Walter de Vaan (66, copywriter and editor) died on October 25, 2016 from the effects of sepsis. He had two sons, aged 38 and 37, and had a relationship with Lene Gravesen (61, librarian at the Theater School) for twenty years. Lene has a daughter, Felipa (29).
Lene: ‘In 1995 I ran the secretariat of the international choreography training at the Theater School. Visiting lecturers from abroad often came to Amsterdam. The school rented an apartment in De Pijp where we accommodated the foreign dancers. Walter lived above that floor and he was always kind enough to open the door for them. As a nice neighbor he often drank a glass of wine with them. I had him regularly on the phone because I had to report who was arriving at what time, but I never saw him. Until we met at a performance by a mutual friend.
He was very charming, intelligent, and also a handsome man to look at. Dark, well-proportioned body, good head. I fell head over heels for him.
In 2014, he passed out, breaking a rib and bruising his shoulder. His doctor thought it necessary to do a blood test. The weekend before the results we had a lot of fun. Walter said, “If I die, I can deal with that.” I replied, “You are a spiritual giant if you can say that so easily.” On Monday, he was told he had acute leukemia. Only if he received chemotherapy at exact intervals for two years, there was a 35 percent chance of recovery. He had to be recorded immediately, every second was important. Walter didn’t want that, he said he needed two days to sort things out. The next day he said goodbye to his business contacts. I thought it was very radical, and also very rational. On Tuesday he was busy calling people, organizing things and packing his bag. In the evening we ate at our regular restaurant on Kadijksplein. The next day Walter went to the hospital in good spirits, with the book Oblomov under his arm.
It went wrong very quickly. A week after his first round of chemotherapy, they operated on a deep line, a kind of gate, under his collarbone, from which they could draw blood and administer medicines. That caused a terrible inflammation. Walter couldn’t lie, because he still had a broken rib and a bruised shoulder from the fall, and his arm was swollen like an English Christmas ham. He suffered terribly, was in tremendous pain. The haematologist said, “We made you very sick.” The chemo was stopped, he could only continue with the treatment when he was cured of the complications.
Missed the boat
When he was in hospital for a month and a half, we were told that there were no follow-up treatments, he had missed the boat. The chemotherapy should have taken place at exact intervals and it was now too late for that. It was a sledgehammer blow. At the same time, the oncologist said that the leukemia was in remission, it was no longer visible in his blood. He added that he was sure the cancer would return. It was coiled in his body like a snake, and was bound to come out again. What he got was stoppage time. Walter asked how long he had to live, the doctor guessed about eighteen months.
Walter came home in May. The first thing he did was write a treatment order, he absolutely did not want to be admitted again. “If it comes back,” he said, “I won’t go to the hospital again.” He wrote that in a letter that he gave to his children and to me. In the following months he had to recover, he was very weakened by the long hospitalization. We didn’t live together, but he had lived down the street from me for years. I went to him every day after work. We cooked together and watched television together on the couch, hand in hand. We fell in love again, it turned out to be a very beautiful summer.
When the cancer came back a year later, Walter deteriorated rapidly. He was often tired and sometimes had to lie down ten times a day. He had seven thousand books that he decided to sell. He knew an antiquarian from Antwerp who bought all the books. When the books had been picked up by truck, there were stripes all over the wall where the bookcases had been. His best friend came to paint the walls, after which it was very white and empty. Walter bought a large palm tree and put it at the end of the sofa. When he lay on the couch, while I looked at the palm, he would say, “I’m working on the detachment.”
I booked a trip to Spain over the fall break because my best friend had moved there. Walter definitely thought I should go, he’d be fine with the home care. When I came back on Thursday, he said he had felt terrible. He cried and said, “It’s really not going well.” Nevertheless, we had a nice weekend afterwards. We ate well, drank some wine and Walter learned his Moroccan words. He took a course at the People’s University to be able to communicate with the ladies of the home care. He wanted to be able to say more than Ramadan and Inshallah.
Ambulance
On Sunday morning he didn’t answer the phone and I immediately sensed that it was not right. I ran to the end of the street and ran upstairs. He lay in bed with wide open eyes and he could not speak. I thought, thank God, he’s still alive. I was hesitant to call 911 because Walter didn’t want to go to the hospital. But I couldn’t just let him die, could I? The ambulance arrived quickly. It was dramatic: his bedroom was on the fourth floor and he had to be hoisted down on a platform by the fire brigade.
Arriving at the emergency room, Walter suddenly asked, “Can I have my glasses?” Those were his last words. The doctors told him he had septic shock, a type of blood poisoning that causes all your organs to fail. He was given an oxygen mask and lots of meds, but he didn’t respond to anything. As I sat next to his bed, I said, ‘Honey, you are a brave person. If it has been nice for you, feel free to embark on the great unknown adventure.’
The next evening at 8 o’clock he breathed his last. I was peeling a pear, my daughter Felipa was holding his hand. Walter donated his body to medical science, so I had to say goodbye to him in the hospital. I stayed with him until midnight. I turned off the bright hospital light, stroked his back, kissed him and massaged his hands and feet. When his body had cooled down completely, I followed his bed down to the basement of the OLVG and said goodbye to him at the door.
When I got home, the vast emptiness fell over me like a heavy blanket. What was I to do with myself now? I poured a glass of whiskey and thought: it’s over, it’s started. Life with him is over, life without him has begun. I crawled into an icy bed on my own.’
Lene Marie Gravesen wrote the book ‘Until it is no longer possible, an Amsterdam story about love and loss’, which was published in 2021 by Aspekt publishers.