Sarah Silverman recounts plenty of her childhood in her book, The Bedwetter, including this gem about her grandmother:
When it became clear that Nana was dying, my sisters and I stayed by her bedside. Nana would wake up between long periods of sleep and ask if she was still alive. When we told her she was, she would slap her hand on her head as if a waiter had just screwed up her cocktail order for the ninth time. She was ready to go, but she wasn’t… going. It was torture to watch her waiting so impatiently to get out the hell out of this world. But still she was funny. At the end, as Laura and I sat on either side of her, each holding one of her hands, Nana came to, briefly. She looked up at us, smiled, and whispered, “So beautiful.”
Laura jumped right in, saying, “She’s talking to me!”
I said, “No, way, she’s talking to me!”
To which Nana, with what was literally one of her last dying breaths, replied, “Laura.”
