Thank you for stopping by my blog. I'm Jacqueline, a working grandmother—yes, we absolutely exist. We don't just attend household fairs (though I did enjoy one this year with two fellow grannies) or knit Christmas sweaters. For the past year and a half, I've been seconded to an asylum seekers' center, drawing on my background in a TBS clinic—a field that always sparks strong opinions, which is perfectly fine.
Not everyone agrees with my choice, and that's okay. From my firsthand experience—and this is purely my personal view, not representing any organization—asylum seekers aren't cuddly bears or terrorists. They're simply people: families, singles, dentists, dancers, thieves, supermarket managers. What sets them apart is the monumental step they've taken by leaving their homeland, often amid profound trauma. That leaves a lasting mark on anyone, just like you and me.
Hundreds of individuals have crossed my path, each leaving a unique mark. Last year, I connected with a family including an 82-year-old grandmother—actually two families, with sons around my age who were incredibly kind to their mother. Despite our language barrier, we quickly became friends. Nearly blind, she often sat in the long hallway; I'd call her name from afar so she'd know I was near. Every visit ended in a warm hug, a shift from my years in secure settings, but one that soon felt natural.
We held full conversations in our own languages. She brought me such joy. When the family secured housing and she joined them, we parted ways—a cherished memory, I thought. I'd never see her again, I figured. Then last week, her daughter-in-law found me on social media. Grandma was gravely ill in hospice, not long to live. My heart sank. Of course, I went to visit.
In a small room in a grand Amsterdam mansion, she lay frail and pale, connected to tubes. I called her name upon entering, and she hugged me. We locked eyes and cried. I'd brought a white rose and rose-scented hand cream; I massaged her hands. Our final conversation unfolded in our native tongues. Even in her state, she asked about me, my children, and grandchildren. She insisted I take a chocolate, as always. She was waiting for her son from Canada, unseen for 20 years—she had to hold on for that. Then, she wanted to go to Jesus, pointing to her cross necklace and a large wooden Christ statue on the wall.
I stayed until her eyes closed, as our time together exhausted her. With a knot in my stomach, I stepped onto the bustling Amsterdam street: trams rumbling, laughter echoing, pigeons pecking at discarded chips. I wished her a peaceful final journey—no one deserved it more. I didn't look back.
