A Grief Road Trip Helped Me Cope With My Grandmother's Death
My travels helped me remember all the fun I had with Busia — of course, I could never forget
Each night before I'd leave her bedside at the nursing home, yellowed walls and the scent of dead flowers permeating the air, my 93-year-old grandma, Busia ("Boo-sha" in Polish), would ask the same thing, "When I'm gone, I hope you'll remember all the fun we had?" "Of course," I'd say. "How could I ever forget?"
And I couldn't.
Ever since my mother had gotten divorced when I was three, we'd lived with Busia in Chicago until I went off to college. From a young age, she raised me and my brother on a steady diet of adventure and travel.
Busia's passion for finding fun and adventure was so strong that she even gifted me a set of Samsonite luggage as a high school graduation present.
She would take us to all kinds of places: venturing on the subway downtown to have hot fudge sundaes — complete with gummy worms and crushed-up-chocolate-cookie "dirt" for them to live in — at what was then the iconic Marshall Field's; driving us to seemingly far-off cities — like Milwaukee and Door County, Wisconsin — to see the fall foliage and collect as many orange, yellow and red leaves as we could find sprinkled under the trees like raindrops; and driving us to even further cities so we could eat funnel cakes, ice cream and turkey legs (which seemed dinosaur-sized to me and my brother), and go on as many carnival rides as possible at events like the Minnesota State Fair.
Remembering the Fireworks
Back in Chicago, she'd take us to church ice cream socials on weekends and we'd love sneaking out of our bedrooms and staying up late with her — almost until dawn —as she introduced us to her favorite movies like "The Apartment" and "Sabrina." One summer, she insisted we go have High Tea...in London. I still remember thinking how the towers of miniature sandwiches were the cutest things I'd ever seen.
Every Fourth of July, we'd go to her friend's high-rise apartment on Lake Shore Drive in downtown Chicago to see the fireworks and watch the kaleidoscope of colors shoot off in all directions above Lake Michigan.
Busia's passion for finding fun and adventure was so strong that she even gifted me a set of Samsonite luggage as a high school graduation present. I used the overnight bag everywhere I went.
In 2015, when her nurse called to tell me that Busia's congestive heart failure was getting worse, I left LA and moved back to Chicago, where we had different, yet familiar, kinds of adventures.
There'd be tea parties with the other nursing home residents — complete with the same tiny sandwiches I'd loved as a kid and High Tea-type hats for everyone to wear — as well as ice cream socials and movie nights, coincidentally showing Busia's favorite classic films like "The Apartment" and "Sabrina."
One night, I snuck Busia out of the nursing home like a criminal escaping jail, slowly pushing her wheelchair so it wouldn't make the linoleum tiles in the hallway creak as we approached the Emergency Exit Only door. Our favorite nurse gave us an I-see-you-but-I-don't-see-you nod and I wheeled Busia to the back of the building, a barren parking lot, so she could see the fireworks on the Fourth of July.
I watched her watching them, a smile on her face, seeing some of the colorful firework hues — reds, blues, greens — in the reflection of her glasses. Suddenly, a family of raccoons circled us, their eyes glowing bright green in the moonlight, making me push her wheelchair back to the nursing home as fast as I could.
Although it was scary at the time, once we got back into the safety of her room, we laughed and laughed. When Busia went to bed that night, she said her trademark, "When I'm gone, I hope you'll remember all the fun we had?" "Of course," I said. "How could I ever forget?"
The following Fourth of July, I watched the fireworks alone on the side of the road — ironically, on Lake Shore Drive. Busia had passed away the night before and I imagined she was lighting up the sky now, saying hello and giving me a message: "Remember all the fun we had?"
I laid in bed in my Chicago sublet for weeks, wondering if it was possible to run out of tears, not sure how to live without her.
And then, one night, I heard fireworks after a Cubs game. I ran outside to get a glimpse of them and knew what I had to do: Get out and have some Busia type of fun.
Remembering the Funnel Cakes
The next morning, I hurriedly packed my overnight Samsonite bag with a few changes of clothes, grabbed my laptop and sleeping bag, and headed to my bright red Mini Cooper convertible. I stopped at a bookstore, got a road atlas, and opened it to an arbitrary page.
Suddenly, my grief didn't feel as isolating as it had when I'd been all alone, curled up in bed in Chicago.
Since I was not beholden to anyone or anything in Chicago — I worked remotely as a writer and editor for various magazines — I figured I'd just get away for a few days on a road trip around the Midwest, visiting some of my grandma's favorite places, or be guided by whatever page I happened to open my road atlas to. I literally, and figuratively, had no plan.
One moment, I found myself headed South in search of some good barbecue (Busia loved some good tri-tip). The next, I found myself driving north to the Minnesota State Fair and eating a funnel cake for her. And the next, I found myself going through Wisconsin in search of some fall foliage, collecting colorful leaves from tree to tree.
Soon, "a few days" had turned into a few months. I'd tell everyone and anyone about my grandma, from coffee baristas to hostel workers to other travelers I'd meet out and about.
I'd tell them about the time Busia and I had been watching the Oscars and she'd noticed an actress' very short dress and said, "That dress would be nice if there were more of it."
Or how I'd ask Busia about the nursing home food, and she'd said, "It's not bad. It's much better than your mother's cooking."
Or how, when I walked into Busia's nursing home room one day, she'd said, "If you run down the hall, you can still catch him." "Who?" I asked. "My new doctor," she replied. "If you don't, I will."
I'd laugh one moment, cry the next. My new strangers-turned-friends would, too. And it turned out that many of them also had grandma stories to share. Suddenly, my grief didn't feel as isolating as it had when I'd been all alone, curled up in bed in Chicago.
Before I knew it, four months had passed, seemingly overnight, and although driving around America was not a way to escape my grief, it was a way to stay connected to my grandma in spite of it.
As I drove back into Chicago on the final day of my trip, fireworks suddenly started going off in front of me on Lake Shore Drive. I had no idea what the occasion was until I realized Busia was probably the occasion, welcoming me back and asking, "Remember all the fun we had?"
Of course. How could I ever forget?
