And Now, He's Dead

As the hospital faded in the rearview mirror, the emotional weight of the past 24 hours settled heavy in my chest. Like I’d been hit by a freight train.

Dad had dredged up the most traumatic chapter of our lives—blaming me, again, for a decision my husband Percy and I made decades ago to protect our little girl. At Christmas Eve dinner, no less—and in front of our entire family, including his grandkids. The sheer disregard he showed for the unthinkable facts Percy and I had faced back then was staggering. He made it all about himself, again.

It took him all of a minute to reopen wounds I thought we’d long grown past.

Mom would have been absolutely livid. She’d passed just a few months prior and wasn’t there to kick him under the table, like she used to do when he went on one of his whining tirades—when he slipped into victim mode and made everything about himself.

Without her, there was no buffer. No one to stop him. No one to shut it down before it exploded. And so it did—right there, at the dinner table, shattering what little peace and relationship we’d managed to build.

Then his heart attack this morning.

After making sure Dad received all the care he needed at the hospital we drove back to the B&B. We were silent, each of us lost in our own thoughts. My sister Celeste was driving, and I stared out the window, letting the familiar Dutch countryside blur past me.

We approached the last roundabout before entering Dalen, a quaint little town where we'd gathered for a family Christmas. All in support of Dad. Our kids, who flew in from Canada and the US for the occasion, were awaiting news on Opa, who was whisked away by ambulance this morning.

I placed my hand on Celeste’s leg. “Sis… did I cause Dad’s heart attack?”

 “I’m sure blowing up at him didn’t help,” my sister replied with a sly glance. I had screamed at him across the dinner table. It wasn’t pretty—but releasing my anger was long overdue.

Before she could say anything else, we burst out laughing. Not a chuckle, but a full-blown, can’t-catch-your-breath kind of laugh. It was a pure release. All the tension of the last 24 hours—gone, at least for a moment.

Celeste was laughing so hard she missed the exit and circled the roundabout a few times before she could steer us off. When we finally parked at the B&B, we sat in silence again—this time with a strange sense of clarity, as if something had clicked. 

Because of course. Of course I would be blamed. That’s how it has always gone in our family. And sure enough, within twenty-four hours, Dad had said it out loud: he told me I was the reason he’d had a heart attack.

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Without needing to unpack half your carry-on or unlace your boots, security at Schiphol Airport is a smooth and efficient experience. Too efficient for my liking. I would’ve loved to see my daughters laugh and be happy for hours longer.

As I watched them walk on, I hugged them one more time—in thought. One last wave goodbye… and then they were out of sight. Unaware of the tragic news I’d just received from my sister—which was just as well. I’d tell them once they’d landed safely. This Christmas had been traumatic enough already. 

My daughter Bouke had a long 11 hours ahead of her to get to San Francisco. My other daughter, Lobke, and her partner would need about 12 hours to get back to Halifax. Plenty of time for me to get a handle on the emotional weight of this final blow—one more thing gone south after two chaotic weeks. What was supposed to be a warm, love-filled family Christmas had unraveled into a complete shit show. All because of Dad.

And now, he’s dead. 

Before heading back to the B&B, I needed to think. And I needed a cup of coffee. I walked over to Starbucks and called Percy, who was still at the B&B. We needed a plan—starting with canceling my flight. One thing was clear: I was not flying home to Calgary tomorrow.

I took the lid off my cup. The scent of fresh coffee brought me back to reality. Harry, Dad’s brother, had found him dead in his hallway that morning. Another heart attack, the doctor said. Ten days. He only lived ten more days after the first heart attack on Christmas morning—the morning after the blow-up. The hospital had warned us: his arteries were so blocked that he could drop dead any moment. And now he had.

After canceling my flight at the KLM ticket counter, I returned to the B&B to grab my luggage.

My son Pjotr and his partner were still asleep after a very late—but wonderful—last evening. I dreaded telling them the news of opa’s death and the change in plans: they were flying home tomorrow, without me. I was meeting Celeste at Utrecht Central Station in an hour to catch a train to Zuidlaren. We had another funeral to arrange. 

Percy drove me to the station. We looked each other in the eyes, and not a word was said. No words were needed to express the love between us. One last time, I nestled into his arms. It would be months before I could rest against his chest again. Then I straightened my back and squared my shoulders. I was ready for the road ahead.

I picked up my suitcase, and got on the train. One last look over my shoulder. 

“I love you.”

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This blog reflects a section of a deeply personal memoir on healing from abuse and generational trauma—and the strength it takes to break the cycle. If something in these words landed for you, I'd love to keep you close as my book unfolds.

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