O Night Divine

Desperate for a sign—or even the tiniest glimmer of hope that I would be okay—I directed my evening prayers on June 27, 2022, to my guardian angel, my maternal grandmother, Mary. It wasn't so much a prayer as it was a gut-wrenching, ceiling-directed plea—a full-blown ugly cry that could put Sally Field's meltdown in Steel Magnolias to shame.

I was in my 50s—jobless, broke, and broken. While my friends were lavishly preparing for retirement, I was barely hanging on, struggling to survive. And so, I prayed.

What followed was beyond anything I could have imagined. Over the next four days, a series of extraordinary events unfolded, leaving no doubt: Grandma was listening.

In life and beyond Grandma was my source of strength guiding me through good times and bad. Whenever I found myself in a predicament, I'd pray, "Grandma, please help me get through this."

Once, during college, I was driving home through a blizzard, the expressway littered with pileups. The conditions were treacherous, but I was 18 and felt invincible. Thankfully, a semi-truck appeared in the distance, which my gut told me to follow. I stayed behind that truck for six harrowing miles until it turned onto an exit ramp—the very ramp I needed to take to get safely home.

Another time, I prayed to Grandma after boarding the wrong train late at night in downtown Chicago. Panic set in when the elderly ticket collector told me the train wouldn't be looping back. "Nope, this is the last stop of the night," he said bluntly as he walked away. A rush of terror spread through me. The neighborhood at the end of the line was one of Chicago's most dangerous, and in those days, we didn’t have cell phones to call for help.

All I could do was whisper, "Grandma, I'm scared. I need you."

When the ticket collector returned, I was in tears. I explained my mistake, and he asked where I lived. I told him, and he said, "Oh, I live just three blocks from you on Hoxie. I can take you home." I lived in the south suburbs, so his likelihood of living in my neighborhood was extremely slim. However, after a quick serial killer assessment, I decided to take the risk. Luckily, he was kind, dropping me off safely in front of my house.

Later, I asked neighbors on his street if they knew him. No one did. It was as if he didn’t exist. I wanted to believe he was an angel sent by Grandma, but doubt crept in, as always, when it came to my faith. Instead, I intellectualized the encounter as a serendipitous rescue.

Unlike me, I doubt Grandma's faith ever wavered. She was deeply religious, praying the rosary daily, which annoyingly took her attention away from us grandkids. She often cared for me, my two siblings, and three cousins who lived next door.

Bedtime with Grandma was my favorite time - pure magic. We'd cuddle beside her as she spun tales with twists, turns, and life lessons that pulled us right in. When the stories turned scary, we’d cling to her, wide-eyed, our imaginations racing, convinced the kids dancing on the back of an elephant might tumble off. Happily, they survived.

We snuggled even closer when the mean witch was about to eat us. But then, with an unexpected thwack of her broomstick, the wart-ridden tip of her nose broke off, and her scowl softened into a warm smile. The spell of meanness was broken, leaving behind a kind-hearted old woman.

Grandma’s stories were fun, like her. I remember she taught us how to enjoy a glass of milk properly. In her Croatian accent, she said, "After you swallow, smack your lips and your tongue to the roof of your mouth three times, then let out a big ahhhhhh."

We gulped our milk, then practiced with exaggerated "mmt-mmt-mmt ahhh" sounds, giggling as if we were part of an elite milk-drinking club. Grandma laughed, brightening her beautiful face and causing her soft, round belly to jiggle.

Our favorite outings with Grandma were trips to the park, where her patience and watchful eye turned even the most treacherous playground into a haven of fun. The only playground near her house was a concrete jungle with jagged-edged monkey bars, scorching metal slides, and a spinning wheel of death. For hours, Grandma watched us, never rushing or saying it was time to leave. Thanks to her steady vigilance, we always made it home without stitches or a tetanus shot.

We were her world, and from our point of view, Grandma existed solely to feed, entertain, and protect us. It never crossed our minds that she might have a life beyond us.

We didn't know she was born in the United States in 1907, moved to Croatia as a young girl, and returned to America in 1923.

We had no idea that the slight bump on her nose was an unwanted Christmas gift she received as a child while living in Zagreb, Croatia. Grandma’s family was poor and often starving; on one Christmas Eve, she and her siblings were famished. Knowing that loaves of bread were stored in the rafters, Grandma grabbed a broomstick, skillfully knocking down a hard, stale loaf that landed squarely on her nose.

We also didn't know about her love-at-first-sight meeting with Grandpa while he was playing music at a Croatian picnic in Grandma's hometown, McKeesport, Pennsylvania. After his mesmerizing performance, they talked for hours, solidifying their attraction. Sadly, when Gramps had to return to Chicago, Grandma wondered if she’d ever see him again.

But the heart wants what the heart wants. Though broke, Gramps found a way to visit. When possible, he'd hop a freight train from Chicago to McKeesport on Friday and return the same way on Sunday.

Eventually, the hobo and the beauty married.

Over the years, Gramps became a well-known musician in the Croatian community. By day, he worked at the steel mill, and on weekends, he played in Croatian bands for private parties and weddings, giving Grandma free time to take my mom and aunt on grand adventures to the zoo, museums, and Riverview amusement park. Even on the bus, Grandma was fashionably dressed, holding her black snap-top handbag that, when opened, smelled of Wrigley's Spearmint gum.

Women of her day weren’t usually fiercely independent, but Grandma had gumption. Yet, there were moments when I’d notice her sitting quietly, drinking coffee, lost in a faraway look as if she was longing for something. I wondered if Grandma ever dreamed of a more exciting life. Had she been born a few generations later, Grandma might have run a publishing company or become an accomplished author—she was that gifted.

Sadly, in her time, women's roles were mostly confined to family, while men like Gramps, whose music career and fame flourished, seemed to have it all. To his credit, Gramps was a good man—a hard worker and an excellent provider. He'd hand Grandma his check every payday without dictating how she should spend it.

Grandma was frugal and wise, which paid off. In 1953, they moved the family into a newly built home on the east side of Chicago, for which they paid $13,250 - in cash. They stayed in that cozy bungalow long after my mom and aunt grew up and married.

That house became the backdrop for some of our happiest childhood memories, especially at Christmas, when the smell of Grandma's homemade noodle soup and fried chicken filled the air with comfort and joy. After dinner, Gramps would bust out his tamburitza, a guitar-like instrument, and we'd dance, laugh, and celebrate.

Those happy days lasted until I was eleven. That’s when Grandma's heart broke.

The day Grandma was admitted to the hospital for a heart attack, a fierce January blizzard swept in, burying cars and shutting down Chicago. It was as if God wanted everyone to stop and rest with her so she could heal.

She never did. Days later, as the storm's silence settled, Grandma passed on, and I learned what it truly meant to feel numb.

The wake lasted two days, with hundreds coming to mourn her. Evidently, Grandma did have a life outside of us grandkids. For the first time, I saw her through other people's eyes. Friends wept as they shared stories about her kind heart and generous spirit. A daughter of one of Grandma’s friends remained by her side the entire wake, grieving as if Grandma were her mother. It was clear she was deeply loved.

At her funeral, I designated Grandma as my honorary guardian angel, whom I needed more than ever on June 27, 2022.

Before the pandemic, I wasn’t an emotional wreck, and my life was pretty good. My biggest worry was an upcoming doctor's appointment to figure out the cause of my chronic abdominal pain. Then COVID struck, canceling my appointment and sending the world into an emotional freefall.

After a year of living in the pandemic's wake of death, suicide, uncertainty, fear, and alienation, I was emotionally fragile. Physically, I was weak from the chronic abdominal pain and its side effects that I could no longer ignore. It was time to see the doctor.

"You have a benign fibroid tumor that we need to surgically remove – soon," said my doctor.

Within weeks, I was in pre-op, telling every medical professional who entered my room that I had a life-threatening allergy to a specific medication.

When the primary nurse arrived, she noticed my red wristband boldly labeled ALLERGY and asked, "What are you allergic to?" I explained, but she shook her head. "You're not allergic to that. Let me check." I insisted she was wrong, but she ignored me, typing on the computer for at least ten minutes.

"What are you doing?" I finally asked. "I'm trying to find the correct name for what you're really allergic to." Then, as if she'd struck gold, she announced, "Here it is! You're actually allergic to this." Her behavior was bizarre. I wondered why she was challenging a documented fact.

In my head, I nicknamed her Nurse Ratched because she frightened me.

Fortunately, the anesthesiologist was clear about my allergy, so I convinced myself everything would be fine. After she checked my airway, I casually mentioned how her job must be exciting. She smiled and replied, "Exciting is the last thing I want my job to be. A drama-free, uneventful surgery—that's what makes me happy."

Unfortunately, she did not get her wish.

"Get cardiology in here!" were the first words I heard as I struggled to open my eyes. There was a flurry of footsteps, machines beeping, and voices calling my name. "Joan, can you hear me?" someone asked. I moaned in response. When my eyes were finally able to focus, the anesthesiologist was standing next to me. She smiled gently and said, "You gave us all quite a scare."

Apparently, I had crashed in post-op.

A cardiologist arrived and slapped a Holter monitor on my chest, instructing me to wear it for two weeks to collect data on my heart. "There's nothing wrong with my heart," I protested, but they weren't so sure. Why else would a perfectly healthy person's heart rate and blood pressure plummet to life-threatening levels?

I was confused, my head spinning. Worried, I thought, Oh my God, this is how I'm going to die! I must have a heart condition, just like Grandma.

Physically recovering from the surgery was easy. However, dealing with the emotional pain was challenging. I kept thinking about Grandma—how afraid she must've been after her heart attack. Even though remembering her gave me the strength to stay positive, questions about my surgery invaded my every thought. Curious about my supposed heart condition, I requested my medical records from the surgery.

What I found shocked me.

There it was, in black and white—Nurse Ratched had injected me with the medication I kept telling her I was allergic to. Worse, my surgeon had also administered it during the procedure. How could the safety protocols in that operating room have failed so disastrously?

At my follow-up visit, I asked my doctor why she gave me that medication. She explained that Nurse Ratched had assured her I wasn't allergic to it, and then she added, "I'm sorry."

Two months later, I visited a physician who was unaffiliated with the hospital. She reviewed my Holter monitor results and confirmed what I had suspected; my heart was perfectly normal.

That's when it hit me—NURSE RATCHED HAD INTENTIONALLY POISONED ME.

The hospital administrators and doctors did a remarkable job of deflecting responsibility, pushing to protect themselves by painting me as a silly, overreactive patient. While they were in full-on cover-their-ass mode, I was left worrying that their negligence would reoccur—and their next victim might die.

What hurt most wasn’t the negligence but the dismissal by the very people meant to protect me. That betrayal was the final straw that broke me.

I couldn't sleep anymore. When I did, the nightmares came. At work, I couldn't concentrate and stopped caring about anything. I was a raw, painful ball of emotions, prone to rogue outbursts. By the end of the year, I left my job.

Soon, I found myself sitting in a psychiatrist's office. The psychiatrist was appalled by the hospital's negligence and diagnosed me with PTSD. With patience and kindness, he helped me piece myself back together again.

However, even after seven months, my Humpty Dumpty scars wouldn't allow me to fully function. By June 27, 2022, I was still unemployed and financially drained.

The morning after my desperate prayer to Grandma, I returned to my usual routine: coffee, breakfast, and a masochistic scroll through social media to see how amazing everyone else's life was. This time, though, a friend's post caught my eye. It was about a short-term job at NBC—a Covid Scheduling Manager for the Dick Wolf shows filming in Chicago. Something about it just felt right.

I hadn't applied for a job in over twenty years. I was an Emmy award-winning TV producer and an accomplished Casting Director who was overqualified and old(er). I needed an emotional appeal to convince the hiring manager, Ellen, to consider me.

I wrote, "Please don't let my scope of experience prevent you from considering me for this or other openings. I'm a team player in the middle of a career pivot and would love the opportunity to work with you."

Hitting Send made me feel like I was retaking control of my life.

To my surprise and delight, Ellen responded on Tuesday and scheduled a Zoom interview for Wednesday. I was giddy.

Ellen was a breath of fresh air. I instantly liked her. She was confident, intelligent, fun, and compassionate—the kind of person you'd want to work with. I had to get this job.

On Thursday morning, my email dinged as I walked into the salon for a haircut appointment. I got the job!

Before I could respond, Tina, my new stylist, whom I’d chosen randomly from the salon’s website, led me to her chair. She asked how I wanted my hair cut, and I told her I didn’t care as long as she made me look twenty years younger.  She laughed, “No problem!”

Tina radiated warmth and kindness. Her calming energy made me feel completely at ease. We talked about my life as she worked, and I mentioned the job offer. She shared in my excitement with genuine enthusiasm.

"Do you live around here?" I asked. Tina smiled and said, "No, I'm on the southeast side, which is really the east side. Not many people know much about it—it's about 15 miles from here." I replied, "I love the east side and I know it well."

As Tina cut my hair, I shared stories of my East Side escapades with Grandma, which made me think about her.

After Grandma died and Gramps was moving out of their bungalow, we cleaned their house and found hundreds of dollars hidden under the bathroom sink, in dresser drawers, and tucked into random cabinets. It became a mini scavenger hunt for me and my siblings to see who could find the most.

I told Tina, "If you lived in my Grandma's house, you'd have to go on a treasure hunt for money. They were poor growing up during the Depression, so they hid bonds and cash throughout the house. I swear, probably thousands of dollars are still in those walls."

But I wasn’t honest about why I thought Grandma hid the money.

Years after her death, Mom confided that Grandma struggled with mental illness. She was even hospitalized once because it got so bad. After enduring several treatments, Grandma wasn't getting better, and there was talk of extended care, which terrified my Mom.

On one of her visits, Mom found Grandma sitting on a hallway bench, staring off into space. Mom sat beside her, trying to engage, but Grandma wasn't responsive. Overwhelmed, Mom began to cry.

"Mom," she said through tears, "I need you to get better. I'm pregnant."

Grandma miraculously snapped out of her daze at the mention of the pregnancy. She turned to Mom, looked her in the eyes, and hugged her tightly. Within days, Grandma was discharged from the hospital and never needed to return.

While she still had moments of depression, Grandma became functional again. The news of Mom's pregnancy seemed to have flipped a switch, bringing Grandma back to life—for good.

That’s how Grandma and I became spiritually connected. You see, the baby Mom was pregnant with was me.

Tina interrupted my daydream. "Is this short enough?" I replied, "Yes." I felt compelled to bring up the east side again. "Is that concrete playground park still on Avenue L? That place was a death trap." She laughed. "I'm not sure." 

I continued to push. "I loved that neighborhood and going to my grandparent's house. It had fascinating nooks to explore. They even had an old-fashioned hand-wringer laundry machine."

Tina smiled politely. If I were her, stuck listening to me prattle on about the east side, I'd be counting the minutes until I was out of that chair. I kept pressing. "My Grandma lived on Avenue J."

Tina stopped cutting. We locked eyes in the mirror. "I live on Avenue J," she said.

The hair on my arms stood up. "Whoa, that's weird. It's not like the east side of Chicago is a small town." She replied, "Yeah, that is weird. I've got chills."

What a bizarre coincidence! Maybe that's why I kept harping on the east side—subconsciously, I felt a connection existed. I tried to recall Grandma's address but couldn't.

I laughed, repeating, "Too bad you're not living in my Grandma's house. You'd be rich with all that money hidden in the walls." Tina chuckled and said, "The previous owner remodeled my house. If there were money, they'd have found it."

"Ahh," I said, "I guess the odds of you living in the same house are a million to one anyway."

I wanted to change the subject—really, I did—but I couldn't let go of my burgeoning obsession. "It's too bad I can't remember her address," I said, almost to myself.

Tina finished cutting my hair and reached for the blow dryer, which is when, out of nowhere, and without thinking, I blurted, "My Grandma's address was 1622 Avenue J."

Tina froze, her stare piercing the mirror.

Slowly, she whispered, "I live at 1622 Avenue J."

I laughed nervously. "That's funny. No, you don't."

Her incredulous expression didn't change.  "Yes, I do. I live at 1622 Avenue J."

I couldn't breathe and felt disconnected from my body. Finally, I managed to speak. "I'm not sure that's the right address," I admitted in a shaky voice. "It's been over 30 years since I was at their house. I don't even know if I ever knew the address."

Desperately, I called my Mom to double-check, but she didn't answer.

As Tina and I hugged goodbye, I promised to let her know if she was indeed living in my Grandma’s house. About an hour later, Mom called back. "Yes," she said, her voice filled with amazement. "That's the address. I can’t believe it. That’s so bizarre.”

I told Mom I’d call her back later and immediately called the salon, asking them to tell Tina she was living in my grandparents' house.

Sitting on my couch, I wondered, what does this all mean?

Then it hit me. On Sunday night, I prayed specifically to Grandma, something I rarely did – less than a handful of times. The following morning, I saw the job posting. By Thursday, I had the job and met Tina, who lived in Grandma’s house. This was too profound to rationalize away as a coincidence; Grandma intentionally wanted to prove she was listening.

Two months later, Tina sent me a message inviting my family to a Labor Day party at her house. Driving through Mom's old neighborhood unleashed a flood of memories. Mom, now 81, pointed out where she first lived, and we passed the cement playground—now safely updated with a rubber landing.

When we arrived, the house looked different. It had been renovated, with an entirely new floor added. But beneath the changes, the original home stood proud—the red brick, A-frame bungalow where Grandma used to greet us with hugs and kisses at the door.

Tina welcomed us warmly, hugging us as I introduced her to Mom. Once inside, memories played vividly in my mind. I could see Gramps sitting on the couch and Grandma gazing out the window.

The house had changed in some ways. A redesign opened the rooms, making it feel more spacious. Modern furniture replaced mid-century pieces, and Mexican music filled the air once occupied by Gramp’s tamburitza tunes. What remained, however, was a rich ethnic culture pulsing through the home's veins and Tina's lovely family ensuring its heart still beat with love.

I handed Tina our gift. "Mom kept the original deed to the house," I said, pulling out the framed document. "We thought you might like to hang it.” She thanked us and then introduced her family.

As we shared stories, countless strange coincidences came to light. For instance, I discovered that a close co-worker of mine at NBC was her firefighter brother's ex-boss. Mom learned that she had high school connections with Tina’s uncle and even worked at the same hospital during the same time as Tina’s grandmother.

During Tina's house tour, we paused a few times for Mom. Walking through her childhood home brought back many memories and overwhelming emotions. Tears welled as she said, "It's nice to be here to say goodbye. I'm so grateful for this gift. Thank you, Tina." Tina smiled and hugged her tightly.

My emotional moment occurred when we stepped into Grandma's bedroom. Though Tina had transformed it into a home salon, I saw no changes. In my mind's eye, I was back in bed with Grandma, cuddled up, listening to one of her stories.

Something about that vision prompted me to finally grasp Grandma’s message. She knew exactly how she wanted to answer my prayer that night. Grandma cleverly crafted her final story for me to live—a tale of renewal and hope, with intriguing twists and turns and a profound life lesson that left no doubt: I wasn't alone. Grandma was and will always be watching, listening, and protecting me.

At last, I stopped overthinking and allowed myself to embrace my faith in God. For the first time in years, I felt a deep sense of peace and belonging. No longer weighed down by skepticism, my awakening transformed how I lived, breathed, and believed.

I lingered for an extra minute in Grandma’s room, inhaling her spirit. Smiling, I silently thanked her for that night divine when she answered my prayers and reciprocated my gift—this time, bringing me back to life.

Grandma with my sister Mary Beth.

Grandma and Grandpa’s wedding, May 18, 1935

My text to Tina after Mom confirmed the address.

Mom seeing her childhood backyard for the first time in over 30 years.