Pühapäeval suri mu vanaema Aive Villak. Ta oli justkui viimane lüli millegagi, mida nüüd enam ei ole. Mul ei ole enam ühtegi vanavanemat.

Vanaema ei helista mulle enam kunagi ja ei soovi sünnipäevaks õnne. Ta ei soovi enam kunagi minu lastele sünnipäevaks õnne. Ta ei helista mulle enam mitte kunagi ja mina ei helista talle enam mitte kunagi. Mitte kunagi.

Kui kummaliselt valus see on, kui sa saad aru, et mingi asi ei juhtu enam mitte kunagi. Ma ei näe teda enam mitte kunagi. Ma ei saa temaga enam mitte kunagi koos nalja teha. Me ei saa naljatleda selle üle, kuidas ta peidab end kohvrisse ja asub Portugali poole teele. Või ei saa arutleda, miks tal ei ole juba lennukipiletit minu juurde sõitmiseks.

Paar kuud tagasi, kui dementsus oli temast juba suures osas võitu saanud ja ta oli haiglas, helistas ta mulle ükskord õhtul üsna hilja. Temal tiksus kell juba südaööd. Reipal häälel teatas ta mulle, et on mingisse kummalisse sanatooriumi sattunud, kus on ainult vanad inimesed. See tõsiasi, et ta ise oli 90, ei näinud teda karvavõrdki kõigutavat. Häda oli nende teiste vanuritega, kellega oli igav. Vanaema igatses pidusse minna ja uuris, kas ma oleksin kambajõmm.

Ma oleksin väga tahtnud temaga koos peole minna, aga kahjuks takistas seda üritust vahemaa ja tõsiasi, et me kumbki ei olnud eriti heas pidutsemisvormis.

Kolmapäeval veetsin tunde ühe ülesande kallal, mis on mulle usaldatud. Kirjutada kirikuõpetajale valmis lähedaste ja pere osa kõnest, mille ta siis Räpina kirikus laupäeval kõigile ette saab lugeda.

Mu ema, tädid ja onu andsid selleks palju sisendit. Ma õppisin vanaema veelgi paremini tundma. Kirjutasin sinna ka ühe lõigu, mille osas lisasin kirikuõpetajale juurde märkme, et selle ettelugemine on rangelt vabatahtlik. See lõik kõlab järgmiselt…

Hetlin soovib täna vanaema ees ka vabandada. Viimasel aastal hoidis ta vanaema eest saladuses oma rasket haigust. Mitte usaldamatuse pärast, vaid armastusest. Ta tahtis vanaemale sellest rääkida, kuid ei soovinud talle põhjustada muret ega südamevalu. Hetlin teadis, kui sügava jälje oli vanaema südamesse jätnud poja Kalmeri kaotus ja kuidas ta ei saanudki sellest valust kunagi üle. Seepärast otsustas ta oma koormat ise kanda. „Vanaema, ma tahtsin sulle rääkida, aga ma ei tahtnud, et sa minu pärast kannataksid. Loodan, et sa mõistad, et tegin seda armastusest sinu vastu.“

ENG

My grandmother, Aive Villak, passed away on Sunday. She was like the last link to something that no longer exists. I no longer have any grandparents.

Grandma will never call me again to wish me a happy birthday. She will never wish my children a happy birthday again. She will never call me again, and I will never call her again. Never.

There is something strangely painful about realizing that certain things will never happen again. I will never see her again. I will never joke around with her again. We will never laugh about how she was supposedly hiding inside a suitcase on her way to Portugal. We will never debate why she still didn’t have a plane ticket booked to come and visit me.

A few months ago, when dementia had already taken much of her memory and she was in the hospital, she called me one evening quite late. For her, it was already around midnight. In a cheerful voice, she informed me that she had somehow ended up in a strange sanatorium filled entirely with old people. The fact that she herself was ninety years old did not seem to bother her in the slightest. The problem, as she saw it, was all those other elderly people, who were terribly boring. Grandma was longing to go to a party and wanted to know whether I would be up for joining her.

I would have loved to go to a party with her, but unfortunately the distance between us — and the fact that neither of us was exactly in peak party condition — made that difficult.

On Wednesday, I spent hours working on a task entrusted to me: writing the section about family and loved ones for the pastor who will speak at her funeral service in Räpina Church on Saturday.

My mother, my aunts, and my uncle shared many memories and details with me. Through their stories, I got to know my grandmother even better. I also included one paragraph and added a note for the pastor that reading it aloud was entirely optional. The paragraph reads as follows:

Hetlin would also like to ask her grandmother for forgiveness today. During the past year, she kept her serious illness a secret from her grandmother. Not out of distrust, but out of love. She wanted to tell her, but she did not want to cause her worry or heartache. Hetlin knew how deeply the loss of her son Kalmer had scarred her grandmother’s heart, and how she never truly recovered from that pain. That is why she chose to carry this burden herself. “Grandma, I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t want you to suffer because of me. I hope you understand that I did it out of love for you.”