“Bubbe Maases”

By Tziri Frank

I love my Bubby.

I really do.

She’s got a distinct sense of style. And a great sense of humor. And the brilliant common sense to consider me her favorite granddaughter, so what’s not to love?

My Bubbe is fun and entertaining. And she’s also outspoken, and opinionated.

My grandmother knows how to spot an unassuming plastic bow on an obscure gift, take a safety pin in any size, and voila! A versatile accessory is born, that will coordinate with all the tailored clothing that matches the chotchkes and knickknacks that carefully line up on every available surface in every room, on top of doilies, of course!

Yes, my Bubby has the ability and the eye to be fashionably put together. This probably comes from the fact that my grandmother is originally from Hungary. Coming from the country famous for paprika and the invention of the Rubik’s Cube also means that my grandmother comes complete with various the various cultural quirks and clichés of the Land of the Strudel.

So yes, there is a chandelier in my grandmother’s dining room with some kind of doodads on it that coordinate with the tassels on the drapes. And my Bubbe’s coiffed stark black shaitel is first thing on in the morning and last thing off at night. Actually, I suspect that she may sleep in her wig because my grandmother lives in fear that someone may catch a glimpse of her without her “head” and “face” on. And nothing could be less Hungarian and more horrifying than not appearing your best at all times.

Yes, to my Bubby, outer appearances are everything.

And there has been only one time I did not understand why.

It all began many, many years ago when I was young and innocent, and the brand new mother of a severely mentally and physically handicapped newborn son. At that time I barely knew how to spell the word hydrocephalus, let alone the ramifications and realities of parenting such a severely disabled child. At age twenty one I was much more concerned with when I would be able to get out of the hospital and into the stores to buy matching shoes and socks for some baby boy outfits I had seen in the stores than I was with the realities of scheduling all kinds of therapies in between medical visits with specialists. As a new mother, all I was itching to do was start snapping pictures for my new scrapbook, and I wanted the details to be just so, hence my anticipated shopping expedition. I guess the Hungarian blood had not been diluted by two generations of American living.

In any case, I found myself lying motionless after a caesarian section, in a hospital bed, nine and a half months after my wedding, while my newborn son was being photographed and exclaimed over in the Intensive Care Unit of the teaching hospital we were both in. For the record, the students who appeared from all corners of the hospital did not come to admire the beautiful face of this Hungarian descendant. Rather they came because it is rare to find a newborn with such a severe case of hydrocephalus. Yossi’s head circumference at birth was the size of a two year old, and for these medical students, this was an opportunity to see the health text book come to life.

But I knew none of this, because I was lying one floor below the ICU, with the telephone receiver pressed to my ear, sharing my milestone moment. One of the first phone calls was to my grandmother, who had just reached her own landmark event by becoming a great-grandmother.

“Mazal Tov Bubby,” I said, “it’s a boy!”

“Mazal Tov! Mazal Tov!” was the excited response. And then a moment of silence while ancient Austo Hungarian truth seeking sensors went on full alert, “what aren’t you telling me..?”

“Well…” I began, “there is something you should know about the baby….”

And I attempted to explain what I knew and understood about the blockage in the brain stem that caused the cerebral spinal fluid to enlarge the head of my newborn to such unusual proportions. It was probably comical, a case of the ignorant leading the uninformed, using big medical terminology while regurgitating recently memorized facts and statistics, of course. In any case, my grandmother got the message that there was something wrong with the baby. And possibly the way he looked to others.

“You know,” she said when there was a pause in the conversation, “I’m thinking….”

“About accessories for the pictures?” I asked innocently.

“No….” said my grandmother slowly, “I am thinking that we don’t have to tell people about this…. You never know how it may affect shidduchim one day…” (Ha! There may be something to this Hungarian penchant for drama...)

I was silent.

So my well-meaning Bubby who had yet to lay eyes on my newborn son continued, “Yes, that is what we should do. We will just keep quiet about this whole hydro whatever you call it condition. No one has to know, OK?”

Maybe it came from my teenage years of never disclosing that my parents were divorced. The longer I tried to ignore that particular elephant in the room, the bigger and more threatening the behemoth became.   Or maybe I was maturing by the moment, and realizing that the ludicrousness of attempting to hide a baby whose head was completely misshapen. In any case, from somewhere deep inside me the words just came.

“No, it is not OK,” I said respectfully, “I am not going to hide the truth about my son. Because something that is hidden becomes something to be embarrassed about. And this baby is not something I will ever be embarrassed about!”

My grandmother was silent. My Bubby was quiet. And the conversation ended quickly after that.

A few months later, my husband, my Yossi, and I moved out of town and out of the country and true to her word, my Bubbe never asked questions about the baby’s condition and rarely mentioned him at all. And I understood. And because I love my Bubby, I accepted.

Time passed and eventually, in an interesting turn of events (see Frankly Speaking circa 2004) Yossi eventually ended up moving to a residential home in the heart of Boro Park which was located a few blocks away from my grandmother, his great-grandmother. Perhaps it was because he was so close. Maybe it was because appearances dictate that it did not look nice for others to realize that Yossi was residing nearby and not go and see him. But one day, my grandmother applied yet another coat of lipstick, put on coordinating jewelry, and schlepped my grandfather to “visit”.

And an interesting thing occurred. The moment my Bubby laid eyes on Yossi, she fell instantly and completely under his spell. Her bi-weekly visits became the highlights of her weeks, and in a relatively short time she had befriended various staff members, visiting volunteers, and knew intimate details about other group home residents extended family members.

“There are other grandchildren in this family, you know,” pointed out an aunt when she couldn’t find as she moved yet another picture of Yossi off the mantel to make way for a child of her own.

“And great-grandchildren!” added a cousin as she positioned her twins in front of my grandmother.

“I know! I know,” said the matriarch of the family uncapping the candy platter and handing it around, “I must tell you about my visit with Yossi yesterday!”

“When did you become such a Yossi advocate?” wondered the relatives.

When indeed? What had changed my Bubby from “Sh! Don’t talk about this child!” to doing nothing but talk about the same severely mentally and physically handicapped child?

The answer is knowledge. For my Hungarian born grandmother, the prospect of something different and not the normal was frightening. But after getting to know Yossi and becoming more informed about him and his condition, my Bubby was able to look past the outer differences to see the beauty of the neshoma and the child within.

Information truly is the key to breaking down barriers of prejudice which are born of ignorance. If it could happen with my grandmother, it can happen with others as well.

And of course it helped that Yossi’s inner beauty was matched by his angelic face and beatific smile.

He does look like my side of the family, after all!