Wilma de Jager
Wednesday, Feb. 19, 2014
They were neighbours for some 10 years, Jan and Wilma De Jager, a Dutch couple in their late 70s living in the house right across the street from us. I'd heard that Wilma was in the Shaver Hospital, going downhill fast. I'd only found that out yesterday evening at the Loaf of Bread supper, so today would be my “mitzvah”, my good deed, as my Jewish neighbours down the street would say.
I used to cat-sit for Wilma and Jan whenever they took a notion to hop in their car and drive through Tennessee or Florida. Jan had the wanderlust and he loved to drive somewhere, anywhere every year. They would also book a yearly flight to visit relatives in Holland. Jan sported a personal license plate, Huzum, the name of his home town in the old country. Their accents were Dutch, as thick as molasses, despite all these years in Canada. Every year, Jan showed me where the cat food was inside the foyer, so his chunky pet would not starve. [Man, that cat was heavy!] It meowed incessantly whenever it heard me open the door and rattle with the scoop inside her food bag. The cat reminded me of Wilma, solid and chunky and rolly-polly. Jan was a stick of a man with a concave stomach. I joked about him being underfed. He laughed, padding his thin tummy, “Not enough doughnuts, eh!” He and Wilma liked going to McDonalds because the seniors got a discount there on muffins and coffee. Jan claimed, McDonald coffee was tastier than Tim Horton's. Whenever they came back from holidays, they took me there as a treat, for watching their house and their cat.
Last autumn, they put a for sale sign up in front of their house. It was gone in no time. Before they moved, Wilma was diagnosed with a brain tumour. Everything seemed to come at once. The house was sold; Wilma had brain surgery. The relatives helped them move. A young couple replaced them. I hardly see the new young couple who pretty much keep to themselves. Jan and Wilma left no forwarding address. I often wondered how they were doing. Then the news came sort of off-the-cuff from another Dutch couple at the Loaf of Bread supper, “You knew Jan and Wilma? Did you know that...?” So, I earmarked Wednesday for my dropping in at the Shaver Hospital, thinking I'd squeeze a brief visit in before the puck was dropped at noon in the Olympics in the game between Canada and Latvia.
Wednesday morning was such a sunny day, a clear blue sky day, a good day for a quick hospital visit. I put a Toonie in the parking meter for a one hour stay. I shouldn't be more than that. The receptionist pointed to the elevator and said, “Second floor, room 219.” The door was ajar. Crowded room. Sons and daughters were gathered around her bed. I spotted Jan's gray hair. He was bent low, sitting next to the bed, holding her hand. Wilma's breath was heavy; she was rattling. Two of the sons spotted me just outside the door. I motioned for them to come out. They were teary-eyed. “I would be interrupting, wouldn't I?” I asked. “Yes,” they said. “Later, tell Jan that John Hartig, his neighbour was here.” “Yes, we remember you.” “Thanks,” I said and left. What a time to visit! I didn't know it was that bad. I headed to the car in the sunshine. I had 45 minutes left on the ticket and gave it to the guy who had just parked next to me. He'd been fumbling for change and placed his Bible on the hood of his car. He thanked me and put the ticket inside his dashboard. A young fellow. I wondered with whom he intended to pray. Maybe it was Wilma; maybe it was her pastor? I didn't pursue a conversation. What was my intention that morning? To ask Wilma if I could make a McDonald's muffin and coffee run? Chit-chat about the weather; about the hockey game?
I drove back down the hill at Brock University and noticed the cluster of students hovering around the bus stop heading up to classes. They all had their futures ahead of them, whatever that would be. I got home just in time for lunch and the start of the first period in the hockey game between Canada and Latvia. Canada won the game 2-1, not an easy win in the third period. Later that afternoon, it rained. And later that evening, after supper, Jan and Wilma's son phoned: “Wilma passed away this afternoon. We thought we'd phone you because you made the effort to come out.” “I'm sorry,” I said. “It was quick,” he said. “ Funeral arrangements have not been made yet.” He'd let me know. We said goodbye. I thought I'd sit down and write something about this sunny and this rainy day.
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They were neighbours for some 10 years, Jan and Wilma De Jager, a Dutch couple in their late 70s living in the house right across the street from us. I'd heard that Wilma was in the Shaver Hospital, going downhill fast. I'd only found that out yesterday evening at the Loaf of Bread supper, so today would be my “mitzvah”, my good deed, as my Jewish neighbours down the street would say.
I used to cat-sit for Wilma and Jan whenever they took a notion to hop in their car and drive through Tennessee or Florida. Jan had the wanderlust and he loved to drive somewhere, anywhere every year. They would also book a yearly flight to visit relatives in Holland. Jan sported a personal license plate, Huzum, the name of his home town in the old country. Their accents were Dutch, as thick as molasses, despite all these years in Canada. Every year, Jan showed me where the cat food was inside the foyer, so his chunky pet would not starve. [Man, that cat was heavy!] It meowed incessantly whenever it heard me open the door and rattle with the scoop inside her food bag. The cat reminded me of Wilma, solid and chunky and rolly-polly. Jan was a stick of a man with a concave stomach. I joked about him being underfed. He laughed, padding his thin tummy, “Not enough doughnuts, eh!” He and Wilma liked going to McDonalds because the seniors got a discount there on muffins and coffee. Jan claimed, McDonald coffee was tastier than Tim Horton's. Whenever they came back from holidays, they took me there as a treat, for watching their house and their cat.
Last autumn, they put a for sale sign up in front of their house. It was gone in no time. Before they moved, Wilma was diagnosed with a brain tumour. Everything seemed to come at once. The house was sold; Wilma had brain surgery. The relatives helped them move. A young couple replaced them. I hardly see the new young couple who pretty much keep to themselves. Jan and Wilma left no forwarding address. I often wondered how they were doing. Then the news came sort of off-the-cuff from another Dutch couple at the Loaf of Bread supper, “You knew Jan and Wilma? Did you know that...?” So, I earmarked Wednesday for my dropping in at the Shaver Hospital, thinking I'd squeeze a brief visit in before the puck was dropped at noon in the Olympics in the game between Canada and Latvia.
Wednesday morning was such a sunny day, a clear blue sky day, a good day for a quick hospital visit. I put a Toonie in the parking meter for a one hour stay. I shouldn't be more than that. The receptionist pointed to the elevator and said, “Second floor, room 219.” The door was ajar. Crowded room. Sons and daughters were gathered around her bed. I spotted Jan's gray hair. He was bent low, sitting next to the bed, holding her hand. Wilma's breath was heavy; she was rattling. Two of the sons spotted me just outside the door. I motioned for them to come out. They were teary-eyed. “I would be interrupting, wouldn't I?” I asked. “Yes,” they said. “Later, tell Jan that John Hartig, his neighbour was here.” “Yes, we remember you.” “Thanks,” I said and left. What a time to visit! I didn't know it was that bad. I headed to the car in the sunshine. I had 45 minutes left on the ticket and gave it to the guy who had just parked next to me. He'd been fumbling for change and placed his Bible on the hood of his car. He thanked me and put the ticket inside his dashboard. A young fellow. I wondered with whom he intended to pray. Maybe it was Wilma; maybe it was her pastor? I didn't pursue a conversation. What was my intention that morning? To ask Wilma if I could make a McDonald's muffin and coffee run? Chit-chat about the weather; about the hockey game?
I drove back down the hill at Brock University and noticed the cluster of students hovering around the bus stop heading up to classes. They all had their futures ahead of them, whatever that would be. I got home just in time for lunch and the start of the first period in the hockey game between Canada and Latvia. Canada won the game 2-1, not an easy win in the third period. Later that afternoon, it rained. And later that evening, after supper, Jan and Wilma's son phoned: “Wilma passed away this afternoon. We thought we'd phone you because you made the effort to come out.” “I'm sorry,” I said. “It was quick,” he said. “ Funeral arrangements have not been made yet.” He'd let me know. We said goodbye. I thought I'd sit down and write something about this sunny and this rainy day.
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