Tag Archives: grief

What would you do?

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The rather morbid question was put to me yesterday which made me stop for a moment and think … just a little bit.  I love it in Mersin.  I really do.  I’ve got some great friends and am surrounded by some great family (*cough, cough*) but … BUT …

“what would I do if (if???) The Turk passed away?”

Interesting.  What would I do?

cenaze-islemleri

I am not talking about legalities and all the rest of it.  Having worked in the legal field for 25+ years I’ve got a pretty good grasp of the law both in Australia and in Türkiye regarding the death of a spouse.  Yes we both have Wills.  Yes, both here and in Australia.  Do you have one?  If not you should.  Also all of our properties here in Türkiye are in both names as are our bank accounts.  Are yours?  If not, they should be.  It is not unusual for a Will to be challenged by family members so better to be safe than sorry.  Of course it won’t happen to you … but just in case.

Back in Oz I was extremely independent.  I looked after myself and didn’t need to rely on others for assistance but here everything is difficult.  How would I cope with the day to day crap that goes on here?  I may be a Türk citizen but Türkiye is not my original homeland and my Türk language skills are way below par.  But even my lost independence and language issue is not my real concern.  My real concern – my only concern – is Daughter and when it comes down to it, Daughter is happy here.

Would I uproot Daughter again unnecessarily?  Probably not.

Would I move to perhaps a more yabancı friendly area?  Tempting, but no.

Would I date?  Feck no (unless Brad Pitt tossed that skinny, lippy brunette).

Would I move back to Australia after Daughter has grown up (married Calum Hood) and moved on with her own life?  In a heartbeat!

So I guess that’s my answer.  For now.  But here’s hoping that I don’t really need to think about this for a while at least.

When discussed with The Turk last night his reply was akin to the great Mr Bennett (you know how I love to quote Pride and Prejudice):

“My dear, do not give way to such gloomy thoughts. Let us hope for better things. Let us flatter ourselves, that I might outlive you.”

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Two Years Ago

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Two years ago today I sat in a doctor’s office with my father, his wife and my brother.  I sat there listening to a doctor tell my father that he had no time left, that the cancer was winning and to make arrangements for palliative care.

I had no idea.  I had no idea that he was sick.  I knew he had had surgery in January but he and his wife still travelled overseas in February.  They were even making plans to go away in July.  He was not sick.  He was fine. 

I had been in Mersin in April when I received an email from my brother telling me to come home, telling me that our Dad was ill.  No one told me.  Dad didn’t tell me.  His wife didn’t tell me.  I then got an email from my boss telling me to come home.  I was scared.  I tried to telephone my Dad and my brother but I could not get onto any of them as there had been a big storm in Mersin and it had knocked out all telephone and internet.  I finally got onto my Dad and he said he was fine.  His voice was cheerful, he was telling jokes.  My Dad always told jokes, legendary jokes.  He said that my brother was being overly concerned. 

It took days but I finally got onto my brother who told me to come home – now.

My next problem was getting a flight.  This is not always easy.  We had flights arranged for the next week.  I tried to change it.  It was difficult.

I finally got home.  I spoke to my brother.  I still remember it.  I arrived home at 11 pm and I rang my brother first thing the next morning.

“Jane, there is nothing they can do.”  I was at the shopping centre buying milk and bread for breakfast.  I collapsed on the floor and wept.  People walked around me, embarrassed by my outburst.  I did not care.

Two years ago today I sat in a doctor’s office with my dad, his wife and my brother.  Two years ago today I was told that my first love, my dad, was being taken from me forever.  Little did I know that it would be a mere 3 weeks before he left me.

Two years ago.

40 days

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Yesterday marked 40 days since the death of my mother in law.  Another tough couple of days with tears flowing freely for Refika.  She was truly a remarkable woman and loved by so many people.

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Having never attended a Turkish funeral I really had no idea what was going to happen and due to the speed in which a funeral happens here (same day) I did not even have time to gather my thoughts or ask what to expect.

Refika had been feeling under the weather for some time.  She had had heart surgery 2 years earlier however the surgery was not a success and she had never really recovered.  She was still her welcoming and wonderful self to us when we arrived although it was obvious that she was not doing as well as she could have been.  Her death, however, was a complete shock.  I certainly did not anticipate it and when The Turk received a call from the hospital at 5 am requesting that the family attend I knew, as did he, that it was not going to be good news.

By 7 am two trucks arrived with chairs, apparently this funeral was going to be attended by hundreds of aile (family) and also her many friends that she had made over the years.  I am not exaggerating when I say there was over 400 chairs delivered and set up on the street.  A portable morgue, of sorts, was then delivered and set up in the driveway.  I was told that this was where Refika would be washed by a hodja (female washer) and prepared for her journey to paradise.

At this point I started to freak out a little as people were arriving in their droves and clearly I had no idea what was going on or what was expected of me.  Those who know me know that I am not really one to show emotion but the crying, nay wailing, that had already begun was the most awful thing I think I had ever heard in my life.  Of course I had been to funerals before.  My beloved parents, extended family members and also to support my friends in their time of grief.  I have not, however, been to anything like this.

When Refika was brought home absolute bedlam broke out.  There was a lot of screaming and wailing, a lot of tears.  The grief was almost too much for me to bear and I tried to keep out of everyone’s way but before I knew it Daughter and I were brought into the portable morgue to say goodbye.  Daughter was distraught – although I let her come to my father’s funeral two years ago that was a western funeral and quite sedate in comparison – in my mind I kept wishing she had gone to school that morning as her cousins had done to protect her from the emotion and grief.

After Refika had been washed and prepared for burial the imam (leader of Islamic community) arrived and gave a prayer.  The men then took her body and placed it in a casket where it was then settled onto the back of a truck and taken to the mezarlik (cemetery) for burial.  Interestingly women are not invited to attend at the burial.  They will attend the next morning to pay their respect.

There was a constant stream of family members attending over the next seven days.  From early morning through late in the evening there was visitors coming to pay their respects.  The mourning areas were separated – one for the men and one for the ladies.  This annoyed me as the men got to sit in the sunshine while us ladies were segregated to the rear of the property in the shade (and you wonder why people kept getting sick).  Cay was constantly being served and meals were delivered by neighbours for next seven days which is the first part of the mourning period.  By this stage I began to hide as between the tears and the stress of attending on a daily basis was beginning to take its toll on me.

On the seventh day the iman re-attended at our home and gave another prayer for Refika.  This was also the day that a sheep was sacrificed and meals were prepared for all of our neighbours and fellow mourners.  This now marked the end of the official seven days of mourning.

The next date of commemoration will be the 52nd day although again I am unsure exactly what this will entail.

I am glad that we were in Turkey before Refika passed away.  I am glad that Daughter spent at least some time every day with her.  I am glad that The Turk was able to be with her in the end and I am glad that I had met and loved this wonderful women.  She will be missed by me and missed by anyone who ever met her.

Başiniz sağ olsun (Let health be on your head)

Sadness

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I was extremely lucky as a child.  I grew up in a home with a mum and a dad who loved me and with a brother that, well, let me just say that he loved me (or maybe liked me) sometimes.  Then when I was 19 I got lucky again when I met my natural mum and dad.  I have forged a good relationship with my natural mother and my natural brothers and sister not the same as with my adopted family but a good relationship nevertheless.  Unfortunately I lost my adopted mother in 1995 and my dad a little while back.  I still see my natural family as often as we can arrange it (well I did when I lived in Australia anyway) but my little family had become very tiny indeed.

One of our decisions to move to Turkey was to enable Daughter to have a relationship with her Turkish family and learn about her Turkish heritage.  Not every child can grow up to have the best of both worlds but we intend to give Daughter everything that we can.  So moving to Turkey it would be.

My luck continues in Turkey with family as well as I had a mother-in-law who I adored and a father-in-law who is a little batty but still a sweet old man.

My cup overflows so to speak.

Over the past couple of weeks my mother in law had had a cough.  Nothing drastic but a niggling cough that over time slowly got worse.  She had made numerous trips to the doctor and to the hospital but the cough was always there.  She still cooked her delicious meals and she still called me down “J-j-j-a-a-a-n-n-n-e-e-e” every morning for cay.  She still washed her husband’s clothes, made him dinner every evening and went to visit her friends in the village.  But you could see she was not strong.  Her smile was not as bright as it once was and her steps a little slower than they once were.  Her eyes showed more sadness but her heart was still full of the love that she gave to her family and friends.

On New Years Day my sister-in-law again took Refika to the hospital one last time where she fell into a coma and soon after passed away.  The sadness I feel right now is overwhelming me.  The tears that flow are real and pained.

I will delve further into this on another occasion but right now the feelings are too raw to process clearly.

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