I initially wrote this post a long time ago, and never got comfortable enough to share it. Maybe it felt a bit too vulnerable, too corny, too serious, too close to my heart, or simply too boring. No major “Aha!” moment here. No major wisdom. It’s probably the experience of anyone and everyone who has lost a loved one. Given that the anniversary of my grandmother’s death is approaching, I am having all sorts of feelings, and it seemed like maybe this could be a way to mourn her absence and celebrate her magic.
I often talk about my grandmother as being the light in the rocky and treacherous ocean of my childhood. She was sometimes more of a mom, than my own mom was. This is not meant as any offense to my mom, she did the very best she could being an immigrant with two children and very little English language skills. I respect her struggle, her hustle, her sacrifice, her discipline, and strive to be like her in so many ways. Grandparents, on the other hand, have the luxury of grandchildren usually not being theirs. If she got tired of me, she could return me back to where I came from, and go about her merry way.
“Grams,” as my sister and I called her, taught me the multiplication tables, sat with me when I did my homework, taught me my prayers, made sure I ate my dinner, didn’t let me get away with the old “my watch stopped, sorry I stayed out too late” trick, and let me snuggle up next to her when there was a thunderstorm outside. (I was, and still am, a baby when it came to Zeus throwing lightning bolts from the sky. I will proudly share with you that I have now graduated to my Scruffles taking over my grandmother’s role.)
It’s easy to see how and why she was one of my favorite people in the world. She was kind, she was patient, she was firm, she was gentle, she was caring, she was strong. She was, as cool people say on the internet, “all the things.” Folks, this woman escaped from Auschwitz, raised her children alone, was separated from her siblings both geographically and over time culturally, and she still figured it out.
Closer to her death, her dementia was quite pronounced, and I’m not sure if she knew who anyone was most of the time in the last years of her life. She would often get lost and wander in the street, or forget to eat, leave the stove on, and did not recognize most people. Ultimately, she was moved into a nursing facility and that was the last time I ever saw her. I remember the week before she died, my mother woke me up in the middle of the night, asked me to come downstairs. “Babcia dzwoniła i się pyta o ciebie!!!! CHODZ!” My grandmother called my mom, and in the middle of the night, specifically asked to speak to me. (Her favorite granddaughter, I’m convinced ;)). I was a brat, I was angry at my parents for everything and I was not going to comply with ANY requests coming from either of them. I told her that I was too tired to get out of bed and that I’d call her another time.
Of course, there was no other time. That was the last time anyone spoke with her, and the next phone call we received was that she had passed. (Yes, mascara stained tears are running down my face as I write this. Should have opted for the waterproof kind.)
I still miss her. Deeply. Countless number of times since her passing, I have desperately wished she was around. I wish I could share the big and little details of my life with her, tell her about my life in NYC, my heartbreaks, my joys, introduce her my beloved Scruffles (whom I am fairly convinced she sent to me), laugh with her, say the rosary with her, recite my multiplication tables, have tea together, play BINGO, and ask her for advice.
I’m not sure where I stand on religion these days, and although I was raised Catholic, I certainly have questioned my faith over the last 10 years. I still do. Is there really only one God? If that’s true, then does everyone think that their God is the one? Or, maybe it is just one God and we all interpret it differently? Or maybe there isn’t a God? Or maybe we just call God, “God” but it’s actually a collective understanding and evolution of morality and interpersonal connectedness. What if, my family picked the wrong one to believe in and I’m screwed when it comes to the afterlife? Or what if my friends picked the wrong one? Are they in trouble? Who knows? I certainly don’t have the answers, but I have to say, every once in a while, I do like to say a prayer, or pop into a church to adore the stained glass, mediate, and feel that sense of inner peace in the solitude and silence of the church. Other times, it’s nice to believe that there is something greater out there.
Despite my questioning, I do find comfort in certain elements of Catholicism. Rather, my family’s interpretation of it. I appreciate that Christmas Eve mass is an expected and ceremonious night filled with food, candles, formal attire, and beautiful singing. I appreciate the gathering of friends and loved ones, and most importantly, the mountains of delicious Polish cookies my momma bakes. I appreciate that our tradition includes setting an extra plate on the table for our deceased, so that they feel welcome to visit us that night, and the constant reminder that our loved ones remain with us in some ways.
Am I actually proposing that the ghost of my grandmother is following me around? It sounds creepy AF, but in some way, I like knowing that she’s around (somewhere – hopefully not the shower or my closet), checking in on me every once in a while.
I sometimes talk to my grandmother. I lay in my comfy cozy warm bed, thinking about what my conversation would sound like. Usually, I’ve probably had either a glass too much of wine or can’t sleep because I am lost, confused, sad or just need some direction. “Grams, if you’re listening, I really need you right now. I miss you, I don’t know what I should do and I need your help.”
Maybe I’m a bit of a hopeless romantic, or maybe I’ve seen too many feel-good TV shows, but every once in a while, I truly believe that she actually does listen. I’ve been in a rut lately and have been asking for a sign that she’s there, that I’ll figure my stuff out. I took Scruffles out for a walk, and guess what I found. A handful of coins! I’m not sure if this just means that a Leprechaun lost some of his gold, a pirate was hiding his treasure in my neighborhood, or if my “Grams” just wanted to remind me that she’s got my back, and she’s still listening. I like that idea the most, and that it serves as a reminder to me that I’ll figure it out. Whatever it is. I always do.
Grams, if you’re listening: I miss you so much. Thank you for sending my Scruffles!
XOXO
Kathy ❤
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