Glaring, menacing, unwelcome– these are some of the adjectives that filled my mind when I looked at the positive Covid tests on the dining room table. After two years, we finally succumbed to the beast. I didn’t want to believe it. ” Aren’t you mad? I asked Mitch. His answer, midst coughing, was what I thought it would be. “What is the point?”
We spent the last weekend of July in Michigan, visiting my father-in-law in the ICU. A doctor’s visit revealed that he needed quadruple bypass surgery immediately. We also saw my father, but that visit took place outside in Waterford’s beautiful courtyard. Corey’s positive test prompted a flurry of phone calls to family members. It also meant that all hospital visits would end. I envisioned a dart board with Covid in the center. Throwing darts at this virus would feel so good! Down with Covid! Thankfully, my father-in-law, mother-in-law, and dad did not contract the virus. My father-in-law is recovering at home and seems to be doing well.
It was almost a textbook case. Exactly five days later, I felt like a truck ran over my head. As Corey pointed out, I don’t really know what that feels like, but it doesn’t matter. My head felt like a swirling mass of congestion, my back ached like I lifted a couch up the stairs, and my joints were on fire. Yuck.
However, I had to do something productive so I decided to read a book in one of my favorite areas- World War II. Reading a book about three sisters surviving the Holocaust takes the focus off temporary setbacks. What resiliency! How do people keep going in a concentration camp when everything is against them? I admired their tenacity in the midst of horror.
This is a must-read!
It reminded me of my mother who would always say, ” It can always be worse. Chin up!” Covid will pass. Soon it will be another blip in life’s journey.
How does one attempt to find a gravesite? It’s not exactly the topic at a luncheon and could be considered rather morbid.
While Mitch worked, I researched the location of my grandparents’ gravesites in Lethbridge, Alberta. Surprisingly, I discovered a picture of their gravesite cemetery. I found it surprising that cemetery caretakers actually do this. While I silently thanked the person for doing this, I wondered how we would locate it. Although I doubt the cemetery is the same size as Arlington, I am somewhat wondering if we can easily find it. It’s a flat stone, surprisingly similar to my mother’s.
One may ask the reason for doing this. The drive, the border challenges, and the unknown may be enough reason to say no, but it came down to my father. A conversation about his life in Canada and what it looks like is worth it.
” Remember, Dad, a week from today is Marcel’s birthday.” He responded affirmatively so I asked, ” What will you get him?” He chuckled and answered that a mere $25 would not do much. I inwardly agreed and then suggested a birthday poem. He agreed, so a poetry lesson began.
“Roses and red, violets are blue,” I began.
“That’s not really a birthday poem, ” he argued, but we wrote it anyway. We used the dry-erase board to brainstorm. His ideas included mountains and a reminder that Jesus carried him through the years.
However, poetry was not the only focus of the day. ” I want you to write a song for the poems I created, ” he announced.
“Are you kidding?” I asked. ” As a reminder, my last name is not Bach or Handel.”
He looked at me in a stubborn way. “You are my daughter and that’s all that matters,” was his firm answer.
This Saturday’s visit also included stories about his dog in the Netherlands, reminders of his parents, and ended with a homework assignment. My assignment? He wants me to create a card for my brother’s upcoming birthday and compose a song based on one of his many poems. I am secretly hoping that he forgets the song assignment and will work on the card.
But poetry was not the only lesson learned that day. Watching the aide take care of him in the bathroom, observing other nursing aides feeding the patients, and chatting with the front desk receptionist provided a different type of lesson for me. It was the lesson of compassion. It reminded me of the constant need to remember those less fortunate than myself. It’s a lesson for all. Perhaps if more people would visit nursing homes, we would become kinder and gentler. What a different world it would be!
I never gave much thought to the Americans with Disabilities Act until I had to take my father to different places. Suddenly, a carport in front of the doctor’s office took on a new meaning. A simple ramp brought relief. His parking sticker allowed me to park in an accessible place in the wintry months.
I thought of it again while wheeling him out the restaurant door without a button. Talk about muscle! My father is a skinny man, but getting him out that door seemed like a herculean effort.
I found myself wishing for a lift when we tried to place him in the front seat of the Silverado. Phew!
ADA, signed into law on July 26, 1990, provides rights for those who need them. After taking my father to different places, I find myself grateful for those who persisted in making sure that these people, unable to walk or do other activities, have a way of being part of life despite their physical challenges. The ramps, signs, electronic doors, and carports allow them to live and be a valuable part of society.
I am grateful that this act means that my time with my father is easier and more joyful. Using the wheelchair is not easy, but it allows him a better quality of life and more time with us!
The day dawned bright and clear as we traveled to Michigan to celebrate my father’s birthday. The setting, his church, was the perfect spot to celebrate. Around 35 people appeared, cards in hand, and smiling for my father. My former student and his mom appeared as well. It was the first time I saw him since the pandemic. It was a joyous event.
People enjoyed reading about his life. One poster included the information below:
Braved a trip on the Volendam from the Netherlands to Canada in 1952
Energized by horses, farming, horses, socializing with family and friends
Related to Michelle- the daughter; Marcel- the son, has one sister living in Canada; the rest are with the Lord
Told everyone he loved Marianne on April 17, 1965
Part two
How often does it happen that we can celebrate a birthday of a 90-year-old AND an 85-year-old? Aunt Arlene celebrated her birthday with a birthday dinner of 60 guests. It was a fantastic weekend celebrating God’s blessings.
Now what? What will my father’s journey to the next year look like? Only time will tell as his journey continues.
Celebrating my father’s milestone of 90 years is a testimony to God’s faithfulness. When I think back to my mother’s passing and how we thought he would all pass away, I am filled with gratefulness. My most vivid memory is the Monday after my mother’s funeral. I reposted a previous entry to remember.
The main lesson my mother always taught me was: to be grateful for little things and search for praises in the midst of the storms of life. However, I struggled to think this way yesterday.
The call came while I was leaving the grocery store. “We didn’t see your dad at breakfast, so we went looking for him, ” the desk clerk explained. ” We found him on the bathroom floor. The room was in disarray. He was unresponsive, so we called the ambulance who took him to the hospital.” I clutched the phone, in disbelief. “No! This cannot be happening!” I cried. “What hospital?” I sped out of the parking lot and headed to the familiar path on M-6, crying as I drove. “Please, God. Don’t take him”. I couldn’t bear the thought of my dad leaving us, so soon after my mother’s passing. I remembered a friend, describing her parents’ double funeral and how it caused me to burst out in tears. I don’t think I could take it. My mind went back to Sunday. What happened to cause a fall? Was it his low blood sugar? We enjoyed such a wonderful day at my brother’s house. He was quite sad, but I left him at Royal Park on Sunday evening and he seemed better. A myriad of thoughts filled my mind as I frantically drove the familiar highway.
Since the hospital was unfamiliar, my brother met me so I could follow in my faithful van, Salsa. The drive seemed to take forever as we weaved through the Holland streets. Upon arriving, we both found parking spots in the busy lot. Why are so many people at the hospital? I found it depressing to think of people spending time at a hospital on a Monday morning. I wished for a school parking lot instead where children with backpacks exited cars, filled with excitement for a new day.
Words were few as we entered the hospital doors and headed to the emergency room area. At first, the security guard told us that he hadn’t arrived yet, causing us to wonder since I had driven from Cutlerville and Royal Park was nearby. Apparently, there was some mix-up with the volunteer who was supposed to find us and we headed to the room. Flashbacks of the summer when my mother fell entered my mind. The scene, eerily familiar, made me shake my head in disbelief. Would that experience repeat with my father?
My dad, in an agitated state, was unresponsive as we talked and encouraged him. “Hi, Dad!” we expressed as we held his hand and patted his head. Unfortunately, his hearing challenges prevented any type of music therapy. The doctor ordered a series of tests and we waited. Each test came back negative– no stroke, no urinary tract infection, etc, etc. For that, we were grateful and I could feel myself calming down.
However, the most difficult conversation came with the neurologist. “Do you know how he takes his medications?” he inquired. I described how Waterford had been dispensing the meds and then we moved my dad back to Royal Park where he resumed taking them by himself. “My brother fills the 30-day supply box and he takes his meds in the morning and evening”, I explained. But as I looked at his face, I knew what he was thinking and felt myself wither. “You don’t think….”I paused and felt the emotion welling up like a water spout, ready to burst. “We have to ask,” he gently responded. “No! I could never forgive myself”, I barely uttered. ” I have wondered, though.” Suicide prevention training, a session I attended this past spring, included information about elderly people who decided that life is too difficult to bear and head this route. As the day continued, however, this did not seem to be the reason for my dad’s fall.
The day ended with me staying the night with my father, a scene that reminded me of July 10 when we remained at the hospital with my mother, awaiting surgery. It was a crazy and sleepless night because my father was confused and disoriented most of the time. I acted like a mother to him at times. ” GO TO SLEEP!” were my instructions. “What? Isn’t it morning?? ” he would ask, genuinely puzzled. My brother’s 5:30 arrival filled me with relief and I headed back home.
The day began as a struggle, but I ended with it gratefulness since my father did not break a bone. They are still not quite sure the reason for his fall, but he is receiving excellent care. It reminded me of my mother’s comments during challenging situations: Always find something for which you are grateful. It reminded me of teaching friends who encourage others with the phrase: Choose joy. It brought back to mind the black, rectangular box we placed on the table at my mother’s funeral: blessed. As the journey continues, I will remind myself of this word.
Blessed- the word is one I need to remind myself often as I find myself struggling with different emotions as I continue teaching. I struggle with knowing my purpose after being an interim principal. Why was I in that role, God? Why are people still angry with me? Why did I lose an actual friend over this position?
However, I am blessed to have a teaching position, even when people continue to do things I do not understand. I am blessed to have three children who love the Lord and faithfully attend church. I am blessed to live in Indiana, a state close enough to allow a three-hour trip to visit my father and in-laws.
As this journey continues while living in the Hoosier state, I need to remind myself of my mother’s words: Always find something for which you are grateful. On this Mother’s Day, I will repeat her words to myself and thank God for His constant provisions.
The black binder frequently catches my eye. Even though I know I should be grading papers or involved in other kinds of teaching preparation, I cannot refrain from reading the stories.
On May 10, the German army invaded the Netherlands. Around 4 AM, Bert and his brother were awakened by their mother. The sound of German planes filled the air above their home. Their father, an active member of the Red Cross, already left. The older boys were ordered to take two teams of horses and wagons to the town where they would transport elderly people out of the firing zone. Bert’s mother was now left with the rest of the children, including one child who had not yet celebrated her first birthday. The answer was evacuation. After a tiresome ten-mile bike trip, we arrived at my uncle’s farm. After we arrived, the total number of people numbered around twenty-five.
Rereading these stories and then comparing them to the events in Ukraine leaves no doubt that I need to help these people. I need to keep reminding others to do the same.
The Service Team at school decided to organize a shoe drive for Ukraine. It’s a unique fundraiser because the shoes will be purchased by funds2orgs.com which will then sell them to impoverished countries. These countries will use the shoes to establish micro-businesses. The challenge? We need 100 bags filled with 25 pairs of shoes by May 25. Phew. Right now, we have 8 bags, but that seems like a huge mountain to climb!
However, when I reread the stories of my father’s family, I must persist. We must remember the hardships they are facing and do whatever it takes to help them during these perilous times.
Peeling the potatoes for Sunday dinner brought up memories. How can a potato do that? It’s just a potato!
However, memories of my mother peeling potatoes on Saturday evenings came to mind as I was preparing for another Sunday dinner. She was the fastest potato peeler I ever met. ” How can you bo so fast?” I often asked her. She smiled and answered, “with lots of practice”.
My father has shared some memories of potatoes during the war. One of his brothers had a crazy idea to plant a large number of potatoes. It was some ridiculous amount and my grandmother ended up needing them the next year when she cooked for the refugees who lived in their home. Who would have known?
The Tuinstra family cookbook includes a variety of potato recipes. One frequent dish served at most family parties is ” Cheesy Potatoes”. This mixture of frozen hashbrowns, chicken soup, and cheddar cheese is always a favorite.
These potato memories and thoughts made me wonder: what are the Ukrainians eating during the war? Is the potato part of their diet?
The author of the article described how Ukraine is one of the top potato producers in the world, a fact I did not know. Did some of them store extra potatoes in anticipation of a war? What are the people who did not exit the country eating? The author also describes the war’s impact as Ukrainian farmers are unable to produce potatoes because of the devastation.
As I continue to use potatoes in our meals, I will take a moment to remember those in Ukraine dealing with devastation and challenges I cannot fathom.
It’s hard to believe that my father is turning 90 years old next month. Last year at this time, we celebrated his 89th because we weren’t quite sure what another year would bring, but here we are!
Planning a birthday party from another state is different but possible. His home church is where the festivities will take place. It will be a two-hour open house with cake, ice cream, and beverages.
How does one actually celebrate 90 years of life? Music seems proper, but his hearing is so bad that he won’t be able to understand it. I would think that the best thing would be anything visual that helps him remember the last 90 years. Pictures, memorabilia, his favorite color orange? I don’t know, but I hope people make an effort to help us celebrate.
As I look back on this journey, I never thought we would make it to this point. His breakdown, after my mother died, left me wondering how long he would be with us. Now look- 90 years!
Spring Break allowed me time to focus on a variety of tasks, including the upcoming wedding of my middle son. As a mother of the groom, my involvement is somewhat limited, but the rehearsal dinner is our responsibility, a task I eagerly embrace. Figuring out the menu, designing a tablescape, and visualizing the flow of the evening are creative activities I enjoy.
While searching for different items, I remembered another item, tucked away in a cedar chest: my mother’s wedding gown.
After she passed, I took her wedding gown causing my brother to ask, “What are you going to do with that thing?” It was difficult to throw it away, so I simply answered, “You will see”, hoping that I would be able to think of a creative way to use it.
The dress, yellowed and wrinkled, is hanging in our office. I took it out of the cedar chest, home to the dress for the last two years. At one point, I thought of ripping it up and keeping parts of it for family members’ bouquets. I didn’t do it because it was hard to think of actually ripping it up.
I love thinking back to how my parents met through a church magazine, The Banner. Back then, people would use the magazine as a way to connect to other Christians and future spouses. It was the older version of E-Harmony. Someday, I hope to locate the actual advertisement in its archives.
As the wedding plans continue, honoring grandparents and their marriages is part of the discussions. One idea is to set up a room at the reception and include family members’ wedding dresses. My son didn’t seem too thrilled about this idea, but what son gets excited about looking at past wedding dresses? I think that it would generate interesting conversations and remind guests of the beauty of marriage. Plus, it would finally answer my brother’s initial question. Another idea is to create an area of photos from parents’ and grandparents’ weddings.
I wish my mother could attend his wedding, but perhaps her dress is another way to keep her memory alive. I know she would have been thrilled to see her first grandson marry a wonderful girl.
A Journey Worth Remembering 