Everyone in America will agree if asked that 2016 sucked ass. David Bowie AND Prince?! What the fuck? Donald Trump?! Really? The cosmic clouds of doom are just rolling right on in. Aside from the many other un-pleasantries of 2016 that we don’t need to rehash here, as we ALL lived them, I had some of my own arise. Devastating things. Time has marched on and I’m finally to a place where I can begin processing through some of them.
In the Spring of 2016 I lost Busia.
Busia is Polish for Grandma.
Busia was not a literal blood relative but my connection with Busia ran deeper than all of that. Busia was my babysitter as an infant. Members of the family would argue that they too were involved and yes, there is much credit due, but for the purposes of this blurb- Busia was one of my primary people in life. A true pillar.
My parents had me at a young age and were poor and struggling. Busia must have gotten a kick out of me because she often would babysit me for free or keep me for weekends at a time. there occasions where I would go on road trips with the family to larger, extended family reunions. The whole family truly welcomed me in. Busia’s 4 children were mostly grown around the time I began coming around so I imagine I was much like the new family puppy.
My sister came along 7 years later and she also began to tag along with me to my days at Busia’s house. Busia helped facilitate my acceptance and even sometimes liking of the new little sister. Growing up I always felt like a burden to my parents. They worked a lot. They were stressed out and now, having 2 kids of my own, I can tell you- KIDS ARE A HUGE FUCKING BURDEN! I don’t hold it against them. However, I never felt like an inconvenience at Busia’s house. I was included and encouraged to try new things, even if it meant slowing the whole process down. My mother didn’t have the time for dishes to take 20 minutes to wash instead of 5. She needed to get everything done in the quickest amount of time possible so she could make sure there was food on the table and all of the crap that goes along with being a grown up. Busia was nearing retirement. She had the 20 minutes to spare.
Over the years it became evident that Busia was my primary nurturer. She was that loving figure every kid needs. The one with unconditional love who always had a lap to climb up on and an endless supply of hugs to give. She would listen to my stories as a kid, no matter how dumb they were; she took me seriously and she never made me feel less than.
As a therapist now, I see so much value in her ability to do this. I remember telling her all about the “Swimming Club” that my neighbor friend and I had created when I was about 8 years old. It was a kiddie pool in my friend’s backyard. We decided to make it exclusive and there would be “dues” for anyone who wanted to swim. We were going to be charging an entrance fee. Primarily, this included charging my friend’s younger siblings. The charge was a McDonald’s toy or some trinket. I believe there was even once talk of a nickel…
As an adult, I can see how easy it would be to say, “Oh hell no! That is not even your pool. You can’t charge other kids to swim in their own pool. ”
Busia, understanding child development, went along with the idea. She asked me questions about my new club. She asked about the rules. She asked a bunch of ‘what if’ scenarios to get me thinking for myself about the whole idea. I didn’t leave the conversation feeling like an idiot nor did I leave thinking my swimming club was a bad idea, because I was 8 years old and there was a nickel at stake! But Busia knew these things didn’t last and the idea would blow over within a day or two, which it did. There was no need to bring me down and shatter my “I HAVE A NEW SWIMMING CLUB!!!!” mojo.
When my family moved away and out of state I was 11, soon to be 12. Busia and I promised to write one another letters. People promise this all the time, but we actually did it. For 2 decades we wrote one another letters back and forth. We discussed what was going on in our lives, with our families, etc. Every time my family went “home” to visit our extended family I would visit Busia, without fail. I know this caused some jealousy among my other relatives but I didn’t care. They didn’t know or understand the connection that Busia and I had. And besides, when given the chance, those particular relatives would have berated me for my swimming club so move aside!
When I got married, I made sure Busia was treated with as much respect and significance as a Grandmother at the wedding. This was something to which she was always delighted and surprised. I’ll never understand why the surprise. She was one of the most important women in my life. She often told me she felt bad because she had overheard an aunt of mine being huffy about not getting a special seat at a special table while Busia did… . I would remind her, whenever this was mentioned, she was seated right where I wanted her to be and to hell with everyone else. I think she liked hearing this.
I brought my babies for visits as they came into the world. Busia would scoop them up and oooooh and aaaaaah over them. When Ruby was so little and tiny I remember her saying, “(gasp) Oh have you ever seen such a beautiful baby?! She’s just so perfect! All babies are just perfect! And you know why? Because God made them.” She rocked little Rue and hummed to her as she always did. I described to Busia all of my new mom tales of woe and she would laugh along with me. Busia was rolling with laughter when I told her of the time I wore Ruby in a baby sling and for hours I was convinced I had just made my perfect little baby “retarded” after her head had slipped out of the carrier upon bending over to get something out of the the refrigerator. She didn’t tell me I was being ridiculous. She simply understood.
When Juneau came along, she raved about how happy of a baby she was. Juneau was so content. She did not cry unless there was something truly wrong. Juneau could easily have won The Low Maintenance Baby of the Year Award. Busia loved both girls as she loved all kids.
Fast forward several years, my marriage was in crisis. What to do? We had both made mistakes, but I was the one that had made THE mistake. I must be the worst, most unforgivable human in the world! I cried and cried and cried. I told Busia what had happened. I hung my head and waited for the ax to fall. My friends who I had confided in, regardless of their intentions had been shaming, despite their intentions. Busia took a breath and said, “Well, these things happen. I have never done that myself, but I suppose I have probably had some false hopes or similar notions throughout my life too. Marriage is really hard work.” I froze for a moment. “…Really…? That’s it? You’re not going to judge and condemn me?” She responded, “I hope to never judge you. What good would that do? I love you.” The shock and awe that followed this conversation lasted for weeks. I expected at least some semblance of shaming, especially given the generation gap. It never came. Not from Busia.
Our letters continued. The visits continued. Every visit we would play card games and chat about life. She would always listen. Busia had a slightly dark sense of humor. Not quite as dark as mine, but she would always laugh as the stories of catastrophe that went on in my life.
Late February of 2016 I got a phone call from the family informing me that Busia was in the hospital and she was not doing well. Busia had a sudden diagnosis of lymphoma and as going south quickly. Devastated, I dropped everything and hit the yarn store. I needed to make her a comfort shawl, quickly. I walked up and down the aisles looking for Busia-esque colors and textures that would convey my message. I wanted this shawl to elicit feelings of comfort, tranquility, peace, etc.
I turbo knit this shawl for her and hightailed it out of town to see her. In this visit, Busia taught me how to die. We talked as we always did in the hospital. She was in good spirits. She was joking around with the nurses, and we took pictures. The whole time we were smiling for our selfies she was saying, “Oh! We’re beautiful! We’re beautiful!” She smiled as I told her my intentions with her prayer shawl and as always, she listened. She then held my hand, looked me in the eye and said, “You are my daughter. I’ve always thought of you as mine. I want you to know that.” I nodded through tears because I have always known that and what more was there to say? I’ve always identified as one of hers.
I cried when she asked about my marriage. I couldn’t let her leave this earth without telling me what to do. I purged all of my problems and issues. She nodded and said things like, “Yes, you always have been very affectionate, haven’t you? I remember. Hmmm… well, this is something I am definitely going to work on from the other side. Just you watch.” The more I talked the more she would add to her list of things she was going to” fix from the other side.” We chuckled about this. She then said, “You know, my problem is a whole lot bigger than yours.” While this statement may seem a bit jarring, it was true and completely shifted my perspective. Oh my God, she’s right!
We talked about how she was coping with the illness and her plans/arrangements. Busia told me she immediately planned her funeral upon hearing the news of her diagnosis. She chose who was to be involved and what their role was to be. Following Busia’s lead throughout my life, I listened as she discussed her reflections about being in the hospital, pain levels, settling her family affairs, etc.
As the visit came to a close I gave her a big hug and awkwardly said, “Well, maybe I’ll see you again next time I visit.” We both knew this was unlikely, but at the same time, we didn’t yet know the severity of her illness. I looked at her from the door and I began to tear up. She said, “No! No tears. I want you to always remember Busia with a smile on her face.” She smiled at me through tears. I said goodbye and left the room. I cried my whole way out of the building. At the time I thought, why can’t I cry? I am so sad. I just want to cry! Looking back I can see one hundred times over- was she ever right! The visual that I hold of her in my mind’s eye is of her smiling with that warm, loving smile she always had.
Busia passed away 2 weeks later. I returned for the funeral and much like Busia at my wedding, I was surprised to be included in the funeral services along with the family and grandchildren. The comfort shawl that I had made for her while she was in the hospital was returned to me. I was also given a necklace and bracelet set that Busia had designed for herself at some point. All the women of the family were wearing a piece of jewelry and the family felt it was important that I be included in that.
I wear that jewelry set whenever I want to “bring Busia” along with me places. She loved dancing, so I will often bring her out clubbing with me. As for the comfort shawl, anytime I’m feeling low or need a hug or something to curl up and cry into, I pull out Busia’s shawl. When I began knitting the comfort shawl for Busia, I knew it would be a therapeutic way for me to cope with the loss as well offer her comfort during a difficult transition.
It has now been over a year. I still think of her all the time. I still wrap up in in my shawl when I need to and I still don the jewelry when Busia needs a field trip. When I go back “home” to visit I make visiting her grave as much of a priority as my in person visits were.
Last Spring I had to return home for more awful circumstances. I was dreading the visit. I made that long, boring drive through Iowa by myself. I had stopped, bought dinner and I went straight to the cemetery. I couldn’t bear to deal with my relatives quite yet. They are nothing like Busia. I laid out my music festival blanket and sat down to eat my pizza with Busia.
I then went on my autopilot rambling aloud to myself mode:
‘God that was a long ass drive. Whew, this weekend is gonna suck. I am not looking forward to seeing these people. At. All. Hey Busia! How’s it going? I’ve been busy as you know. Uuugh…this is dumb…Busia is closer to me when I’m running around doing my regular activities than she is here at the cemetery… oh man…i’m SO STIFF!!!’
I then look up to see Busia’s headstone and realize the dark irony of those words. I laugh aloud, knowing that Busia probably just got a kick out of that one too.
Here we are “Being Beautiful!”
I love you Busia! I think of you so much!
My Doula Oblongata 