Ama

Last week we said goodbye to my mother-in-law, the undisputed matriarch of our family. Her primary role was that of grandmother and great-grandmother, and following the lead of her first grandchild, we all called her Ama.

From her apartment in Amstelveen, she surveyed the world and provided it with razor-sharp commentary. Sitting there in her chair, reading and watching TV, she was the most visited grandmother in the Western Hemisphere.  A visit guaranteed a fine conversation and a good meal. Initially, Ama cooked herself, but as getting around became more difficult, she would send the children downstairs with her bank card to score a takeout meal from one of the restaurants below.

Ama was no push-over. Sharp-tongued and headstrong, she kept a firm grip on the household. Her hospitality knew no bounds, provided the guests met with her approval. Whole tribes sat down at the table in the Kriek house. Children who were having a hard time at home sometimes stayed for months. But that hospitality also had its limits: if Ama took a dislike to someone - an unsuitable partner of one of the children, for instance - she could be formidable.

There was one thing Ama couldn't do, and that was say goodbye. When she came to visit us and the kids, she might suddenly vanish, simply to avoid the tears of parting.

Ama had an opinion on everything and never refrained from voicing it in short, punchy terms. Words like 'politically correct' or 'woke' meant nothing to her; she was straight to the point.

That sharp tongue and quick intellect came in handy when the family hit hard times in the early eighties. My father-in-law’s business had fallen on tough times, and personal bankruptcy was looming. Ama was not one to sit around moping. At 49, she completed her law degree, was sworn in as an attorney, and opened her own practice on Amsterdam's Zuidas financial district. Thanks to a few major clients, she got the family back on its feet financially. Alongside that, she did pro bono work, passionately defending the less fortunate. 

Ama was a power woman avant la lettre.

Like everything in Ama’s life, my relationship with her had its extremes. It started when I, as the unwanted new son-in-law, began replacing the incumbent, highly favored son-in-law. That earned me—and Lydia, too!—a exile of a year or so.

Then, as if nothing had ever happened, Ama decided one day that enough was enough, that a new reality had set in, and the sun broke through the angry clouds. It probably helped that I got along well with the ex-son-in-law, ensuring he didn’t disappear from the scene.

From that moment on, we always enjoyed a good connection, but it took on a deeper layer after my illness. In my periods of wishing for death, mourning for my lost health and energy, we would linger together over the thought that life had really lasted quite long enough. Ama was very clear about it: only the grandchildren still gave meaning to her life. As for the rest, she had seen it all. And that feeling only grew stronger after her husband, our beloved Pagge, passed away after three hopeless years of dementia in a nursing home.

"It is time for life to be over. I'm done with it! And no nursing home for me. When the time comes, they can just give me a shot."

In me, she found a willing ear. After all, ever since my leukemia adventures, I’ve been a big fan of death. No unnecessary suffering for me, no drawn-out life. At least, as far as I have any say in the matter. You don't just have to deal with legislation and future survivors, but with yourself as well. The will to live can be stubbornly persistent when push comes to shove.

We experienced that with Ama too. Despite all her tough talk, as she grew sicker and the fog began to settle in her otherwise so lucid mind, she became less keen on an orchestrated end. Gradually, the point arrived where her mental capacity was called into question. And then there is nothing left you can do, and as bystanders you are forced to watch the beloved matriarch slowly slip away into her own oblivion.

If only it wouldn't turn into years in the dementia ward! The memories of Pagge's final years still give us the shivers.

Fortunately, Ama spared both us and herself. Three days before she was due to move to the care home, she passed away peacefully. In her own bed. 

Without saying goodbye.