by Judith Edelman-Green

My Safta (Grandma) Sarah was dying. She was 93, and had pneumonia, was on oxygen, but her spirit refused to leave her. She had survived Hitler's rise to power which led her father away on a forced march, and her led her mother to hang herself, and her siblings to Auschwitz. She had survived five days at sea on an illegal immigrant ship in 1939, and the poverty of Palestine in the early days. She had survived, but not easily, the death of her son Rafi in the Six Day War. She continued to be a giving and positive and vital person after her son's death. Pneumonia was not going to take her easily. Since Sarah was in the fog of Alzheimer's , it was not easy to connect with her. She thought her daughter was her mother, and that she lived on a Kibbutz and had to cook dinner for the "kvutzah." She kept trying to leave to go "home."

She could not breath, she could not walk, she could not function, but she could not release herself from the agony of her last days. How could we help her on her way? Sunita Staneslow has studied harp therapy. She has worked in the premature unit of Meir Hospital helping to stabilize their heart beats and breathing. She has worked to donate harps to hospitals around Israel, including Hadassah. She volunteered to play for Safta Sarah. As we entered the Alzheimer's Ward of Sarah's , the nurses said that Safta Sarah was being washed. So Sunita took out the harp and played for the other residents gathered in the dining hall. They clapped, they danced, I danced with them. Then an entourage followed us to Sarah's room and wanted to keep dancing while Sunita played for her. It was like a strange ballet of elderly Alzheimer patients. Sarah couldn't speak that day. She reached out her hand and motioned towards the harp. I moved her wheel chair and oxygen closer to the harp. Her hand lifted itself up and stroked the harp. Her hearing aid wasn't working, but she felt the vibrations, bent her head and communed with the harp.

The next week was a more intimate meeting with Sarah and the harp. Her hearing aid was working and she smiled at Sunita and the harp. Sunita played "Avinu Malkenu." The haunting tune arroused Sarah's religious memories and she began speaking to angels on the other side. I stroked her hair, and hugged her. Then I brought her black and white photos of her deceased husband and son. She patted her son's picture. "What a handsome soldier." Then she recognized her husband. I said to her gently, " Mordecai is waiting for you. So is Rafi. I will hold your hand and when you join them, they will take your hand." But she wasn't quite ready. Sunita helped not only by playing soulful and touching music, she also shared the experience in every way, her eyes filled with tears as Sarah touched the photographs of her family.

On our next visit, we met Sarah's adult children at her bedside. They were sad and heart-broken about their mother's demise and suffering. Sunita played "Hurshat HaEucalyptus" and other Israeli songs, and Sarah's children allowed themselves to cry. Sarah reached out and embraced her children, petted them, and kissed them. This was Sarah, when all else was long gone, she still had a store of loving gestures.

Bernie and I were with Sarah when she breathed her last breath one late night late in October. Sunita became so entwined with the family, that she also came to the Shiva (mourning period) to comfort all of us, as she had all along. This is the meaning of spiritual accompaniment. Sunita's song.