How nice of you to read my blog, let's get to know you. So I'm Jacqueline, grandma with a job, yes we exist. No, we don't just go to the household fair (although I did go this year with two fellow grannies, guilty.) And no, we don't just knit Christmas sweaters. I work with asylum seekers, I am seconded. Just like a tbs clinic, where I normally work, a subject that people always have an opinion about. That's allowed.
Harassing me unsalted with it, preferably not always. I have enjoyed working with asylum seekers at an asylum seekers' center for a year and a half now. And I've come to the conclusion, myself, this is not the opinion of any organization or institution, purely mine, that they are neither cuddly bears nor terrorists. Nope, they're just people. Families, singles, dentists, dancers, thieves and supermarket managers. The special thing is that everyone has left their country behind and has thus taken a huge step. Often under extremely traumatic circumstances. That does something, with people like you and me.
Hundreds of people passed me by. One leaves a bigger impression on you than the other, that's a fact. Last year I got to know a family there that included a grandmother, aged 82. Actually two families. The sons, men my age, were very kind to their mother. Mrs. and I didn't understand a word of each other, but we became fast friends. She was almost blind. She often sat on a chair in the long hallway, then I called her first name from afar, so she knew I was coming. Whenever I was there I always got a hug. For me it took some getting used to after working for a long time in closed settings. But it soon became normal.
We had whole conversations, both in our own language. She made me happy. The family got a house and the grandmother was allowed to come along. Of course said goodbye. A nice memory to keep, I thought. I won't see it again, I thought. Until last week the daughter-in-law looked me up on social media. Grandma was bad. Worse than bad, she didn't have long to live and she was in hospice. My breath caught, shit. I didn't see that coming. She wanted to see me again and of course I went.
She had a small room in a large mansion in Amsterdam. Small frail and pale she lay in the bed. Tubes attached to her body. When I entered, I called her first name so she knew who I was. Grandmas among themselves are allowed to do that. I was hugged. We looked into each other's eyes and we cried. I had brought her a white rose and a bottle of rose scented hand cream. I massaged her hands. We had our last conversation, both in our own language. In her condition, she still asked if I was okay, and with my children and grandchildren. I got a chocolate that I couldn't refuse as usual. I understood that she was waiting for a son from Canada, she had not seen him for twenty years. She definitely had to live for that. And then she wanted to go to Jesus. She pointed to a cross around her neck and a huge wooden Christ statue on the wall.
I stayed until her eyes closed, because being kind to me took a lot of energy. With a cramp in my stomach I went to the Amsterdam street, where life went on as usual. The tram passed, someone laughed just a little too loud. The pigeons pecked chips from a lost tray. I hoped her last journey may be a great one, no one deserves a happy crossing more than this woman! I didn't look back.
