To continue the story about my roots I wrote earlier, today I am going to tell you about diseases and death in my family during my childhood.
Five years before birth: first grandfather
Four years: death first grandmother
Five years: death second grandmother
Six years: cancer mother
Eight years: death grandfather
Nine years: death father
Ten years: death godmother
Twelfe years: fathers first brother
I’m not remembering every detail, since every death happened quite quickly without long suffering. In any case funerals became some sort of theatre spectacle to me, with some people laughing, some crying, others didn’t care. Sometimes there were more, sometimes less people. Sometimes the coffins were open, sometimes closed. When they were open, sometimes they dressed up people quite strange. I never cried, even when some approached me as the youngest and asked me to be strong, crying their heart out. I did not exactly know what was happening and how the story would continue anyway. Depending on the age I said something like: “If they are dead I have to water them” or “they will be somewhere anyway”. A quite difficult time for my mother, who lost both parents, her husband, and her only sister within eight years, additionally she had cancer herself. Probably I had to anticipate my future differently every year. And of course my life changed with every death. With 12 I refused to go to the funeral of my uncle, because I did not want to see another funeral again. Instead I engaged a little bit in his wives church.
Often try to think about this time, and how I felt. Details are easiest to remember when thinking about family events. Where did they take place and what did we eat and drink? Then it gets complicated. Who was there, how did they behave and what did they tell me? Who was at the 40th birthday of my mother? Did she think, she survived and knew that my father would die? What did I think would happen with me? How were the weddings, how did they get along. Where were the problems?
Today nearly the age of my father when he died, I predict that the children of my mother will get killed mentally by psychiatrists, as I described in this and my other blogs. And she will probably survive them with 82 years of age.
If something happens to me who ever is responsible, just throw me, my left belongings and possible claims in the junk, that will be OK for me. It is not in my hands. I was made from a mountain runner to a beggar and heart disease patient in four weeks, probably because I accepted a job offer 20 years ago in a highly hostile industry branch arguing for nations and killing their own people.
Don’t know why I always watered her, I started already earlier, when she still was alive.