» On 6/09/2013 05:00:00 AM Mountain Standard Time, Alan wrote:
Erzsébet Tóth Bartos (1 Nov 1923 - 9 Jun 2013). 

Anyuka

My beloved mother-in-law has died in Budapest.

Erzsébet graciously allowed me to call her "Anyuka," an affectionate Hungarian word for "Mom." She was always glad to see me, and enjoyed my bumbling attempts to say a few words in her language. Her favorite word to describe me was "aranyos" (adorable).

In 2002, I wrote about the pain she endured when her husband died, in a micro story entitled "Forsaken." Several years later, when my wife Anikó translated the story for Anyuka, she appeared to be genuinely touched.

She lost her fight with dementia a few weeks ago, but she still had many moments of lucidity. Anyuka always recognized us, during the FaceTime conversations from the hospital, arranged by my son Jenő.

But then, the doctors discovered she had terminal liver cancer, and we realized the end was coming soon. Her pain ratcheted up, day by day, and she was moved to a hospice, where the dosages of opiate medication were increased.

On Thursday, when Jenő and my daughter Anita went into her room, Anyuka plaintively asked: "Am I still alive?"

She died peacefully last night, in her sleep.

I will remember Anyuka with a great deal of fondness.

***

LATER: The paper-shuffling mentioned in "Forsaken" occurred at a family gathering, just a short time after the death of Anyuka's husband ("Apuka"). Her emotional devastation was obvious to everyone, and even though her two daughters treated her gently, she became very angry at one point during the afternoon. I was unable to understand all the harsh words, but I guessed that Anyuka's overwhelming sense of loss was causing her to lash out blindly, torturing my wife and my sister-in-law. So I instinctively grabbed Anyuka in a bear hug.

It was a stupid move, and I began to regret it almost immediately. But I hung on anyway. Go big or go home.

I could feel three distinct stages in her reaction to the hug: (1) "I can't believe this crazy foreigner is hugging me," (2) "I will allow this crazy foreigner to hug me, but only because I don't want to offend him," and (3) "This hug is exactly what I needed." When I finally released her, about two minutes later, she had calmed down and was smiling up at me. I gave her a kiss on the cheek, and our friendship was sealed.

Labels: zsike

 
» On 10/31/2010 08:30:00 PM Mountain Standard Time, Alan wrote:
Kanovits, Jenő: 19 October 1938 - 31 October 2010.

My wife's adult niece has now lost both parents in the space of six months. [See Kanovits, Erzsébet ("Zsike"): 11 February 1946 - 22 May 2010.]

Her father Jenő was a tough guy. Retired police detective. Heart of gold. He and I didn't speak each other's language, but that was no problem. He barely said two words to ANYbody, in ANY language. ;-) He understood that I liked him. And I understood that he liked me. I'll miss him. I hope he finds a hospitable kocsma (pub) in the sky, where he can share old cop stories with his buddies.

8 November Update: This is the song that was sung at his funeral today, in Hungary.

Labels: zsike

 
» On 5/23/2010 06:50:00 AM Mountain Standard Time, Alan wrote:
Zsike's Secret Wish. 

Re: Kanovits, Erzsébet ("Zsike"): 11 February 1946 - 22 May 2010.

I can't believe it's been more than 19 months since I wrote Skyping Zsike. Back then, my sister-in-law was expected to pass away at any moment.

But Zsike had a strong appetite for life, and she was determined to stick around for as long as she could find some small enjoyments in her daily routine. And her younger sister, my wife Anikó, became her lifeline to the outside world. Nearly every morning before Anikó left for work, she contacted Zsike via Skype, and they discussed everything under the sun. Zsike was able to pour out her heart to Anikó, who lightened Zsike's load unflinchingly. This selfless sisterly love was an inspiration to witness.

I tried to help, by documenting our life in photographs, and sending the results to Zsike. She was delighted to have this window into Arizona from her flat in Budapest. Even though Zsike and I didn't really speak each other's language, we used an online translator to send short messages back and forth. According to my bilingual wife, the machine-generated results were often comical, but Zsike and I didn't mind. We stubbornly decoded strange emails without Anikó's help, thankyewverymuch.

A few months ago, Zsike's pain became really bad. Anikó frantically called doctors all over Hungary, until she found one who was able to perform a relatively-rare procedure. Luckily, it was successful, and Zsike was pain-free for awhile. She and her doctor were even interviewed on a Hungarian television program to discuss this revolutionary technique.

But the operations and chemotherapy were obviously taking their toll. Earlier this week, Zsike confessed a secret wish to Anikó, "It would be nice to go to sleep and never wake up."

During the last three months, I've held a temporary job with the U.S. Census. But last week, I was offered a permanent position, writing for a radio network. That's when I announced that Friday was going to be my last day at the Census. Zsike was thrilled that our precarious financial situation was becoming a little more stable. I could see the relief in her eyes.

So Friday was my last day... and Zsike's, too. She would have smiled at the irony. Or maybe she planned it that way, I don't know. In any case, she got her secret wish. Although we are now shedding tears because we miss her bright spirit, we are also comforted by the fact that her suffering is finally over.

Labels: zsike

 
» On 5/22/2010 05:30:00 AM Mountain Standard Time, Alan wrote:
Kanovits, Erzsébet ("Zsike"): 11 February 1946 - 22 May 2010.


Anikó + Zsike, circa 1956

  14 February 1999

  24 February 2010




                                      Skyping Zsike

        Updates: Zsike's Secret Wish ~ husband ~ father ~ mother

Labels: zsike

 
» On 10/12/2008 08:40:00 AM Mountain Standard Time, Alan wrote:
Skyping Zsike. 

My wife's sister, Erzsébet (Elizabeth, or "Zsike"), has had a tough time over the last few years. First, there was the heart crisis that was finally solved by a pacemaker. A year later, there was the crisis when the pacemaker started to fail, solved by a second implantation. Then there was a growth in the abdomen, solved by a colostomy.

But when we saw her a few weeks ago, she looked better than she had in many years. It was pretty funny when she asked me (in pantomime; we don't really speak each other's language) to show her the scars from my recent shoulder surgery. After I tried to find the 3 tiny arthroscopic incisions, she dramatically pulled her blouse out of her jeans and showed me her colostomy bag, along with the 18-inch scar across her abdomen. Yikes! Zsike won. ;-)

Zsike has a marvelous sense of humor, and a heart of gold. She's not just another in-law to me; I really like her. But just after we returned from Europe, a couple of weeks ago, we heard that her health has become much worse, and the doctors have promised to do all they can. It was shocking news. Anikó, of course, is devastated.

So we've been scrambling around to use the money Zsike gave us, to fulfill her last wishes - that Anikó would have a couple of orange trees in the back yard, and that we would get broadband, for videophone calls. It's sad, sad work.

Anikó and I spent last weekend digging huge holes in the back yard, to accommodate two new orange trees, and I spent most of this week setting up the broadband, wiring, software, camera, etc. for our new video connection to Budapest. By the time everything came together, on Friday morning, I was anxious to see how it would work. So, without thinking, I searched for Zsike's listing on Skype, and hit the Call button.

Sure enough, there she was. And there I was, in a little video box down in the corner. We were both delighted to be able to see and hear each other. So we waved.

At that point, I suddenly remembered that I only knew about three greeting words in Hungarian. So I laughed, in embarrassment. And she laughed, because she simultaneously realized that we had always relied on Anikó to provide our translations.

So I said my three greeting words. And she provided the simple responses that she knew I would understand. We laughed again. I pantomined a few stupid things. She nodded and laughed at my silliness. We were both soooooooooo excited to see each other. Eventually, I waved and said, "Bye-bye." I knew how to say "I will go get Anikó" in Hungarian, but I didn't know the word for "tomorrow," so I pantomimed something, at the end of the call.

I immediately called Anikó at work, and she was pleased to hear the happiness in my voice. She knew how hard I had worked, to set up this video connection. Later in the afternoon, she received a long eMail from Zsike, equally excited. Zsike had even understood my clumsy pantomime for "tomorrow."

That evening, something crashed the video connection when we tried to call my adult stepkids in Budapest. So I stayed up half the night, restoring old files, searching for updated drivers, downloading new software, uninstalling and reinstalling programs, etc., all in preparation for the big Saturday morning call.

When the moment finally arrived, I was exhausted. Anikó sat beside me, staring expectantly at the old digital camera I had converted into a webcam, so we crossed our fingers and clicked the Call button.

As if by magic, Zsike appeared. We were all strangely silent. At first, a tiny smile crossed Zsike's face. Then a single tear rolled down her cheek. I looked at Anikó, who was mesmerized by the image of her big sister. Tears were rolling down her cheeks, too. Suddenly, I realized that my face was also wet. After about thirty seconds, we all said "Hi" in Hungarian.

From there, the words flowed like a tidal wave. Every now and then, Anikó translated something for me, but she soon realized that I understood most of the conversation, just by the expressions on their faces.

I taught Zsike how to capture some still-frame images. Then Anikó narrated a video tour of our house, which Zsike has never seen, while I moved the camera around. Near the end of the call, I pointed the camera out the back door.

And we introduced Zsike to her new baby orange trees.



Update: Zsike's Secret Wish

Labels: skype, zsike

 
» On 3/16/2007 12:10:00 PM Mountain Standard Time, Anikó wrote:
Bartos, János (9 Aug 1919 - 29 Jan 2002). Alan wrote two micro stories about the events surrounding my father's death:

Apuka [written 24 January 2002, published in November (#1)]

The Budapest oncologists recently sent my wife's father home with a large bottle of pain pills, to wait for the end. We've offered to move up our planned visit, but János is convinced he'll still be around in April.

I'm hoping against hope that he can keep his promise.

***

Forsaken [written in April 2002, published in September]

Birth certificate, high school diploma, military discharge, marriage license, obituary: the old woman mechanically shuffles her precious stack of papers again and again, almost as if sorting them into the correct order will provide the magic combination that brings him back.

Labels: zsike