My Ode to Bicha

Life is so surreal.
Sometimes its amazing and everything is perfect. Other times, life occurrences shake you out of your core.
This week happens to be one of those weeks.
I started with great news on the work and school front; and my married life is on an upswing right now. Overall, things are good.
One thing you might not know is that I also have a family. Besides my hubby, I also have two younger brothers and a sister. Like myself, they are all married. My father, as you may have figured out through my musings, died a few years back - quite suddenly I may add.
I also have a mom, who survived through Stage Three breast cancer, and that currently lives in one of my childhood homes.
But one person that I have failed to share anything about is my maternal grandmother, who I lovingly named Bicha. (more to that later).
It's because of her sudden, but expected, passing this week, that my life has turned upside down.
Like my father who was my rock, my Bicha also had a significant role in my life. She was my soul and second mom.
She was the woman that held me first, bathed me first, had the challenge of defending me among those that were not happy with my birth, and the woman that believed in my creative talent. So much so, that we continuously discover small scraps of paper that had my drawings on them - because one day they would be "fashion designs."  She believed in my that much.
She was also the woman that would stay behind in the house or kitchen, when everyone else was playing outside, because I was either too sick, too weak or too allergic to the sun (grass or anything else) to be outside with others.
She was the woman that wouldn't push me to play, but instead commended my passion in reading, understood my need for space and selective introversion.
When I worked at Kmart, she was known to go to mass and walk over to the store - only to spend the entire day there and watch me work. That gave her great pleasure.
She was unique and many might call outspoken to the point of having sometimes little to no filter, but classy and proud. Traits that I have picked-up unknowingly.
Separated from her abusive husband before her marriage hit the ten year mark, she and my mom made their way through life and eventually immigrated to the US in the early 60s. Other than a couple of years in the 90s, my grandmother has lived with us her whole life until her Alzhiemer's was too severe to live at home. My father, who was like her son, had the biggest problem with her going into hospice. He felt that we were giving up on her. But he never did. Until his death in 2005, he would visit my grandmother two, sometimes up to four times a day. More so that my mom.  They were that close.
So when my dad died, my grandmother took a turn for the worse. Although she far outlived every prediction by most doctors, she was still my grandma, my Bicha, and it hurts so much to have to say bye to her body although her mind has been gone for so long.
My husband never had the fortune of tasting her amazing food, watching her belly laughs over some out-of-sorts jokes, and her her stories about Mexico in the early 19th century and how much Southern California had changed since her arrival.
My friends have only heard my stories about my amazing Bicha traveling to France, Spain, Rome and Israel, by herself, and having the fortune of meeting Pope John Paul II - but will never look into her beautiful blue eyes as they opened in wonderment when talking about those moments.
My colleagues will never hear from her lips the reason to be grateful and always give back to those in need, while I proudly share how my grandmother was involved in not one, but several charity organizations.
My girlfriends will never have the fortune of walking through a store with my grandmother and be educated on the (lost) fine art of couture dress making or watch Bicha's nimble hands create beautiful fashion.
I didn't the fortune of having my Bicha make my wedding dress or blessing my marriage. Seeing my home or sharing, in conversation, what my life is now like. I haven't felt the touch of her hands rubbing my legs or forehead in years, and her amazing recipes are all but a distant memory.
Truth be told, her mind has been gone for so long, that I had avoided bringing much attention to her not being part of important life milestone because I selfishly didn't want to be reminded of how much I missed her.
It pains to hear anyone call her by the name given to her in my infant giberish as if they knew her like I did. Like my siblings did. Or even understand what the significance of Bicha was to me. To us.
Bicha, as odd as it may seem, was meant to be Mama Luisa. But to an infant learning to speak, the letters melded together and came out as Bicha. I was never corrected, or if I was, in my headstrong way, I kept it. My siblings adopted it, and there you have it.
It was a term of endearment, a name that most people didn't understand or cared to learn how it came to be. And now that others use it, it bothers me. It was like a secret society name for the four grandchildren that were more than that. We were, in essence, her children.
It's because of this that it was so hard for me to see her slowly deteriorate by Alzheimers. Not ready to see her go down that dark abyss that is Alzheimers, I continuously challenged her to be the person she always was. Some may call it cruel, but I was being as tough with her because the moment I gave in, I saw it as giving up on her. She didn't deserve that.
So while others, family even, avoided the subject or pretended it wasn't happening, it was. I saw it. I lived through it..and it wasn't pretty. Alzheimer's a horrid way to go.
As a grandchild, I lived with her the longest out of anyone. No one deserves to forget their life. No one deserves to be a shell of who they were...and I was mad. I am mad.
Although she left in the middle of a dream, the last ten years were robbed from all of us...and void from her time on this earth.  I am also hurt and feel slighted...and I am still mad. Very.
I wish I had better words to describe this incredible loss...but all I can muster is thinking back to the moments when my Bicha was alive and as spunky as ever. All I can do, right now, is cry about the woman she was when alive and well...not the shell of the body that has now left us.
I'm going through her words and trying to remember what it felt like to lay next to her as a child and feel her beautiful skin warm my body. I repeat the songs, that she composed for each of the four of us, to help us sleep and that we later tried to sing-along as a way to recreate the childhood moments.
I now weep, both loudly and in silence, trying to trace back every important moment as if to register them on a list - trying not to forget anything. Trying not to forget the Bicha that was well, and not the body that has now left us.