It’s September 2, 1937, and Willem Marten Hendrik Brinkman is born. In Apeldoorn, on Bloemheuvellaan, just before the Second World War. After my father, two more would be born: Uncle Joop and, youngest, Aunt Mart(ha). The family lived in Apeldoorn all that time, although they came from Deventer and our roots lie in Drenthe, not far from where I live at the time of writing – in Ruinen. I never knew my grandfather well; he died when I was young. What I want to remember are the “Milkyway” bars he always brought us. It’s so deeply ingrained that I still buy one whenever I can and think of him when I eat it. My grandfather was a deeply religious man and made it clear. I understand that this wasn’t always easy, especially for my older brothers. Bible lessons, answering questions – it all came with the territory. My grandmother lived much longer, a sweet grandmother, as I remember. Gentle and warm, every time we were there. Not always easy, as I recall.

As the eldest, my father had expectations of my grandfather. Expectations he wasn’t always willing to meet, or able to meet. Expectations his younger brother did meet. I don’t know his own experiences, so I’m treading on thin ice. But I seem to remember that this was difficult for my father. He also resisted it and chose his own path at various times when the one laid out for him didn’t meet his approval. Ultimately, in the last years of my father’s life, he was an entrepreneur. We’d call it a freelancer these days. It started (for me, just before I was born) as a civil servant for the municipality of Heemstede. Then he became head of human resources at the Land Registry, which moved to Apeldoorn when I was a year old.

That marked my first move. We ended up in the new civil servants’ district “De Maten.” Many Randstad residents moved to Apeldoorn at that time, along with the Land Registry, the Tax and Customs Administration, and the Police. There was a mandatory relocation, but not for my father’s manager. He happily stayed in Zeeland and hired a private driver, turning his commute into work time. Years later, when he called for budget cuts, my father was the first to fire the driver. It was time for his “boss” to comply with the agreement that should apply to everyone: Move east! It cost my father his job. He was fired!

When he applied for a job at the Lukas Hospital (now Gelre Hospitals – Apeldoorn location), references were requested from the Land Registry. My father didn’t know about it. This came up accidentally during his last interview, the employment conditions meeting. The references were entirely positive, but my father stopped the process. That’s no way to treat (potential) employees. His application ended there. Even though the references were positive, asking for them without discussing it with the applicant was a breach of principle for him, and he remained unemployed.

A financially difficult time began. Yes, he had severance pay, but not as generous as today. He became a teacher and traveled all over the country for his lessons. I saw him less often than I did. The “man who carves the meat on Sundays” could have been based on him. But he did this for us, his wife, and his five sons. We never lacked anything, although missing your father at my age then was perhaps greater than anything else I could have. Not much later, he started his own business: “Consultancy POM” was born. A consultancy for Personnel, Organization, and Management issues. Given my current job, the apple apparently doesn’t fall far from the tree.

A prosperous period began: many vacations, lots of travel, many opportunities. However, getting a driver’s license wasn’t in the cards; I REALLY had to do that myself. In my attempt to get one, I asked a question many of my friends were also asking in the hopes of getting their licenses: “If I don’t smoke until I’m 18, what do I get?” I asked it too, but his answer still lingers in my mind: “A pat on the back, son, a pat on the back!” Because then 18 would be a great time to start, booty in and a cigarette to my lips. We’re not going to do that: Do you want to smoke? Your problem, your health! A big disappointment, but a valuable lesson, one I still carry with me.

It’s February 14, 2013, 13 years ago as I write this blog. Marten and your daughter-in-law, Ingrid, were still recovering from surgery for your son’s kidney. This happened earlier that week, the same week you became ill and decided to take a break. You refused medication and told us so. After some persuasion, you decided to take it anyway, the nurses told us. I became your contact person; Bert was too busy with his Ingrid and Marten, so that was fine. On Wednesday evening, I visited you. I told you that Marten and Ingrid were doing well. I had been with them, and on the way home, I gave you the good news. You brightened up, even straightened up to hear it all. You smiled and spoke softly. I also told you about my assignment and that everything was going well there too. It all clearly benefited you. You were calm, your breathing was steady, and the medication seemed to be working well, or so I thought. I gave this back to my brothers. We were relieved.

Back on February 14th, I was working in East Brabant, while Marten was still in Rotterdam. I received a call from your nurse with the news that you had deteriorated significantly and that they didn’t think you would make it through the next day. I couldn’t believe it; yesterday was going so well, the medication had seemed to be working well. I asked the questions that were burning on my lips. The answer shocked me… You hadn’t started the medication; that was a lie you had also imposed on the nurses. A lie for our own good, to put our minds at ease. A lie that would allow us to focus on Marten and Ingrid. But now, it all came back to you: you were dying, and I had to tell my brothers. I called them one by one; they went to see you on a watch schedule so you wouldn’t be alone. I was going to drive to Rotterdam to tell Marten personally. But how do you get there when an icy storm is rolling in right between ‘s-Hertogenbosch and Rotterdam? How do you tell your brother what’s about to happen when he’s still in the hospital and can’t or shouldn’t leave? I drove anyway. It was a bit like a former manager of mine who said to his mother: “Mom, the icy conditions don’t bother me, I fly low.” On the way, I called Marten’s care department. I wanted them to be on standby in case Marten wanted to get out of bed and come to you.

How different things turned out. My drive went fine; I didn’t experience any icy conditions. Whether this was because I fly low, or because some other force was protecting me, I have no idea, but I arrived safely at Marten’s. When I told him the news, he just nodded. He told me he already knew on Sunday. When you came to see him on Sunday, he said goodbye; he sensed it then. It was okay, he was calm, and the backup in the hallway wasn’t necessary. Although I was incredibly happy they were there. Nursing care in the Netherlands is simply top-notch, isn’t it?

I stayed with Marten for a while and drove to your place late in the afternoon. Wim was there, and we were going to stay with you together overnight. Wim and I took turns and rested a bit in the pantry. I think around 10:00, I was at your bedside. You were restless, your breathing was heavy, and you tossed and turned restlessly in your bed. You were sleeping, or at least I think you were. I gently told you you could go if that’s what you wanted. It was okay. Everyone knew about it, everyone was okay with it, I told you. And everyone was fine, I whispered that to you as well. I took your hands and gave you a kiss on your forehead. You calmed down, and not much later, one deep breath and a big sigh came, you were gone. I sat next to you for a while, holding your hands, before I went to get Wim. In the hallway, I ran into Aunt Claar. Your aunt, well over ninety, wanted to know how you were doing. I told her I was just going to get Wim, because you had just passed away peacefully. Together we told Wim the news and the three of us walked back to you.

Wim went into his control mode; how amazing is it, that he can do this even at such moments? He called the nurses so the death could be formally confirmed. Aunt Claar told me we had to keep your jaw closed. Otherwise, they’d have to break it during the slinging. We took turns doing this, Aunt Claar and I. That’s how we slowly felt you grow cold. When the slings arrived, she thanked us for what we did. For a while, I was afraid this would be a nightmare. Feeling you grow cold was, after all, a terrible thing to experience. However, I look back with pride on Aunt Claar and me for being able to do this for you. I’ve since learned that it’s not necessary these days. There are better ways than breaking your jaw, we didn’t know that then. So the slings’ thank you was just for our peace of mind. It was good!

I’ll keep missing you, I’ll keep seeing you, I’ll keep hearing you, and I’ll keep feeling you! I’ll try to make you proud of who I am and who I want to be. I’ll try to incorporate many of the lessons you’ve taught me, especially over the last two years, into my life.

Valentine’s Day will never be the same! It’s only gotten brighter!