How My Grandfather Fooled Everyone
A View of the Hospital
Is it possible that we can misunderstand our past? That it is not what we think it is? That in fact everybody has it wrong? There’s this infamous ink drawing that can be interpreted in two ways. You either see a beautiful woman. Or you see an ugly witch. When you understand, you see both. I always thought this was merely a neat little illusion, a trick of the mind, a mirage. But I’m not so sure anymore.
I must have been 8 and my father had taken me on a trip to Amsterdam. I have no recollection on the why’s of it. As you may know, my father had abandoned me at the age of 3, so visiting him was already a rare thing, let alone taking a trip with him outside of my hometown Groningen (north of the Netherlands). The fact that we indeed went was also a novelty. The amount of times he had promised to take me to Disneyland never came true. Nevertheless, here we were, staying over in his friend’s house in Amsterdam, next to the Oosterpark, Our Holy Mother Hospital, and the Artis Zoo. Not realizing yet, I would soon see the insides of all three.
At the same time, my grandparents were also away from Groningen and in the capital. Whether this was a coincidence or a planned visit, I don’t know. It is possible that our trip was just part of family trip, but that I wasn’t informed about this. This would not be strange for my father to forget to tell. Also, the fact that we would do something with the family was odd. Because since my father left and I grew up with my mother only, never did my grandparent ever reach out to me or visit me. Understand I didn’t lose my father, I lost also his parents. But here we suddenly all were in the Dutch capital. My father’s brother owned an apartment on the third floor in the center, overlooking the canal and the royal Blue Bridge. This is where my grandparents stayed over.
On day one my father and I visited the Artis zoo. He is a good photographer and I still have the pictures he took. We watched the monkeys, flamingos and had an ice cream. Inline was standing the famous soccer player, Frank Rijkaard, who played for AFC Ajax and Team Orange, the Dutch national team. Of all the interesting birds we saw that day, this man with his black curly hair licking his cone was my favorite sighting. I couldn’t wait to tell the kids at school. But I never got the chance, because after the zoo everything became a blur.
My father must have received a phone call from his mother that night. Something terrible had happened in Amsterdam. She had gone out for a stroll with my grandfather early in the evening. In front of their house, across the main canal, they promenaded the Blue Bridge. It’s not that spectacular of a bridge. For Dutch standards it is relatively wow. A royal bridge, with crowns as lanterns straddling both sides of the canal crossing. Despite its looks, something awful happened next. In the middle of the bridge, my grandfather succumbed and collapsed. A bypasser rushed into a cafe and called for an ambulance, as my grandmother stayed with her husband’s body, alone, not knowing what happened and fearing the worst.
As soon as my father and I were informed my grandfather was in the IC of Our Holy Mother Hospital, nobody from that point on fully understood what was happening. The feeling that is still stuck with me is chaos and silent panic. Though I didn’t know those words, it was obvious that something peculiar and dangerous was perspiring. When the adults around you panic, one cannot escape feeling fear.
The next day I found myself with my grandmother in my uncle’s apartment. My father was gone, probably in hospital with grandfather. I must have slept over at my grandmother’s place as I had my orange stuffed cat with me. The windows were open and it was oddly overlooking the Blue Bridge. I don’t know what my grandmother was doing at this point but i had figured out a new game. In the large living room i threw my cat from one side to the other. Maybe I was working through all the emotions everybody was feeling. I threw my stuffed animal another time, but i threw it too far, and threw the window it plopped down three levels onto the street. I told grandmother what I’d done and we both peered out of the window. Below an attentive cyclist had stopped and found my cat and finally delivered it safely into my grandmother’s hands. Thank God, I hadn’t lost him.
My father had instructed me how to ferry my grandmother between her apartment and the hospital. “Listen carefully”, he said. “When you take the metro, and it emerges above ground, you know you’ve taken the wrong one. If you stay underground, only then are you on the right track.” This was a very daunting task and I felt overwhelmed by having that responsibility. And when my grandmother and I traveled the metro to go to hospital, we had of course messed it up. The train emerged into the light and we had gone the wrong way. I had to tell granny we had gone astray and should take the next one in the other direction. Somehow, we eventually made it to Our Holy Mother. What a scary trip that was.
I had no recollection of hospitals. This might have been my first time in such a place, other than my own birth of course. The place was under construction, they were renovating and expanding parts of one of the wings. Somewhere up on the 11th floor, there he lay, in the right hand corner with one or two others in the room. The doctors said he had suffered a severe stroke, a cerebrovascular accident (CVA). Grandfather sat upright in his bed sporting a blue gown. He didn’t have his glasses as usual and looked a bit tired, yet strangely…at peace. We tried to talk to him, but he had lost his capacity of speech. Though he tried, he appeared to have the hardest trouble finding words.
The next day we visited he had written me a letter. My mother had pasted it afterwards into my photo album next to the pictures at the zoo. The message was very fragmented, but written in pretty handwriting. The bits I remember went along the line of, “Groningen. Martini Tower. Beautiful” It seemed like he was trying to express an image for which the words he lacked. My grandfather ran a painting business. After this visit my father treated me to an ice cream from a shop across the street. The sandwich board outside portrayed a heavenly chocolate and cream bar called Sky. “I want that one,” I said and he bought one for me. It was the best thing I had ever tasted. But never could I get my hands on one of them again. They are still unavailable.
The day after that, the doctors thought it was safe for my grandfather to travel and relocate him to the Martini Hospital in our hometown Groningen. I don’t know how we managed but I was able to ride with him in the ambulance. On our way, there was a big traffic jam. But the ambulance flipped on the lights and sirens and flew straight past the congestion on the express lane. All I could think of was…my grandfather must be a very special man.
I really didn’t know my grandfather before this event. Like my father, he was just…gone. But after this event, my grandfather became available to me. I sometimes would cycle to their home, alone, and we’d play Rummikub, have potatoes with haricot verts and gravy. He’d joke I should become a dentist, because then I could make some good bucks and have pretty female assistants. It didn’t turn out to be that way, but I think he is still proud.
The best thing that he ever did was to join a sweat lodge ceremony in honor of my 19th birthday. We went into the countryside in Groningen to have a shamanic ritual with all the men of my family in an old primary school building. Due to health issues, he couldn’t join us inside, but was very happy to sit on a log outside whilst we were in the heat. That day I confronted my father and asked him, “Where the fuck were you?” He felt very ashamed of himself and didn’t have any answers. I know my grandfather has judged my father for what he did. But that day all was right. I don’t think he judged anybody at that point anymore and was simply there.
I later heard from that local shaman after the ceremony, that my grandfather had pointed out her eaves needed painting. And so he had gifted her buckets full of it, so she could give her house a fresh look. That was one of the last things we did together. He died a few years after.
At this time I was already living in Amsterdam. My first room I got, which was god awful hard to find, was next to the Oosterpark with a view of the Our Holy Mother Hospital. I was very happy to get that place. It felt very familiar to me. Like I was home. The Iranian guy who let out the room had a basement full of books from his neighbor. I found Zen and the Art of Motorcycle maintenance and Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone. I picked Harry Potter and read it in the Oosterpark. Magic.
Thirty years after that fateful day on the Blue Bridge my memory is still scrambled. It doesn’t want to process. Because it doesn’t make any sense in the way I remember it. The coincidences, the synchronicities, the letter, the cat…they just don’t seem to add up into the explanation the doctors gave, that it was an accident, a cerebrovascular attack.
The only way it all makes sense to me is to admit my grandfather to be a very special guy, from some rare lineage, with unique qualities. An ‘expensive man’, as he liked to call it.
That day in Amsterdam he had everybody fooled. The doctors. His family. Western culture. Science. Nobody saw clearly what really perspired. Perhaps not even parts of himself, who didn’t know what was going on until they expired their last breath in crossing the bridge. An expensive man such as himself, would pick the capital, all the family together, on the best bridge, to do such a thing, right there. And to find himself the next morning in the hands of Our Holy Mother.
I think my grandfather died that day.
But was also reborn.
That might sound incredible to the mind.
But my soul says that that is the truth.
I know you rest in peace.
