do you hear me?

REBECCA: I know Mom, but it’s not that bad. Probably just a little pneumonia again. You’ll bounce back.

SANDY: I’m tired of bouncing, Becca. I’m tired of not being the woman I used to be. I’m tired of living.

REBECCA: My heart cracked. Mom was ready to go. The following day, we crossed into a new phase. Mom asked to be put on Hospice, but her doctor said she didn’t meet the criteria. Evidently, hospice requires the patient to be terminal. And Mom didn’t have a terminal condition.

SANDY: I’m fucking 97 years old! You’re telling me age isn’t a terminal condition?

REBECCA: See? No filter.

SANDY: I want to talk to my rabbi.

RABBI: As the rabbi in an old age home, I was used to death. After all, it was a regular occurrence. But Sandy’s request shook me up. Maybe because I was not only her rabbi—I was her friend. Therefore, as her friend, I let her know that if she was ready to die, I would support the decision.

REBECCA: So Mom, of sound mind, refused care. She didn’t need a doctor to give her permission. The nurse removed her IV, cutting off the antibiotic, and I took Mom home to die.

SANDY: Thank you, my love.

REBECCA: You’re welcome, Mom.

For days, I watched her lie in bed growing weaker and closer to death. But one morning I woke up and found her sitting up straight.

Mom, what’s going on?

SANDY: (angry) I’m not dead yet.

REBECCA: I can see that.

SANDY: Could you make some coffee?

REBECCA: Unbelievable. Even without antibiotics, Mom’s body fought off pneumonia. And that’s when I knew it was up to me. I had to make sure that going forward, nobody would interfere with my mother’s determination to die. By now she couldn’t do anything by herself. The once beautiful, dignified, commanding Sandy Stein had been reduced to exactly what she had never wanted to become. Helpless.

SANDY: I hated myself. I wanted Rebecca to poison me, smother me, shoot me. Anything to get me out of this body!

REBECCA: There were times I wanted to. But of course I didn’t. Her decline was slow, painful, heart wrenching. Occasionally, a friend from the AAI group would knock on the door and beg to see her, but Mom was too proud to be seen. The only one she’d allow in was Rabbi Ackerman.

RABBI: We made plans for her Shiva, a mourning period, similar to a wake. Sandy didn’t care about having one, but I did. I needed to be able to grieve for my friend surrounded by our community. Sandy’s only instruction, which was oh-so-Sandy, was to manage the menu.

SANDY: I have plenty of money. Use the good Kosher caterer. Make it like a bar mitzvah with little lamb chops and mini potato pancakes dotted with caviar. After I’m gone, rabbi, tell my friends I’m sorry I couldn’t see them. Tell them I missed them and that I loved them.

REBECCA: People often ask: What were someone’s last words? What was the last thing they said to you? But nobody really remembers. Except for me. I remember.

It was end of summer. Through the open window, a warm breeze blew in carrying with it the scent of lavender and roses. I tucked Mom into bed the way I’d done every night for months. She’d developed a little cold that had gone into a cough and then pneumonia.

REBECCA: Mom, you can change your mind. It’s not too late for antibiotics. I’ll call the doctor. You can get better…

SANDY: I don’t want to get better. (coughs) I want to get worse.

REBECCA: I suddenly turned into a little girl again. I fell to my knees and sobbed.

But I can’t do this! I don’t want you to die. How can you leave me? How??

SANDY: Oh, Becca, I’m not leaving you. I’m freeing you. And you, my love, are freeing me.

REBECCA: Those were her last words. She died in her sleep that night. My rabbi and friend guided me through my grief and helped me carry on, honoring my mother by being strong and determined and resilient – by being the woman that Sandy Stein taught me to be.