My grandmother died yesterday. It wasnt sudden, nor was it a surprise.

Doesnt mean it was less sad.

I had been traveling, most recently speaking at TribeCon in New Orleans, when my mom called to say it wasnt looking good.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“It means she is probably going to die.”

I felt a bit guilty having fun in New Orleans, which was a LOT of fun (I got yelled at for checking into so many places on FourSquare), but I knew there was nothing I could do.

“She is unconscious,” my mom told me.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“It means she has a 30% chance of never waking up.”

When two feet or so of snow fell in Boulder, my friend Eric decided to head back to help his wife move their house. I thought it would be good for me to be back in Boulder for my animals, and would make me closer to San Jose in case anything happened.

“Things have take a turn for the worse,” my mom told me before I boarded the flight.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“It means that we are beginning to prepare for the funeral.”

Eric and I landed in Cincinnati after the first leg of our trip. In the terminal was a Chic-Fil-A, which was awesome. Eric and I talked about comic books and movies, and my phone rang.

“Things are looking better,” my mom said, hopefully.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“It means that we are starting to look for skilled nursing facilities.”

My phone was nearly depleted, so I turned it off completely for the last leg of the trip. With no iPhone to play with, I thought a lot about my life and my grandparents. When I was first out of school, and people asked about my story, I would often offer my grandparents story instead.

My grandfather was born in Romania to a doctor’s family. When World War II hit, his family was driven from their homes, their possessions taken, and they were pushed out of the country. My grandfather ended up in a forced labor camp, where, with another person, they were able to escape. During their trip to Palestine, they were captured by the British, and were detained on Cyprus. My grandfather, having the best English among all his peers, became the translator.

And, while ships sat out in the international waters, my grandfather would help steal butter (to cover the skin of the detainees) and help detainees swim out to the ships, which eventually took them to Palestine.

My grandmother was born in Shanghai, China, where there was a thriving Jewish population (mostly Russian, mostly exiles of the 1917 Bolshevik Revolution). Her father ran the local newspaper and was head of many Jewish groups. When the Japanese invaded China during World War II, they travelled to Palestine.

In Palestine, my grandmother and grandfather settled on Kibbutz Dafna, where they met and married, and became pregnant with my mom, aptly named Dafna.

(On a side note, when my mom was 18, she spent some time at Kibbutz Dafna, where she met my biological father. Not sure what that means. Perhaps I should visit there as well?)

My grandmother became a simultaneous translator, learning 9 languages, and over the course of her life wrote 7 or 8 books about all kinds of things. For the things she was known for, she was a speaker in demand. Even later in life, when she could barely walk, she would shuttle around speaking at various events. At one, she had people help carry her through the back of the building, so the children that she was speaking to wouldnt see her disability.

As we landed, and I turned on my phone, I got the normal buzzes of emails and tweets. As I watched the notifications fly by, I saw a missed call from my mom, then a second one, then one from my dad, and finally a text message from my dad.

I called my dad.

“Its pretty bad, Micah.” My dad started. “They have her on a respirator and a morphine drip.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“It means that unless something drastic happens, she wont make it through the night.”

I put my suitcase in my car, and climbed into the driver seat. I plugged my phone in and got my bluetooth headset working. I backed out of the spot, and headed towards the parking lot exit.

My sisters are pretty amazing people. My middle sister, Marissa, has studied to be an actress, has a beautiful voice, and recently ran a marathon. My youngest sister, Natalia, helps kids not only realize that they have potential, but gives them the tools to achieve it. I know without thinking, that my grandmother is proud of them. But me? Ive always been the black sheep, the troublemaker of the family. Ive done many wrong things right, and many right things wrong. I know that she never understood my choices in life, but I know that she was always excited to hear what I am doing.

I called Natalia. I know that it must be hard for her.

“She is really peaceful.” Natalia answered.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“It means that if you want to talk to her, now is your chance.”

As my sister lowered the phone to my grandmothers ear, I scrambled for something to say. I knew that I needed to say the right thing. Perhaps the one thing that would make all this right. The seconds felt like minutes as I couldnt figure out what the magic words would be. Finally, I just opened my mouth, trusting the words that would come.

“Babu, I think for the first time ever, you and I are both at a loss for words.”

And I cried.

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