That Call You Dread

When someone calls me in the morning, it can only mean 1 of 2 things. 1) The caller doesn't know me very well, or at all, because they would know that even 10:30am is too early. 2) They do know me and something important, and likely terrible, has happened. Unfortunately, today I received a 2.

My mother and sister called to tell me that my grandmother had died. She was 88 years old. 

I had just been down in San Diego last week for Christmas. My grandma hadn't been feeling well a day or two prior to our usual Christmas Eve celebration, so my aunt, whom she lived with, took her to the hospital. She stayed in for 2 days while they drained some fluid from her lungs and treated her for anemia. We put off our celebration till Christmas Day.

She seemed tired but in relatively high spirits when she greeted us on Christmas Day. I'm sure she was relieved to not be in a hospital for any longer. My Mom confirmed that she seemed a lot stronger and healthier than before she went in. All news was positive. We had a great evening and we were all there, save my Uncle who lives in Idaho. As I left I gave my grandma, or Babcia (bob-chee, the Polish word for grandma), a big hug and then I put my hands on both of her shoulders and said something to the effect of, "You get healthy. We need you alive for next Christmas." She said okay and seemed pretty positive that she would be. Over the next few days, I thought about what I had said to her, and that I would feel like a real shithead if those were my last words to her. And here we are.

As far as anyone can tell at this point, she died peacefully in her sleep. That's obviously the best possible outcome under the circumstances. No pain. No moment of terrified chest clutching or gasping for air. For that I am grateful. She had been through so much in her life already, to go through any more, even momentarily would've seemed a cruel joke of nature.

Babcia grew up in Krakow, Poland. She was very proud that Pope John Paul II was from there as well. At age 16, she was taken from her home and put into a work camp by the Nazis. She survived that and eventually met my grandpa after the war had ended. Unfortunately, I'm not entirely sure of the details. It was always a conversation I wanted to have, to know more, but always felt uncomfortable breaching the subject because it's hard to talk about and there was still a bit of a language barrier between us. My grandpa had been a POW for 5 years as a member of the Polish Army. When they married, my grandpa's uniform was long gone, so he wore an American uniform. He became a butcher and she a schoolteacher. They had my Uncle Ted (of Idaho now), my Aunt (or Ciocha) Christina, and were pregnant with my Mom when they decided to come to the U.S. Fortunately, they had friends who were coming as well and a sponsor family to help them once they arrived.

One of my greatest disappointments is when I went to New York 4 years ago, I didn't make it out to Ellis Island, where they had all passed through in 1951. I'm sure there's still record of them. Maybe even photos.

They settled in Chicago, IL. They bought a house and a butchershop/corner store. The story goes that Babcia was home alone when she went into labor with my Mom. I'd been told that she gave birth to her alone as well, but I think that's been clarified and I'm not remembering the details. 10 years passed and an unexpected surprise resulted in my Uncle Joe being born. In the late 70's/early 80's, my grandparents decided to follow their sponsor family out to California to retire. They ended up in Alpine, CA, a mountain suburb of San Diego. My parents and sister were the last remaining holdouts in Chicago, where I was born.

When I was 4, my parents decided to be closer to my Mom's family and moved us out to Alpine. I spent my first year as a Californian living in my grandparents' home. It was kind of wonderful for a rambunctious little boy to live in a place with plenty of rocks to climb and ways to get dirty. But it was also terrifyingly quite and remote at night. I'd seen horror films at this point. I'm fairly certain my grandma made the effort to convert me from left-handed to right-handed during this time. I can't be sure but my left/right wires definitely feel crossed during various activities. We moved out a little while after my grandpa's death in 1987.

Babcia continued to live out there, at times alone, other times with either of my uncles living there. I believe it was the late 90s, perhaps early 2000s, when my aunt finally convinced Babcia to sell the house and move into her ever-renovated home overlooking Mission Valley. Babcia survived several health scares from breast cancer to a broken pelvis during the past decade, always showing resilience that I can only hope to have. She could still be found pulling weeds and chasing off squirrels out in the garden as recently as last week. She loved birds, particularly Cardinals which always made me happy.

Oddly or coincidentally enough, she survived her husband by exactly 25 years and 25 days. Even further significant because she was born on the 25th (of April). Maybe I just love stats too much but these came to me almost immediately upon hearing the news. 

Again I must stress, if only to myself, that she lived a long, full life and she died peacefully and painlessly. No prolonged illness. No degeneration. I'm told that she even went with my aunt and uncle to the Auto Show the day before and was feisty as ever. I take what comfort I can from that.

R.I.P., Babcia. I love you.

Waleria Bzdawka

4/25/24-12/30/12

"No take picture!"

Tissue Memories

As news of todays tragedy in Connecticut trickled in at work, my coworker put forth the idea that the children who survived the shooting will be forever changed and affected by the horrific things that they saw. At the time, I had thought that all of the murder victims were in the 4th grade, and that led me to remember the tragic event that befell me at the exact same age...

The year was 1993. I was 10 years old. My classmate, Jonathan Sellers, was murdered. I did not witness it, like the poor children of Sandy Hook. Thankfully. Nor was a gun used in the crime. Jonathan was raped and strangled to death along with another boy that I didn't know. Even now as I write this, a memory floats back to me, seeing him the day he disappeared. He was on his bike, riding towards the group of friends I was with. In fact I believe he and Charlie, whose name I learned later on the news, rode past us, to the top of the hill that dead ended my street and back downhill past us, having built up a good amount of speed. I believe he was smiling.

It was a day or two later that I saw the first news reports of their missing, and then eventually, the discovery and their deaths. I didn't know what to make of it. They were a remarkably long way from home for 10 year olds on bikes (Charlie was actually 13). I remembered that only a year earlier I had gone as far away from home as I ever had, on my bike, and with Jonathan. It wasn't even a third of the distance he had traveled, but it scared me none-the-less. I believe that's why I had stopped hanging out with Jonathan. Maybe he was too daring, too bold; but as I befriended and unfriended so many different kids in the neighborhood over the years, for so many different reasons, who could say? It was not lost on me that it could've been me there with him, or my friend Wayne.

I went to Jonathan's funeral with my Dad. A lot of classmates were there. I still have the program and the black lace armband that were given to all in attendance. I remember walking past the open casket at the end of the proceedings and seeing the marks on his neck. He was smiling. Not quite as large as when I'd last seen him but as best as he could under the circumstances.

I don't remember, or maybe I don't want to remember, shedding any tears at the time; though I can assure you I am shedding them as I type this. Our elementary school brought in grief counselors. I remember seeing a 3rd grader, Kenneth (unfortunately and publicly nicknamed "Dickens" by his parents), going to talk with the counselors and thinking, "What could he have to say to them?! He's [Dickens] not even in our grade."

I had already dealt with death by this time. My grandfather died when I was 5, the 25th anniversary of which was 9 days ago. I was watching Saturday morning cartoons with my sister, when I heard my grandmother scream. I was watching ALF Tales. An episode where an animated ALF was doing a Robin Hood parody. I'll likely never forget that. I walked over to where the commotion was and saw my grandmother on the floor of the bathroom with my grandpa. She was zipping him up. He'd had a massive heart attack, while or just after urinating. I'd rather not know those details.

I'm told that at his wake I approached the casket and told my grandpa to "wake up." Puns were beyond me, I can assure you. I have no recollection of doing this. My Mom tells me that my grandpa used to play dead with me for fun but I also have no memory of this. All I remember is being taken outside and walked around and talked to by my Uncle Johney, who distracted me with trivia about the things we saw in the nearby store windows. I remember him telling me about moccasins. There must've been a weird shoe store around that mortuary in 1987. I also remember this being the single reason for declaring Johney: my favorite uncle.

Perhaps that's why I never saw a counselor after Jonathan's death... I certainly had a family support system around me. And maybe by the time I was 10, I'd already accepted that death happened. I can't say for sure.

What is weird is that 3 or 4 years ago, out of nowhere, I was struck with the memory of myself, around age 10, waking up in the middle of the night, going into the bathroom, and crying in pain for what seemed like hours. What confuses me still is the cause. I remember distinctly feeling physical pain. Very generalized. But also a bit like when the guy turns into a wolf in An American Werewolf In London. I don't know. I believe when this memory came to me it was during a discussion with my ex girlfriend about growing pains. The literal pain of your body growing. I'd never considered that to be more than the title of a sitcom. Could that have been what that was...? Or was it the grief? I can't really put together the timeline in my head.

I think that around this same time I had a melancholy obsession with two songs, "It's So Hard To Say Goodbye To Yesterday" by Boyz II Men and "Bohemian Rhapsody" by Queen. Both come out around that time, or in Queen's case been re-introduced by the movie, Wayne's World. I remember sitting and listening to these songs over and over, sometimes staring at photos in magazines intently. "It's So Hard..." is still one of the saddest recordings ever made. I can't hear it and not think about Jonathan. I recall being very aware and concerned with my own mortality. Partly because I literally felt physically ill at times and I have to assume due to being exposed to death twice in my first 10 years. The lyrics in the verses of "Bohemian Rhapsody" are all about death.

"Mama, just killed a man... Too late, my time has come... Body's aching all the time... I don't wanna die, sometimes I wish I'd never been born at all..." These were all so striking and sad and they just resonated with me at a time when death was all so real. I never got outwardly depressed. I don't think anybody knew. These episodes would happen late at night while everyone else was asleep. I've never contemplated suicide. I may have wished for death once during a particularly bad ear infection though. I just kind of knew death happened and felt like that was what happening to me during these episodes.

I wish I could say for certain that they were caused by grief. I don't recall expressing it in front of anyone in any way. So maybe, behind that bathroom door, in the middle of the night, my body just let it all out. Maybe it was growing pains.? That was definitely in the works at that time.

What I can be sure of is that the events of today reminded me of the fact that I am not, and likely none of us are, that far removed from tragedy in some shape or form. I don't think anyone can tell us how to grieve; one can only be there to help us through it. That in itself can be a tall order. I can say that writing this has been therapeutic.

It will be 20 years this March since Jonathan was killed. The man responsible sits on death row. Some dogs need to be put down is all I'll say on that matter. Perhaps a post for another day...

I guess in conclusion I should say that I hope the survivors of Sandy Hook can be helped, that they're able to reach out and seek counsel, which will be hard to know at such young ages. I know that it can only help to mend the internal wounds of this day. And hopefully, in the future there will be far fewer incidents like these to grieve.

Crapple Maps

Well, you ALMOST fucked me there, Apple Maps. And not in the fun way...

I needed to go to UPS to pick up a package. An iPhone cable, ironically. They close at 9pm. I left at 8:15pm. UPS was 13.8 miles away.

Apple Maps led me down all the right freeways but when I got off, it led me to a dead end residential street, and told me to walk to my destination. WALK! Down a dark, dirt road that was fenced off. It was 8:45pm.

I'm too smart to lose to a computer. So I eyeballed the map, ended up down a dark, windy, two-lane road. There I found a cop car that was in the middle of pursuing someone. I busted a very illegal "Uey," luckily was not pursued myself (I should change my last name to Duke), flew BACK DOWN the dark, windy, two-lane road, and found the right way.

I got my package at 8:58pm.

No thanks to you, Apple Maps. *spits at its feet*

:-P Pbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbth!!!