See me through my Grandma’s Eyes
Theresa Buccico
For the first ten years of my existence, I had the life of a child. But when I was eleven, I found out that the woman I called "Ma" was really my grandma, and my biological mom was her only birth child. Learning this secret caused me to question everything but Ma's love for me. But when I was fifteen, my belief that Ma would always be there for me shattered like the windshield I flew into.
The sun had just set and Ma and I were headed home from the laundromat accompanied by the wonderful smell of freshly washed clothes. As we approached a bend in the road, we were blinded by the light of headlights charging towards us. When the car hit me, I flew into the windshield, smashing a hole in the glass with my forehead.
All my life red had been my favorite color and fresh laundry had always given off my favorite smell. But now laundry was scattered all over the crashed car and everything I saw looked red because of the blood running down my face.
Through the broken passenger window, someone handed me a green and white checkered hand towel. Now I know it was a lady who saw the crash happen in front of her house--she was the first person I saw. After I wiped my eyes, I looked over to my left. Ma was in agony. Although she had a bone sticking out of her left leg, her first words after the accident proved her determination to take care of me. "Are you OK?"
As I said "yes" through bloody tears, my fears overtook my physical pain. My feelings of powerlessness intensified as I watched the jaws of life work to free Ma from the wreckage. I felt alone and overwhelmed. Suddenly, instead of Ma being responsible for me, I would need to advocate for myself—and for her.
Sent to the hospital in a separate ambulance from Ma, my mind continued to grapple with reality. No one would be coming to help me. My biological mother was in a treatment facility for her lifelong substance use disorder. My father—who I had met for the first time only the year before—had no contact with me. My brother was incarcerated.
Once at the hospital, all I could think about was when I would be able to be reunited with Ma. But my requests to see her—maybe for the last time—were ignored. Instead, the doctor taking the glass out of my forehead asked me, "Does this hurt?" "No," I exploded, "it fucking tickles!" The doctor immediately stopped treating me and said he was taking me to tell my mother how I had spoken to him! He seemed to be more worried about his dignity than my physical or emotional pain.
However, I was relieved to finally have a chance to see my ma, and when the doctor complained about my behavior, I knew she really saw the scared little girl in front of her. Instead of a foul-mouthed brat she saw her ninth grade A student projects-fair winner. She grabbed my hand in hers, and in her soft voice looked me in the eyes and said, "Mija, behave". I remember thinking: "Ha, ha, doc! She loves me no matter what." In retrospect, I can see from that point forward all the decisions I made were shaped by my determination to never disappoint Ma. Her love gave me the courage and strength to move forward.
I don't recall the doctor's reaction to this episode. All I know is that he never completed my treatment. Looking back, I wonder why he was so offended by my sarcasm that he couldn't see the frightened little girl in front of him. He needed to see me through my grandma's eyes to really see me. Years later I still had glass coming out of my forehead. Twenty years after the accident, I learned that I still had damage to my neck and a curve in my spine that might have been detected when it happened— but I was never given an x-ray. Instead, I was sent home soon after the doctor complained about me to Ma. I was asked if anything else hurt besides my forehead. Of course, I said no.
I spent the next six months bouncing from one church family's couch to another throughout the city. I started off with a friend of Ma's from church, but the friend was a single mom of two teenage girls and only two weeks and three teens later it was all too much. I never lasted anywhere despite being well-behaved. I never missed school. I would walk or take the public bus from wherever I was. I would work at Burger King on the weekends as a cashier and visit Ma every day after school.
This was the turning point of my life. Life as I'd known it was gone.
Six months after the accident, as I entered the eleventh grade, Ma was finally ready to come home. Each day before I headed off to school, I made sure she had taken her medications and had breakfast. After school, I'd make her lunch before heading to work.
This is when I became responsible for Ma and for myself. Both of our lives—our physical and emotional health, our well-being and growth— were completely dependent on my ability to adapt, learn, and apply what I had learned. I wondered what our future would look like.
Today I am proud to see how far I've come despite the odds. I use my experience as a survivor of multiple tragedies to advocate professionally for marginalized people labeled difficult. As a Massachusetts Certified Peer Specialist, I focus particularly on supporting those with co-occurring disorders of a mental health condition and substance misuse. Over the years I've learned to use communication as an art form to create a portrait of people's needs, so they get the attention, empathy, and help they need and deserve. I know from my own family's stories how important that is.
Today I am calling on all medical providers to humanize healthcare. When people seem silent, ask yourself if you're really listening. When people seem difficult, ask yourself if they have difficult lives. My story was hard—not me! I am pleading for medical professionals to approach patients and family members with curiosity, compassion, nurturing, and holistic healing. Let my voice remind you that someday a story will be told about what you did or failed to do in the course of your career. Make sure that when that time comes, people tell a story about a person whose skill was matched by their empathy as they cared for humanity.
Theresa is a proud Puerto Rican-American who was raised in Worcester by her grandma. She is a mother of two beautiful daughters. She is a poet and a healing daughter, telling her story to empower others to overcome health inequities with Hope.
