A personal story about my mother

This is a personal story about me and my mother, who sadly passed away very unexpectedly and at far too young an age. This is a story I had hoped I would not have to write for at least another 20+ years. I am also writing this because I hope it will help me process everything that has happened.

I am writing this today, on May 12th, 2026, in Helsinki, Finland, where I am currently in the middle of a musical concert tour together with Batzorig Vaanchig, a musician from Mongolia. My wife and I had been preparing this tour since 2025. A major project that unfortunately takes place immediately after the passing of my mother. It has made processing this loss far from easy, especially since I have now already been traveling for three and a half weeks. By now, we have given concerts in 13 countries.

A project in which actually standing on stage is only a very small part of the tour itself. Around it all is a constant puzzle of logistics, international flights, organizing luggage, arranging insurance, staying in contact with concert venues, coordinating volunteers and people, hotels, soundchecks, selling merchandise, photography, videos, interviews, and much more.

But during these weeks, the recent loss of my mother hangs over me like a dark and heavy cloud. I have lost other dear friends and also my grandparents, among others, but this feels so much deeper. I am trying to comprehend that I will never be able to speak with her again. I still cannot believe it, and honestly, I still cannot truly accept it. She is my mother: the person who carried me for nine months and with whom I spent 37 years of my life.

But during the last weeks with her, I increasingly began to realize how much I had taken for granted. It all felt so normal and natural. Sending a quick message, dropping by for a visit... it was always simply possible. Now I realize that I did not always fully acknowledge how special our bond as mother and son truly was, even though we both knew it deep down.

My mother and father had four children: their eldest child, my sister, then me, and after that two more sons, my younger brothers. While growing up at home, we all experienced life in our own ways, and because of that, each of us naturally has our own story. Even later in life, after we started our own families, we each kept our parents in our lives in our own way.

This is a glimpse into my perspective. A personal glimpse that I want to share with you because my mother truly deserves to be seen. She deserves to be remembered, even by people far outside her own circle. That is why I am sharing this story.

My mother, Esther Hartsuiker, passed away on April 7, 2026, at the age of 66, in the presence of her husband Hans Hartsuiker, her children Sara-Roos Hartsuiker, Rowan Lee Hartsuiker, Rory Nigel Hartsuiker and Ian Richard Benjamin Hartsuiker, and their families

Far too early, far too young, far too soon, I now have to miss my dearest mother, with whom I shared such a special bond.

“One life is not enough for you” my mother always used to say to me. And she was right. I always want to do new things, discover new places, learn and experience more. And I owe so much of that to her. My mother, my biggest fan and greatest supporter. She was a true fighter, someone who never gave up, and that is something I inherited from her.

I cannot briefly explain why, but we had a special connection. She heard me, she understood me, she truly saw me. And above all: she genuinely wanted to understand me. My father always jokes by saying: “If I tell your mother we should do something, she will probably say no. But if you tell her we should do it, she will probably say yes, so you should ask instead!”

I will forever miss that little heart reaction on every photo I shared and every message I wrote. I will never again hear how worried she was about everything I was doing or still wanted to do, but especially how she always supported me, asked whether I still needed help, or told me how beautiful or wonderful something had turned out.

In February she was still out and about with her grandchildren. Then, at the beginning of March, the news suddenly came that due to a serious illness she would not have long left to live. But none of us ever dared to believe it would truly happen so quickly.

The doctors’ plan was to first help her regain strength, including tube feeding, while at the same time conducting examinations, scans, and other tests. After that, life-prolonging treatment might possibly be an option. But everything that could go wrong in the hospital did go wrong: examinations were delayed, appointments were not kept, pain management was poorly monitored and badly organized. Everything went wrong, and it was incredibly frustrating and painful to witness.

Hearing my mother say that she could no longer endure the pain… that was devastating to hear. My mother was not someone who complained easily; in fact, she often went so far in the opposite direction that she barely felt worthy of showing when she was suffering.

But in the end, none of it worked out. She never got the chance to truly say goodbye to everyone around her in a peaceful and beautiful way. My greatest nightmare — losing my mother so young — became reality...

What followed after the bad news were strange weeks, filled with deep lows but also hopeful moments. One day things seemed okay, the next day they seemed terrible. But from a distance, I watched my mother slowly become smaller and weaker. It was so incredibly difficult to comprehend how quickly everything was happening, especially on the days when things temporarily seemed better again.

On March 29th, 30th, and 31st, I stayed several nights at my parents’ house. I lay beside my mother in bed. I did not dare say goodbye to her. I did not dare let the conversation go in that direction. But my mother was already thinking about those things.

We talked about her funeral card and the ideas she had for it. She told me how she and my father used to meet in the dunes of Den Helder, where they once lived together. And that when she was eighteen years old, she had told my father that if she were ever to pass away, she wanted her ashes scattered there.

And so now, so many years later, she sat there telling me this story. Tears filled my eyes while she held my hand in her own bed. I said, “Of course, I will make the card exactly the way you want it.”

We agreed that a few days later, on Easter Monday, April 6th, we would take photographs at that place. That my father would carry her up the dunes one last time. Carry her to the top once more. And she said she so desperately wanted to visit us in Groningen one more time as well, to work together in the garden again and prepare it for the new season. Working together in the garden was something we had loved so much over the past years.

And so, on the evening of March 31st, I drove back home. My mother was feeling reasonably okay. I left with the idea that I would return again for several days on Easter Monday.

But the next morning, on April 1st, my younger brother called me early: “Rowan, you need to come now. It’s not going well anymore. Mom wants to say farewell.”

And so we all immediately drove back to my real home. There I saw my mother, my dearest mother. And together we all lay on her bed — my sister, my younger brothers, and my father — just like we had done so many times in our youth.

But this was not an ordinary morning. This was a farewell. A farewell forever. And so we spent our final moments together.

The days after that, we stood beside your bed day and night. You were surrounded by all your children, your husband, your daughters-in-law, son-in-law, grandchildren, and your younger brother. We love you so much. Watching you slowly slip away was horrible... a true nightmare.

This is the most painful thing I have ever had to endure. Seeing you in pain during those weeks, and eventually hearing you say that you could no longer bear it and wanted to sleep — simply to finally find peace.

That “sleep” came through palliative sedation. In this way, your body could naturally let go. You believed that once this decision was made, it would happen quickly. We believed that too — that you would finally find peace and that we could let you go. But your heart was simply so strong, even at your young age, that it kept going. And so it lasted many more very long days… days during which we stood beside you, waiting, while you slowly lingered somewhere in between. It was unbelievably difficult to witness.

Together with my brothers and sister, we endured this. We supported you wherever we could and stayed by your side every single day and night. And in the time ahead, we will continue to be there for dad, and for one another.

It feels so unfair that you never truly got a chance. So unbelievable and surreal that everything happened this quickly. We never had the chance to truly say goodbye in a beautiful way.

My wife Saran also said recently at our kitchen table, with tears in her eyes: “Your mom was my best friend. The only person I could truly talk to. She wanted to understand me and help me whenever I did not understand something again. During birthday parties, if I sat alone, she would always come sit next to me and explain why Dutch traditions were the way they were. She helped me understand things and explain things better than anyone else ever could.”

And that is true.

I met Saran and her then nine-year-old son in 2009. They were in a difficult situation at the time. I told my mother about it, and my mother immediately said:
“Invite her to stay with us temporarily.” And so Saran and her son lived with us for a while until we had our own home. That was who my mother was. She always wanted to be there for everyone.

During the days that you were sleeping, I could not laugh or distract myself. I found that incredibly difficult. While other people spent the days as if things were normal — laughing, making jokes, talking about everyday things like work, salaries, or a new vacuum cleaner — I simply could not bring myself to feel that way. Pretending to be social felt like pure hell.

During the final days while you were sleeping, we installed a baby monitor. I slept in the living room all those days, with the monitor beside the couch where I slept. Raven, our sweet dog, slept next to me every single day. Together with your eldest child, my big sister, we were there constantly. We listened to your breathing and your heartbeat. My sister stood beside your bed almost every half hour. I tried to do the same, listening carefully to how you were doing. During those days, our senses became completely focused on it; we constantly monitored the sound of your breathing.

Then… on that final day, late at night, I heard your breathing change through the monitor. Slower, more irregular, quieter. I ran upstairs, and my sister was already standing beside your bed. And not even twenty seconds later, there was suddenly that lifeless silence. No more breathing.

We were there for your final breath, just as you were there for ours.

At that exact moment, we stood there beside your bed.

Immediately afterward, after that very last breath, I felt the coldness. The warmth that had surrounded you only moments earlier disappeared instantly. At least, that is how it felt to me. Suddenly there was only that terrible silence and coldness. What a horrifying and frightening moment that was…

In the days before, you were still with us. We could still feel your presence. But now… my sister and I could do nothing but cry. It was truly over now. Hearing us cry, dad also came into the room. It was really over.

I called my younger brothers: “Come quickly… mom has passed away.” The words barely came out.

Then came all the official organizations and formal days afterward. Strange, surreal days. But during the condolences, many beautiful stories also surfaced from people who had known my mother for many years — sometimes for 50 years or more. That was beautiful and meaningful to witness.

For my father, it was not easy. Never in my life had I seen him like this. Broken and emotional. Completely broken. As a close family friend said: “It’s not going to be easy. Your mother really was the spider in the web.”

And that is true.

During those days, I could only think about what I would have done differently. This year, in 2026, after Christmas of 2025, we still had not visited my parents yet. In January, we had a busy project with another musician from Mongolia, and in February we decided to go to Mongolia. During that time, the Mongolian Lunar New Year takes place — the biggest celebration in Mongolia. And Saran, my wife, had not celebrated it at home with her family and mother for more than 20 years. It was a trip we talked about every single year, but somehow it never happened. This year we finally said:
“Let’s just do it.”

Now, looking back, a part of me regrets it. Because while we were planning our trip to Mongolia, my mother was told that her breast cancer might have returned and that she would need to have a breast removed. We wanted so badly to come support her. But she said: “Don’t worry, it will be okay. Don’t rush. Just come visit after your trip.”

But now, looking back, I would rather have spent those moments with my mother instead. And there are so many moments I now regret… You simply take far too much for granted without realizing how valuable it truly is.

You had finally retired and wanted so badly to go out and enjoy life with your family, your husband, and your grandchildren. To enjoy moments together. Because you were always there, everywhere. You never wanted to miss a single moment of our lives. These past days, painful as it is, made me realize how much I took for granted without even thinking about it. Everything felt so normal. If I had known you would leave us this quickly, I would have cherished every single moment and held you tighter, more often. I would have spent even more time with you.

But instead, I stood beside your bed for days with tears in my eyes, holding your hand. Every day I kissed your cheek while your body slowly left us behind.

I am so grateful for my mother. When I think back on my childhood, I can only smile. Countless beautiful memories: eating together in the garden during summer, long afternoons at the beach, weekly lunches at grandma and grandpa’s house where we ate delicious bread rolls richly topped with slices of cheese, little tomatoes, onions, pepper and salt, with a touch of mayonnaise. “Little pastries,” as grandma and grandpa used to call them.

Adventurous holidays together, even though we did not have much money. My mother carefully kept countless photo albums, and one of them was titled: “On vacation, even without having money.”

We were simply a very ordinary family. My mother worked in healthcare for people with disabilities, and my father worked as a street paver. We did not have much financially, but honestly, as children we barely noticed it. Our parents always supported us.

Memories around the kitchen table; drawing, painting, laughing, joking, and so much more. During our birthdays, you always made the most creative treats for us to hand out at school. I remember the lullabies you sang to us, even when we were already far too old for them. Lullabies with funny improvised variations; always humor, always silliness.

And you loved cleaning and organizing: you truly could not sit still for even a moment! When we were already in bed, you would still vacuum the bedroom one last time!

And even more recently, as I grew older and started my own family, you never wanted to miss a single moment or milestone. You wanted to be part of everything and showed interest in everything we did.

I will miss it all: working together in the garden, painting and doing projects around the house, playing games at the table, simply sitting and talking on the couch, celebrating birthdays together, and eating your favorite Mongolian dumplings. I loved teasing you all the time. You were always so trusting — everything I told you, you believed without hesitation.

Whenever you visited us in Groningen, you would always take a little tour through the house. Rearranging things in your own way, styling a corner, tidying the shed together. That was simply pure enjoyment.

These last days after my mother’s passing, I worked at the kitchen table every day while she lay in state in the living room. It is simply impossible to comprehend. Just like when I was younger, spending endless evenings at that same kitchen table drawing or painting while my mother gave me tips about colors and details… and now… I look beside my screen and see the basket in which my mother lies. Unreal. Truly unreal.

I am so grateful that you visited Mongolia together with us and dad — the country where such a large part of my heart lies, together with my wife Saran. That we were able to experience that together. That you were there and got to meet Saran’s family in their own homeland.

Over the past weeks since March, they have also cared deeply about you and followed everything closely, and that means a lot to me.

During the last days while you were still with us, I constantly asked myself: “How on earth am I going to do this without you in the years ahead?” But mom, believe me, I — and the rest of your family — will manage. I will keep telling your story to my children and to the people around me.

To create a more financially stable future, we have been working more and more each year in tourism with our bed & breakfast and guesthouse. In addition, we have increasingly been working in the cultural sector by organizing events, concerts, workshops, and retreats. Over the past months since early 2026, for example, we worked on a major project together with Batzorig Vaanchig. It was such a large and complex project that we simply could not postpone it, even after our personal situation.

These days, while I am writing this, we are fully occupied with the tour. It is exhausting. Since returning from Mongolia in early March, we have barely had a normal night’s sleep. But at the same time, it is also inspiring.

At the same time, I feel guilty. Because everything is so busy, my thoughts often drift toward work. And when I think about what has happened, it sometimes feels as if we are temporarily living in another reality. As if losing my mother is some terrible dream.

But it is real.

I try to appear strong on the outside. As if I am okay. As if everything is fine. But the moment I truly stop and face reality, or see a photograph that brings back memories, everything collapses again. Then I feel how heavy this truly is.

And I hope people understand how difficult this period is for me — how emotional this time is — even while ordinary life and work simply continue moving forward.

I also feel guilty toward my father. Facing this reality together with him is still difficult for me. But it will be okay.

Mom, I will think of you forever in everything I do and everything I still will do.

I am so grateful for everything you have done.

For everything you taught me and for everything you gave to us.

I am going to miss you so incredibly much.

And I cannot help but keep talking to you, just as I have been doing every single day.

We will never forget you, mom.

We will always carry you in our thoughts.

And we will keep sharing your story with our children. 🤍