In Loving Memory of Athanasia Torvas (1922 – 2019)

Yia Yia made it to her 97^th birthday in February and while things had been on a slow and steady decline since then, I truly wasn’t expecting to receive the news I did on the afternoon of Friday June 14. It felt like becoming untethered and entering a free fall. It’s like her presence had maintained equilibrium all this time and the world was missing something tangible, a gaping hole. It almost feels silly to be sad about something so inevitable and not very tragic, but someone wise told me, “a soul, is a soul.”

My mom had been packing her bags for a planned trip to Greece on Sunday to say her final goodbyes in person and I had spoken to Yia Yia the weekend prior, telling her that she would have company soon! It was the first conversation we’d had in weeks where she said my name the way she used to; “Vanessoula”, soft and tender and a little high pitched. She asked questions that made sense and said hi to Vito, or as she liked to call him, Tito. I was filled with hope that we might have her for longer than we thought and was planning to call again this weekend.

It wasn’t that long ago when she would call every Saturday like clock work and leave long-winded voicemails on the machine if we didn’t answer. I loved listening to her and my mom yammer on for hours, even though my broken Greek made it hard to follow along. Her voice was soothing and unique – a raspy blend of concern and love. While I don’t know everything about her life, I do know some things thanks to her amazing storytelling skills. Homegirl had the gift of the gab!

She always had something to say and thankfully never lost her voice or sight until the end

In her youth, Yia Yia used to mind the sheep in the mountainous fields of Peloponnese Greece with her brother. Also during World War II, Italian soldiers occupied their village and she fed them and made friends (one day she’d welcome an Italian son-in-law with open arms). She was married at 32 years old – her and Papou (10 years her junior) saw each other on the street and that was that (she was ahead of her time). It was arranged but they said yes.

They had three kids together (her last at age 39) and a couple miscarriages in between. They took in their nephew for a few years too and raised everyone in a 4-room home (an upgrade from a two room home that has since caved in). They didn’t have electricity until 1971.

Visiting the first house that blew down a few years ago

Yia Yia immigrated to Canada at the age of 50 with her oldest daughter, after Papou had scoped out the joint (the other two kids followed). They lived in Ontario housing and various places before buying a two-bedroom plus den apartment in an older Scarborough building. They never learned to drive so they never owned a car. Yia Yia cleaned IBM office buildings for a short while and took the subway there. They didn’t go on vacations or date nights. They hosted their friends at their homes in both Canada and Greece. She cared for her ill mother-in-law until the day she died (though I’m skipping ahead).

By the time I came into the picture, Yia Yia was 65 years old and never one to fuss over make up or appearances (except in her 90’s when no hair dresser could do right by her). She never learned English aside from a few words and I credit her for teaching me Greek. I was a rambunctious two-year old that would beg for lollipops and eat rice one kernel at a time. Back then, she used to cook up delicious dishes like chicken and potatoes but I can’t recall the last time I saw her at the stove… I’d beg her to take me to the park daily and eventually she’d cave in. Maybe that’s why I like green spaces so much.

You can tell who had the upper hand in this relationship 😉

I wound up going to daycare closer to the west end where we had moved, but we still saw Yia Yia for hours every Saturday afternoon after dance class. My cousin Jo and I would play hide and seek in that apartment, raid her drawers for handkerchiefs to play with. We’d watch Wheel of Fortune and Price Is Right and Fashion Television. But most importantly, we’d turn her couch cushions upside down and make forts and slides with blankets. And Yia Yia never got mad. She was good like that.

For her grandkids, she had endless patience. She’d chastise us, try to reason with us or express disappointment but she’d never raise her voice or her hand. She was always tight with money for herself, but her favourite past time was sneaking up on us in darkened empty rooms to stuff a folded bill or two into our hands from her housedress all whispers (Papou was never allowed to get in on that action).

She was generous with money but more importantly, she was generous with her heart and she always told us she loved all her “agonia” (4 grand daughters) equally. And that’s the thing. Of all the things in life I’ve doubted, I never ever once doubted her love for me. She was a safe haven and never picked sides whenever my mom and I would fight. She had an endless supply of hugs, kisses, hand rubs, cuddles, kind words and blessings. She was a solid source to count on through the tumult of my teens and 20’s when I struggled to love myself.

Jo and I gave her a makeover and she liked it

At some point in my teens, her and Papou moved back to Greece and did the snowbird thing, visiting us every winter for Christmas until early May. The distance made us closer – we all wanted to soak them in and made many summer trips to visit. During their last visit to Canada five years ago, we begged them to stay but they insisted on “dying in Greece” and living independently. Granny was 92 and at that point had long started warning us she wouldn’t be around forever. She made me take her picture at the condo in High Park for her funeral (after getting her hair did), and I scoffed at her like come on now. But guess what we’ll be using tomorrow?

The picture I never wanted to have to use (maybe I got my planning from her)

The more she needed us, the more we needed her. Three years ago I wrote about my visit to the village, how it was so hard to watch her struggle to move and to hear her + Papou fight. It felt like rock bottom but it wasn’t. Yia Yia did not get cancer or have a heart attack or a stroke. She just slowly became less and less free…

Two years ago I had the pleasure of introducing her to Vito in person. Vito and I had bonded over emails and phone calls the year before during my fateful trip to Greece. And while I knew she couldn’t be there for my wedding, Vito somehow knew that the next best thing was having her there for our engagement. The joy on her face after years of pestering me to get married was the greatest gift of all.

She loved that I got married at 32, just like her

Arthritis in her body, dementia in her mind (though she never forgot any of us). She went from outpacing me on a long walk, to walking around the block, to laps in her front-yard, to distances in her house, to being confined to her bedroom, just like her mother-in-law. For the past two months, she had to eat blended foods and has been in diapers. Her devoted husband and live-in caretaker looked after her.

A ruptured Appendix took her out for a final joy ride on Friday, going first to a hospital that she always made fun of / loathed, where she was inexplicably turned away and ended up at a second hospital in the beach side town of Kalamata (the same town where we got engaged). I like to picture her calling the shots right to the end, the wind in her hair and pieces of her spirit in the mountains, the sky and the sea.

Soaking in the sunset somewhat against her will. It wasn’t Kalamata but close enough

By all accounts, Yia Yia lived a very long, typical and small life. She didn’t reach career milestones or struggle with a “life purpose” or vocation (like I do sometimes). She didn’t see the world or have lots of money. She was married for 65 years, had three kids, four grandkids and four great grandkids. She chuckled and poked fun at herself, asked 1 million questions, complained about a bunch of things, sang, soaked up the sun, made adorable kissy faces and scrunched up crying faces. She was empathetic, kind, not a gossip. You’d have to know her to know…

Some of the gang (missing Thea Kat, Cousins Jo, Soula and Maria and their families)

After scouring through photo albums and phone storage this weekend to see how much of her we’d captured (quite a lot), I also looked up her name for the first time. Athanasia means “immortal” or “eternal.” I can only hope that her memory and her values live on FOREVER in our hearts and actions, and in the hearts of our children (some of whom she’ll never meet). I want to make her proud and pay it forward in all the little ways that matter. I’m eternally grateful that she brought out the best in me and that she taught me how to love.

Two peas in a pod. Also she rocked pyjamas like no other.