And Now, He's Dead

The phone call came just as I was saying goodbye to my girls at Schiphol airport. They’d already gone through security, and I stood watching until they disappeared around the last corner. It was just as well—they didn’t know what I had just learned. I’d tell them once they landed safely.

Bouke flying home to San Francisco. Lobke and her partner, Franz, were on their way to Halifax. Pjotr and his girlfriend, Chloé, were still back at our B&B—leaving for Canada the next day.

Alone with my thoughts again, I tried to grasp the emotional weight of what my sister had just told me. A cruel crescendo of everything that had already gone wrong these past two weeks. What was supposed to be a warm, long-awaited family Christmas had unraveled into a complete shit show. All because of Dad.

In complete disregard for everybody but himself, he single-handedly destroyed 25 years of hard work. Ten minutes— that’s all it took to throw me back to the most difficult time in my life. And now, he’s dead.

We had gathered in Dalen, a quaint little town in Drenthe, in the northeast of the Netherlands. My sister and I had rented a nostalgic old farmhouse near the town square—plenty of space for both our families.

We didn’t want Dad to be alone. Mom had passed away earlier that year, on July 31st, and he was struggling without the love of his life. Mom was his everything and without her, life was simply not the same anymore. We had also invited mom’s younger sister, Ina, who had recently lost her husband. We pictured a wonderful week together, filled with love and togetherness.

Percy and I were the first to arrive. The hosts lived in the ‘voorhuis’ (front house); the ‘achterhuis’ had been converted into a spacious B&B.

It had everything: a classic farm kitchen with a large breakfast table, two enormous fridges, and enough counter space for a whole team to help with dinner preps. My heart skipped a beat just thinking about everyone together under one roof. It was shaping up to the Christmas Celeste and I had envisioned. But enough reminiscing, those bags of groceries were not unpacking themselves. As I looked for space to fit it all, I found the biggest pans I had ever seen in one of the cupboards. Perfect for the pea soup we had planned for tonight.

What started off as a wonderful family gathering, soon took a devastating turn.

We had plenty of expectations for this week, but following an ambulance through the countryside wasn’t one of them.

Now, Celeste and I were driving back from the Scheper hospital in Emmen, trying to process what had just happened—Dad had had a heart attack. The rest of the family was back at the B&B, reeling from the events of the morning.

Last night was an absolute doozy and Celeste, Ina, Lobke and I took it easy. The kitchen was filled with quiet rituals: the smell of fresh coffee, warm slippers on our feet, and a fragile sense of calm after the storm of the night before.

Sander and Percy were in the living room, enjoying their lazy Christmas morning.

Dad stumbled out of his room, which was adjacent to the living room. He had a way with trying to make it all about him, and this morning was no different. And after the stunt he pulled last night, nobody was really taking him seriously. Sander looked up from his book, mumbled a good morning, but did not give him any more attention. Percy ignored him completely. And they were not alone in this.

Dad entered the kitchen, mumbling the same “I’m not feeling very good.” Celeste and I did our best to ignore him, while Ina—a medical caregiver in her days—paid more attention. He felt sweaty, and from his symptoms, she suggested we’d call a doctor.

Celeste and I didn’t jump to action. We were still fed up with him from the night before, and we knew how Dad always craved pity. Still, we called the on-call family doctor.

Apparently, Christmas morning can be busy at the doctors’ offices, we were in the queue. Ten people ahead of us. But with Ina visibly worried, Lobke decides to google his symptoms. “Mom, I think Grandpa is having a heart attack.”

Ina nodded, concerned. Within minutes, we abandoned the on-call line and dialed 112— the Dutch equivalent of 911.

The medics confirmed it: a heart attack. But there was more. Something in the tests worried them, and they were taking him to the hospital for further evaluation. As Dad was lifted into the ambulance, we broke the news to our kids—still in their rooms after a turbulent night.

The Blame's On Me

As the hospital faded in the rearview mirror, the weight of everything Dad had done—and everything I still carried—settled into my chest.

We were silent, each of us lost in our own thoughts. Celeste was driving, and I stared out the window, letting the familiar Dutch countryside blur past me.

We were approaching the last roundabout before entering Dalen. I placed my hand on Celeste’s leg. “Sis… did I cause Dad’s heart attack?”

We glanced at each other—and then we burst out laughing. Not a chuckle, but a full-blown, can’t-catch-your-breath kind of laugh. It was pure release. All the tension of the last few days—gone, at least for a moment.

Celeste and I were 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 had always gone in our family. And sure enough, within twenty-four hours, Dad had found a way to say it out loud: I was the reason he’d had a heart attack.

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Bo Luppes, Author and Abuse Survivor

Healing Generational Trauma

This blog reflects a section of a deeply personal memoir on healing 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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