Oma

"Oma" is Dutch. It means grandmother, but in a very loving, affectionate way. My oma was a very special person. I was 2 years old when my mother left my dad and me. My dad moved back in with his parents, and so it was oma who raised me until I was 5 and my dad remarried. My stepmom and me never got along. I can't count the times oma phoned me to check on me, heard in my voice things at home had turned sour again, and she would get in her ancient red DAF, drive the hour from her house to ours, and as soon as we let her in she would tell me; "You, go get your stuff. I'll talk to your mom." And she would take me with her for a weekend, or longer if I had vacation, and I would get a chance to be away from the stress of living with a stepmother who wasn't ready to have kids and who had no idea how to deal with a highly intelligent (and spoilt rotten) kid outsmarting her in every possible way.. this resulting in her becoming violent.

Oma was an iron lady with a heart. She became a widow at a fairly young age when my grandfather died of cancer. She ruled the family, not always in a pleasant way because she could be very demanding, but she was the one that kept us at least somewhat together when we all became older and each went their own way. Oma's birthday was the one day per year all of us got together. All my uncles, aunts, cousins, nieces, nephews.. even my brothers and sisters and my father and his wife.. I usually only saw them on oma's birthday. At one point in life I lived only 10 minutes away from oma, and especially during that period I saw her a lot. It was great to be with her, sitting in her huge garden drinking tea, discussing all sorts of things. Her usual comment to my life and my lifestyle was; "well I don't understand much of all those wild things, child.. but I can see you are happy and that is all that matters." When I told her I was divorcing my kids' dad, her response was "Finally! I was wondering how long it would take you to discover he's no good".

Oma was extremely healthy up to a very high age. I still remember phoning her one afternoon, and it took a while before she answered. She must have been in her early eighties, then. When she did answer the phone I apologized and said I didn't mean to wake her from her nap. She almost exploded. "Nap? NAP?? Naps are for old people. I had to climb down the ladder because I was fixing the roof!".

Her biggest fear was to become old, and helpless. She signed several papers stating that if she would become "a vegetable", or totally demented, or too sick to ever recover, she wanted her life to end. She showed me, and probably everybody else as well, those papers. Urged me to help actively end her life, if it ever got to that point. I told her then I wasn't sure I could do that, and she gave me her usual "pfft, of course you can".

At around the age of 90, she did become that old, that demented, and that sick. She was hospitalized and grew weaker and weaker. She didn't recognize anyone anymore. But the doctors would not help her die. Because she wasn't capable of actively stating that was what she wanted, at that point. The papers she signed when she was still very much there, mentally, weren't enough. She slid further and further down, her body weakening, her once so strong mind gone. I haven't seen her during that period. I couldn't bring myself to visiting her. I wanted to remember her the way I knew her: strong, healthy, independent, opinionated. And I knew that, in spite of what she had told me to do if it got to this point, I wouldn't be able to end her life. I could say I couldn't do it because it would surely mean I would end up in jail, since under our laws it would have been murder, and that I didn't want my family to go through that. But I very much doubt I would have been able to do it, even if I had been single. I suppose that makes me a coward.

Why am I sharing all this? Because she died yesterday, at the age of 92. And even though I am tremendously sad, I am also majorly relieved her battle has finally ended.

Oma.. I haven't visited you alot in the past years, and I'm sorry for that. I also know you understand the reasons, and that it had nothing to do with not loving you. You were the closest thing to a mother I have ever had. I will miss you, an awful lot. I know one day we will be together again. Thank you, for everything you did for me, everything you taught me, and for every time you accepted me for who I am without judging, no matter what stupid things I was doing. Rest in peace, you have earned it.