Being here, around family and all this nostalgia, I feel obligated to make a statement or two about the matter of getting every bit of your family in while you can. It sounds cliche' and I am terribly sorry for it. But the cliche' has been around for a while, because it is true.
Holland is as big as... maybe North Carolina. Not very big. Especially not for a country. Most of my family is here in Holland. My dad's twin brother, his sister, he cousins (5 I think), his nephews, a few aunts, and a few others. That's a lot of people. People who have the same DNA running though their veins. That's a pretty serious commonality.
Blood relatives just share something more than a title, and even non-blood relatives, they share a family. The drama. The secrets. The history. The laughter and the tears. Sometimes even the habits and your own name. It's pretty amazing, really.
I am sad, though.
These aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents are so close, in proximity. They may talk on the phone, the cousins are friends on MySpace or Hyves or whatever the newest of-age artificial communication may be that week. Do they really know each other? Really appreciate each other's company? Hear each other's stories? See their kids and watch each other evolve? If the occasional phone call and annual Christmas card are enough, then maybe, but the ultimate answer is NO. I know people are busy and have their own "lives" but would it not be nice to get together in a big city for lunch, or dinner, or a small birthday celebration or celebration of being family?
I am here to visit family, get the real feel and express my appreciation for family. I want to laugh with people I have never laughed with. I want people's last true, real-life impression of me not to be how I was playing soccer in the backyard and screaming at my mom for putting a dress on me when she knows I'm allergic to dresses (that really did happen, embarrassing to say).
My great aunt Ina is in the hospital. She was having heart problems so they hospitalized her. "Let's go see her." I quickly said as soon as I heard the news. "Really? You want to? Yeah, we should." was quickly an answer. Thank God. I could not find that hospital if someone circled it on a map and stuck me on a train, anyway. Tante Ina is a widow, and was never able to have children, but her nieces and nephews (from what I understand) make a good attempt to come visit her, send her pictures, call her. But I know she has to get lonely. She and my Oom Bertie were like two peas in a pod when he was still alive. So bizarre, they could finish each other's sentences (maybe, it was in Dutch so I probably got the idea). Now she's in a retirement community, which resembles a hospital, alone.
The train ride was long, but it was a good power nap and way to see some Dutch country side, and my aunt picked me and my uncle up and we quickly got to the hospital, which was pretty stark, very cold. I was a bit nervous on the way up in the elevator. Would she remember me? She's not getting Alzheimer's, is she? Will she have tubes in her nose? Will they have to come change her bedpan while we're visiting?
We walked in the group room (separated by curtains, which were all open) and I quickly spotted her. I had to stop myself from running over to her bed and hugging her. Hospitals seem to instinctively tell me not to run, nor to hug too hard, especially if you are in the cardiology department and you could trip on someone's air-pump regulator to their heart or something of that nature. As soon as she saw us I flashed her the biggest, happiest smile I could. If I could somehow bottle up the happiness I felt when I saw how happy she was to see me, I would drink some everyday and never ever feel a speck of sadness.
Thankfully she remembered me and there were no signs of a bedpan. She was just as I have always remembered her. Witty and wise, kind but demanding respect. Eager to tell us stories, give us candy, complain a little, but excited to see that we were there for no one or nothing else, then her. It made me feel good. It made me wish I was closer so I could make her day everyday.
It was so nice to talk to her, to listen to her. To admire how nice she looked, after all her life, and tests, and deaths and disappointments, how funny she was even though her English was hard for me to understand and her to form elaborate sentences. It was nice to admire her jewelry, answer her questions about school and my parents and my sisters, Alexandra and Olivia. "Learn Dutch first, while you are here, Victoria." she said. And in perfect English. Gah, I wish I could have responded to her in eloquent Dutch. No such luck, yet.
This hospital visit may seem like a "duty" as family. It is a privilege. This woman has loved my family, me, for the better part of our lives. We have memories together from 20 years ago. It is not only that she deserves respect enough for us to come see her for less than an hour. We GET to go see her. We are lucky enough to see family and love embodied. We are lucky enough to get to make her happy, and she is happy to show us how grateful and happy she is to see us, to feel acknowledged, not alone. No one wants to be alone, and I think back on my Oma, who died my freshman year in college, in a faraway country, and was not even able to make it to her funeral. Now, do you not think I would go back and sit with her, just to make her feel like there was more than just her in the room? To let her know I was glad to be her family, to be privileged enough. She was my Dad's only mother. Oma was the only grandparent I had on that side of the family since the day I was born.
Family is important. You only get one, and it is something that those that do not have, yearn for. Your family is not a duty. You may not always enjoy every second and every habit of your family, but they are YOURS and they have a pull towards you that in unconscious and irreplaceable.
Enjoy your family, people. Soak them in. They are WHY you are who you are.
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