I met my mother-in-law, Aileen Patricia Dogherty, during my winter break from graduate school in December 1988. My then boyfriend (now husband), John Sinclair, was quite nervous, as I had invited myself to Key Largo to spend time with him and his parents over our long vacation. As a practicing non-Jew, he had never been exposed to anybody inviting themselves over, let alone to his parents’ historically no-Jews-allowed fishing club. 

Undeterred, and seemingly unable to stop the new girlfriend vortex, he picked me up from my own grandmother’s where she made him his first challah French toast, and was told he was a beautiful eater. He never knew that eating was an achievement to be appreciated, and he indulged in several more helpings of heretofore unattainable beauty. 

I met Aileen the next day, and while a stark contrast from my own mother and grandmother, I liked her immediately. She had a quiet dignity and silly sense of humor, and she was an outstanding cook. She taught me the lesson that even “lettuce can sing” with the right dressing and choice of greens. We went fishing together that vacation, and she caught a barracuda while I was vomiting from motion sickness down below.

When Aileen had her first grandchild she locked herself in her bedroom, dealing with the complexities of aging. She emerged from her confinement saying that from thereon in, she would only answer to “Granny.” So, when John proposed to me in 1991, and Granny met my parents, they called her Granny too. And she and my father-in-law stood under the chuppah with my parents for our Jewish wedding in 1992.

I am writing about Granny now because she is in the final days of her battle with ALS, which was diagnosed about two years ago. We visited her over the weekend, and she is still as funny and feisty as ever, even amidst the fog of this hideous disease. We took our children to say goodbye, to look at lots of pictures, to talk, joke, eat and reminisce. They knew this would be their last opportunity to do this with their Granny.

Granny and I always got along well. She respected my independence and most importantly was instinctively at peace knowing I truly loved her baby boy (he is the last of six children). Still, she did not quite get my brazen Jewishness, as she neither grew up with or lived surrounded by Jews. And yet, flash forward to the late 1990s. Granny decided to take an adult education class about Judaism, went to Israel on an art gallery trip, and even dined with Leah Rabin, Yitzhak Rabin’s widow. She was always so proud to tell me little tidbits of what she learned and where she visited.

At the Bat Mitzvah celebrations of both of our daughters, she danced until she shvitzed. One of my favorite memories of Granny is from two years ago:  we lifted her high above onto a chair with all of her family swirling around. At our shul, our Rabbis even wrote a special bracha for her so she could participate in the smachot. She wanted to participate as much as we wanted her next to us.

Our children will miss their Granny deeply. They spent pretty much every Christmas with her in Florida. There was no religious ritual involved, but there was plenty of Granny ritual: a blown-up upside down Santa hanging limply from an outdoor lamp, a rollicking and mandatory (un)talent show, my middle child dressed up as Santa in a costume five sizes too big, roast turkey and warm dinner rolls, dinner finished by seven. She makes them laugh, even when teens are supposed to be embarrassed by their elders; they know she is like nobody they have ever met—or will meet.

Last weekend, from behind the scenes and with little left of her voice, Granny orchestrated an ice bucket challenge in her assisted living facility. All the staff came, as did many of the staff’s children, they hired a videographer, and rigged a bucket so that Granny could pull it on her favorite aide and friend—and subsequently twenty others. Not to be outdone, she insisted on being put in a full rain slicker and going under the bucket with my son and husband.

Like anyone dealing with the impending death of a loved one, it is hard to imagine life without Granny. I am sure Granny never envisioned making it onto the JWA blog. I certainly did not envision writing this piece. But, I am glad I did. And we will all give her a big L’chaim with her beloved Jameson’s scotch at my son’s Bar Mitzvah this winter.