Leaving
The flights are booked, the paperwork is (almost) through. Funds are (almost) raised, and on paper I am ready to leave for Chalkida. Typically, dramatic "pick up and go" transitions are my M.O. - I moved to New York at 17 having only spent 48 hours there previously, I moved to Berlin having NEVER been there before, I moved to London with $200 in my checking account. Before, I viewed it as a fun little test of my flexibility and resilience. Packing up and jumping time zones has been a way to assert that I had the courage and independence my parents had so pointedly fostered in me. This time is different.
Two weeks ago, my paternal grandmother, Mary, was rushed to urgent care. Her 96th birthday is this coming April, and she has lived with my family for over 15 years. Before she moved in with us, her house was a staple in my childhood. Many summer days and after-schools were spent sitting at my grandfather's wooden professorial desk, where she'd anticipated my visit with cinnamon toast and a large box of crayons. She sewed the ribbons on my first pair of ballet slippers and brought me along to Davis Democrat club meetings, local theatre, knitting society, and Unitarian Universalist women's luncheons. Grandma was social, overwhelmingly kind, with an understated humor and inclusive spirit. One day a few years ago, after her husband, her boyfriend, and then her dog died, Grandma sat down in the wheel chair we kept around 'just in case' and didn't get out of it again. Having her live with us has been double edged, because I got to spend even more precious time with her, but also watched as every time I came home from university, there was less of what made her so memorable. After she was rushed to urgent care, my father had to make the difficult decision to put her into hospice, and he and my uncles began the difficult process of notifying everyone (and there were loads) of people who loved knowing my grandmother, that it was time to say goodbye.
A week passed, and my dad's side of the family pulled together to take care of the nasty administrative work that goes along with putting a loved one in hospice. Then, my mother gets a phone call from my aunt in Norway - my grandfather has been admitted to the hospital with what we now know is stomach cancer. Despite living an ocean and many time zones apart, my grandfather Leif has been as formative to my personality as my grandmother who lived in the room below mine. Sharp and witty, radically compassionate - my grandfather modeled a version of masculinity that was centered around caring for others. His home smells like the woods he walks in daily and the fresh dark bread he bakes extra loaves of to share with any guests who would stop by. On my annual visits to Norway, he would encourage me to get into more trouble, and to go 'out there' to put my brains to good use making things better for other people, just as he had. Just last December, in my most recent visit, we sat next to each other and read our respective books, looking up now and then to discuss current events and fond memories. As I write this, my mom is on her way to the airport to fly to help him get settled as he comes home from the hospital. I suppose there is never a good time for a family to experience loss, and in particular there is never a good time for that loss to be compounded from both sides.
I'll confess that for a moment, it crossed my mind that I should cancel my volunteering stint. I should return all the money people have donated to me and stick around, just in case my parents need someone to lean on. But it's not the right thing to do for many reasons. First, I've made a commitment to the people living in the Ritsona camp. Especially with the recent reports of the massacres in Ghouta, the global community needs to re-invest in commitments to children and neighbors whose lives have been upturned by forces far beyond their control.
Second, Grandma and Morfar (Norwegian word for maternal grandfather), were not by any means shy about their political standings. Last Christmas, Grandma used her daily complete sentence to express that she thought Trump was "a real jerk" (strong language from a former Upper-East-Side debutante). Morfar has been writing strongly worded notes to his political party leaders, shaming them on their minimal action in the face of the refugee crisis, saying to me that "Norwegians have it so good, they have a responsibility to share that wealth." Staying home would not be their recommendation, by any means.
So now that the logistical steps necessary for me to move to Greece have been taken care of, it's time for me to set to work on the personal steps. Grieving is by no means a linear or uniform process, but I plan to use my time volunteering in Ritsona to sustain the respect for dignity and humanity that Mary and Leif modeled for me. Seems like the best way.
P.S. It can't be said enough how kind and thoughtful everyone around me has been as this piled up. Anyone who passed a hug or warm thought our way over these past few weeks, thank you!!
Two weeks ago, my paternal grandmother, Mary, was rushed to urgent care. Her 96th birthday is this coming April, and she has lived with my family for over 15 years. Before she moved in with us, her house was a staple in my childhood. Many summer days and after-schools were spent sitting at my grandfather's wooden professorial desk, where she'd anticipated my visit with cinnamon toast and a large box of crayons. She sewed the ribbons on my first pair of ballet slippers and brought me along to Davis Democrat club meetings, local theatre, knitting society, and Unitarian Universalist women's luncheons. Grandma was social, overwhelmingly kind, with an understated humor and inclusive spirit. One day a few years ago, after her husband, her boyfriend, and then her dog died, Grandma sat down in the wheel chair we kept around 'just in case' and didn't get out of it again. Having her live with us has been double edged, because I got to spend even more precious time with her, but also watched as every time I came home from university, there was less of what made her so memorable. After she was rushed to urgent care, my father had to make the difficult decision to put her into hospice, and he and my uncles began the difficult process of notifying everyone (and there were loads) of people who loved knowing my grandmother, that it was time to say goodbye. A week passed, and my dad's side of the family pulled together to take care of the nasty administrative work that goes along with putting a loved one in hospice. Then, my mother gets a phone call from my aunt in Norway - my grandfather has been admitted to the hospital with what we now know is stomach cancer. Despite living an ocean and many time zones apart, my grandfather Leif has been as formative to my personality as my grandmother who lived in the room below mine. Sharp and witty, radically compassionate - my grandfather modeled a version of masculinity that was centered around caring for others. His home smells like the woods he walks in daily and the fresh dark bread he bakes extra loaves of to share with any guests who would stop by. On my annual visits to Norway, he would encourage me to get into more trouble, and to go 'out there' to put my brains to good use making things better for other people, just as he had. Just last December, in my most recent visit, we sat next to each other and read our respective books, looking up now and then to discuss current events and fond memories. As I write this, my mom is on her way to the airport to fly to help him get settled as he comes home from the hospital. I suppose there is never a good time for a family to experience loss, and in particular there is never a good time for that loss to be compounded from both sides.
I'll confess that for a moment, it crossed my mind that I should cancel my volunteering stint. I should return all the money people have donated to me and stick around, just in case my parents need someone to lean on. But it's not the right thing to do for many reasons. First, I've made a commitment to the people living in the Ritsona camp. Especially with the recent reports of the massacres in Ghouta, the global community needs to re-invest in commitments to children and neighbors whose lives have been upturned by forces far beyond their control.
Second, Grandma and Morfar (Norwegian word for maternal grandfather), were not by any means shy about their political standings. Last Christmas, Grandma used her daily complete sentence to express that she thought Trump was "a real jerk" (strong language from a former Upper-East-Side debutante). Morfar has been writing strongly worded notes to his political party leaders, shaming them on their minimal action in the face of the refugee crisis, saying to me that "Norwegians have it so good, they have a responsibility to share that wealth." Staying home would not be their recommendation, by any means.
So now that the logistical steps necessary for me to move to Greece have been taken care of, it's time for me to set to work on the personal steps. Grieving is by no means a linear or uniform process, but I plan to use my time volunteering in Ritsona to sustain the respect for dignity and humanity that Mary and Leif modeled for me. Seems like the best way.P.S. It can't be said enough how kind and thoughtful everyone around me has been as this piled up. Anyone who passed a hug or warm thought our way over these past few weeks, thank you!!
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