Bellingham is cold, today. I'm not surprised, it's November, and I've been wondering when the cold would finally arrive. I typically throw myself into summer for all I am worth, enjoy the lovely fall colors while they are here and simultaneously dread the arrival of the cold that November brings. I know I will not be warm again until late April, or even May. The cold here is wet, clammy, and enveloping. The fog that looks so ethereal and softening also brings the orange of rust on exposed fence nails, leaves wet tracks on my jacket and makes my eyelashes bead up with water. The fall leaves that carpet the sidewalk look crisp and make that particular rustling sound for about a day, after which time they turn into a slick mush of decomposing vegetable matter that makes for treacherous footing when I'm walking uneven bricks on campus or making my way from the bus station to my coffeeshop. On days like today, where the sun peeks out, the crisp cold feels shocking but somewhat comforting. I have knee socks, and a wool skirt, and my ugly argyle sweater that no one likes but me. (Ry Ry calls it "The Tortured Librarian Look" and Teri says I look like Nancy Drew.)
I'm sitting in the warm refuge of my coffee shop, looking at the sun through the huge windows and enjoying the warmth of the radiators that kicked on for the first time of the season, today. I have a cup of hot coffee in a mug labeled "CBC RADIO ONE" with a broken handle, my default cup every time I'm at work. The lobby is filling up with customers, almost all of whom I know by name, and I am feeling the sense of inclusion and family that drew me to Bellingham in the first place and has kept me here thus far.
Family is weighing on my mind a great deal recently, and I'd like to tell you about it, O' dear diary.
My Oma (Dutch for Grandmother) passed away on September 20th. I got the call that she was in her final days just a couple of days before she actually passed, but after she had already been in the hospital and then hospice, and had lost the power of speech. She was non-responsive when I got there to say goodbye to her, this tiny little lady who had taken on such epic proportions to my childhood. For several reasons I am not even sure I understand, I have grown estranged from my Dad's family in the last 20 years, and I have spent the years since I met John trying to re-establish connections with that side of my family. When John and I decided to get married, one of the things we both agreed was that we wanted to create a large extended family for our eventual kids, a network of support that is full of people who will love and include our children and us. I wanted my extended family to be a part of it. As is the cliche in cases such as this, I always thought I had more time. I was busy. I worked two jobs and went to school, I always had a Black Drop thing I had to do, or an obligation somewhere else... and so it goes. Back in February, my Aunt Anna Mae died unexpectedly. It was quite a devastating shock to the whole family, and I was left floundering, wishing I could have done more. I kept revisiting the email she had sent me a few weeks before her death, where I had explained I couldn't make it down to Seattle until after we managed to scrounge the money to fix our car, and she was commiserating with me, saying we could always find time later, and that if she won the lottery, she'd fix my car, too. Suddenly, there wasn't any more time. I knew that time was running out to connect with Oma, too, and I had made plans to spend some time in October after school had settled down, driving down, baking cookies for the day, having tea, listening to her talk about Holland and about Opa and about whatever else she felt like sharing. But that time disappeared, too, and what I'm left with are memories from my childhood and the hazy picture of who she was. I fell into the trap that many adults do with their grandparents: The relationship is built in childhood, and when you're not terribly close to your grandparents after that, although you always love them, you don't get to gather the experience they have gained from their years, the wisdom of hard times they can impart if you only take the time to listen.
During the service, I was looking at pictures of her as a striking young woman, the same pictures I have seen from time to time in her house and in the family album my cousin is assembling. John leaned over and pointed out where I look like she did when she was younger, the slant of my eyes, the carriage of my chin. I kept thinking of what a remarkable life my Oma led, this woman that I only knew as the Oma who always met me at the door with food, who made me tea in the special cups while we played Rummikub on the thick carpeted tablecloth, who would take me to the winery to feed the ducks, and who always had the same flowery perfume smell. She was always make up'ed, always with just this jewelery to match just this jacket and just this shirt. She made sly jokes, sometimes just to herself. (A habit I share, which my husband finds maddening.) My father and his brother and sisters always pointed out to me how Oma made them a safe space to be kids, how family was the most important thing to her, and how she didn't put herself first. I thought of ways I am similar, how my little family, the one I have built, means more to me than anything I own or possess. I thought of how one thing my mother in law tells me, that my friends echo and John chides me for, is that I am always taking care of everyone else first, that I give and give until I get the leftovers.
I am saddened by the loss of my Oma and of my Aunt. I wish that I had been able to reconnect earlier, that I had more solid memories of these women in my adult life. However, since I cannot go back, I decided at my Oma's service that what I can do instead is move forward and honor them in my own life. I will try to emulate those qualities that others, who did get the chance to interact with them so much more, have said time and time that they admired. I can honor my aunt Anna Mae by continuing to give of myself to my family, by striving to put my family obligations first. I can honor my Oma by living with the spirit of adventure she displayed in her youth, not being afraid to take the big risks, and by giving of myself freely, even to those I do not know. I can honor the spirit of service to a community and donation of personal investment to things I believe in, and strive to make my home a place where my family can just be a family.
I don't know if Oma knew I was there, saying goodbye, at the last. I don't know if she felt my hand on hers, or heard me telling her that I loved her. I don't know how much actually gets through to the dying as they pass. But I have to believe that she knew I was there, or my heart snaps shut. I have to believe that when I whispered to her on Sunday that I would honor her by being the best mother I can (when it is my time) and by giving freely of myself to people who need me, that she heard me, somewhere.
We drove home in relative quiet, I was pensive and John was exhausted. I got home and changed into pajamas and let John do his homework while I made our house ready for a friend who had planned to come over. Eventually, Chase and Sean showed up, and I had a house full of the boys that are dear to me, cooking dinner together and cracking jokes, and I thought again of my family. This is the family I am building, these people are part of the extended relationships I hold and support and nurture. These are the people I am going to extend myself for and sacrifice for and love as much as I can.
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