A few weeks later, Laurens was transferred to a hospital here in Amsterdam, where the gravity of the situation became more clear: Laurens would never wake up from his coma. He was breathing independently, opening his eyes in the morning and closing them at night. His hair was growing and he had a wobbly tooth. But his parents could not get through to him — there was no reaction from him, nothing. They cuddled him, sang his special songs, read him his favourite stories that would always make hime laugh. But despite the physical ‘automatisms’, Laurens’ brain was too damaged. Even though his body was still alive, his brain was dead. He couldn’t be reached.
Laurens was in Ava’s class, and his older sister Sophie has been in Pim’s class since they were 4. We had known Laurens since he was a baby. The impact of the news was gigantic, in our family, and at the children’s school. Laurens was always such a sweet, lively, funny boy. He not only left an empty chair in the classroom, but his presence was throughly missed.
As parents, we felt so helpless. We sent messages of love and support to Laurens’ family, cooked dinner for them, tried to be there for them when they needed us. But, because of the nature of the loss, it was difficult to deal with our own emotions. Laurens was gone, yet he was still there. It was such a tragedy, it was so very sad. We needed a way to give all of this a place. So we gathered together, and made a blanket. A gesture of support to Laurens’ parents, a therapeutic way to channel our emotions. A reason to connect, share our sadness. An embrace.
This is what happened. We asked all of the children in Laurens’ class, his 23 little friends, to think about their friend and make a drawing for him on a square, white piece of paper. While they were drawing, we asked them about the special memories they had of Laurens. Thoughts we wrote down and gave to Laurens’ parents later. Then, we cut a white cotton sheet into 24 squares, and transferred the children’s drawings onto the pieces of cloth. We bought embroidery rings, needles and coloured thread, and then asked the parents of the children to embroider their child’s drawing onto the white cotton squares. The 24th square that we needed for the blanket was embroidered by Marja, the children’s teacher.
We organised two evenings where we embroidered together, and it was so nice to talk, to share our feelings. On the first evening Laurens’ mum (also called Esther) joined us, and on the second evening his dad, Marco, came. It was sad and raw, but sweet and good.
When the embroidery was done, we sewed the pieces together and made it into a blanket that we gave to Esther to bring to Laurens. It turned out so beautifully — so much attention and care had gone into this blanket. A warm embrace to Laurens, from his little friends. A blanket full of love.
Esther told me that the blanket was such a lovely source of conversation in the hospital. A reason to reminisce about Laurens and his friends. It was so much more than just a blanket.
Laurens body slowly stopped working. His organs were giving up. He passed away one morning, early in June, in Esther’s arms, who softly sang his favourite song in his ear. It was peaceful. Sad, but beautiful, Esther told me.
I really hope that none of you will ever have to go through such sadness, but death and loss are so much a part of life. Perhaps one day this story can offer inspiration and consolation to you.
xxx Esther
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