Between two countries, two lives, and one heart

The Netherlands is only a two-hour flight from Italy.
But the moment your mother has a stroke, it feels like the other side of the world.

When my father became seriously ill, I didn’t hesitate for a second.
I left everything behind, my work, my schedule, my life, and went straight from my office to the airport with nothing but my passport. I didn’t care whether I would still have a job when I returned.
There was only one thing that mattered: being with him. Caring for him.

I flew there, stayed, and only returned to Umbria two weeks after the funeral.

That time was heavy, intense, raw… and deeply precious.
I am still grateful that I could be there for him, that I could walk alongside him, that I don’t have to carry the weight of absence.

And now, so many years later, it happened again.

My mother had just spent a week with us. We celebrated Sophie’s birthday, shared beautiful days together, and only a few days after she returned to the Netherlands, everything changed. A stroke. Sudden. Unforgiving.

For a moment, it looked very bad. She was rushed away with all the urgency such a situation deserves. (When my father fell ill, mistakes had been made; that fear runs deep.)

When I finally spoke to her on the phone, I was shaken. Her voice sounded as if she had drunk three bottles of wine on an empty stomach, her words heavy and unsteady. When she tried to walk, her body no longer seemed to belong to itself: her legs moved one way, her balance another.

And her eyes… each seemed to follow its own direction, as if even they could no longer agree. She saw double. Everything spun. How do you find balance in that?

And I was in Italy.

But my brother was there.

He was by her side immediately, taking the lead, speaking to doctors, asking the questions she could not ask herself, arranging what needed to be arranged.

He brought light into a dark situation. He showed up with cake (which she then ate with a kind of endearing chaos, whipped cream on her nose instead of in her mouth), made sure she had something to eat, brought clothes, toiletries, flowers, warmth into a cold hospital room.

He made even the most frightening moments feel lighter. He arranged her transfer to the rehabilitation centre, something that, strangely enough, is not coordinated by any official system in the Netherlands, but falls to the family.

He was there. For her. And in doing so, also for me.

Because even though Italy is only a short flight away, in moments like this, it feels like oceans apart. Two hours flying, two hours driving to Rome, two hours at the airport beforehand…
And even then: what could I really add, with a small child in tow, in the middle of a medical storm?

Nothing.

And that is a difficult truth for a daughter used to taking responsibility, no matter the cost. But precisely for that reason, I am so grateful that my brother carried what I could not. That he stood where I wanted to stand. That my mother was not alone. That we carry this as a family, each in our own way.

Christmas will likely look different this year. No long Italian tables with everyone gathered here. But that is secondary.

What matters is that my mother is still here. That she is fighting, that she is recovering, that there is light. And that we are together, in whatever form that takes.

Perhaps this is the essence of living between two countries: your heart grows larger, but so does the distance.

This is a thank you.
To life, for sparing her.
To my mother, for still being here.
To my brother, for standing where I wanted to stand.
To the bond that stretches further than miles.
To family, that even across distance, never feels further than a single heartbeat.