Celebration of Life

Dear Oma, 

There are a million words I want to say and a million things that I want to thank you for, but even though I had almost 18 years to spend with you I could never express my thankfulness how I wanted to. So, here I am, writing this letter a year after you passed on. 

I want to thank you for the memories first, like the fun times you provided for my siblings and me. Playing air hockey, reading together, conversations around the campfires, the birthdays, and the vacations; you knew how to make the most of the small moments so we could enjoy them more. 

Even boring activities like working in the garden seemed to be more enjoyable because of your enthusiasm. I remember working in your garden in the hot sun and slowly developing negative thoughts, but then you would turn on music or start a conversation that would distract me, and I would find myself happy again. 

I remember the taste tests of the variety of food you would prepare; and how you would call all of us over to give criticism on your latest pie, casserole, or even tea recipes. Although you were worried it wouldn’t be good at all, I think it’s safe to say that every dish you prepped was the best in the whole world. 

Though you were usually kind and gentle, you weren’t afraid to set us straight. I remember how you straightened my back whenever I was slouching at the table, or how you scooped veggies onto the plates of those who tried to have their lunch without any.  You weren’t afraid to deal with sibling arguments between us, and I think that’s a reason why all of us are as close as we are now. 

Between the taste tests and the fun activities, there were small, quiet moments I’m thankful for too. 

Those quiet moments came in the form of enlightening conversations or small lessons. Like when I first learned how to put my hair up in a ponytail; we were about to cook and you had to help my sister with something. You told me to go put it up myself, even though you knew I didn’t know how. I’m pretty sure that was your intention. It took me a few tries but I managed to figure it out and successfully put my hair up; I don’t know why that filled me with such excitement, but it did and I’m thankful for that. 

You were a jack of all trades; a massage therapist, a gardener, a sewer, a mother, and a grandmother. You kept yourself busy, but you also made time for your family, but…I took the time we had together for granted, which brings me to the next part: apologies. 

You and Grandpa lived right next door, but despite that, I didn’t take the time to see you until our Sunday lunch get-together unless we helped you in the garden or got together for a special event. 

So, I’m sorry, Oma. 

I’m sorry for not making the time to walk over to your house and say hi. 

I’m sorry for not listening as you tried to teach me sewing or cooking. You tried to teach me basic life lessons, but my brain always became filled with distractions, and I’m so sorry. 

If I took up every skill and instrument you tried to teach my siblings and me, I would have over a dozen skills and know about five instruments, including piano and guitar, but no. I became too afraid of failure as I got older and rejected all the lessons you taught me in my younger years. 

I remember you asking multiple times if I had written a story when I first decided I wanted to be an author, and if you could read something that I had written. You saw my earliest story, a 14-page book about a cowgirl and her horse, and said it was great, but you never saw anything past that. So, thank you for supporting me when you did–I probably wouldn’t have kept going without your support–but I’m sorry I refused to show you my other stories due to my knack for being self-conscious. 

And, I’m sorry, Oma, for not interacting with you as much as I should have when you got sick. 

That night still sometimes plays in my head like a recurring dream. February 2nd, 2023: I just got home from a school sports practice, but something seemed off in the house. I heard my Dad come in through the basement door and ran down to say hi, but he turned to me and I saw tears running down his cheeks.

“Oma’s dying,” he told me. 

I remember my state of shock as I took a step back and processed my father’s words. I remember crying as Dad hugged me and denying what he said in between sobs. 

You were perfectly healthy only a couple of weeks prior, so what happened? A brain tumor; you had been stumbling some and feeling weaker so you went with Grandpa to the doctor and they found a brain tumor. 

I remember going with my family to you and Grandpa’s house to pray. I remember how you looked at me when I slowly made my way to the kitchen; you smiled and said, “Why are you crying? I’m not dead yet.” 

It’s not uncommon for our family to make dark jokes, or try to lighten the situation, but when you said that, I had to cover my face and turn away knowing I would break down if I didn’t. 

We prayed and went back home…and then celebrated your birthday two days later. We joked and had conversations as we ate dinner that night, but there was a dark cloud looming over everyone, as we knew it would be your last one. 

There was a blessing through that dark time, a blessing I know God provided; my brother and his wife giving birth to your great-grandchild less than a week after we found out. That child provided so many needed smiles during that time, but the pain lingered. 

Every month you got worse: you went from being able to walk with a walker and cane, to being bed-bound in a hospice care facility within three months. I remember how my sister and I started doing small chores for you and Grandpa every morning during the first two months. I remember being terrified of you falling and not knowing what to do. I remember refusing to go see you during afternoons despite it being suggested by my parents because I hated seeing you in such a state…and I’m sorry that, once again, I neglected our limited time together. 

I remember a car ride back from our many visits to the hospice facility to see you; I had been fairly quiet during the entire visit. My mom, the one I had gone with, told me, “I know it’s hard, but you need to talk a bit more with Oma.” 

But I didn’t listen…

And then on the evening of May 31st, 2023–four months after we found out about the brain tumor–my sister and I were told that had passed away. I thought I had accepted it since I had four months to process it, but all my grief and guilt washed over me. 

I didn’t break down, though; instead, I prayed. I thanked God for the time we had and that your passing was peaceful. 

Finally, Oma, I miss you. I missed you on my first birthday without you, I miss going on family vacations with you, and I miss…I miss everything. 

You were a God-loving woman who brought joy into everyone’s life, and I know you’re in heaven. 

But sometimes I can’t help but wonder: are you happy with me? Was I a good enough granddaughter? I try not to think of your passing too often but it seems to come up every time I think of the happy memories. 

The grief is still there, stinging my heart from time to time, and a bit will probably always remain for the rest of my life, but I have my family and close friends to help me through it. 

So, I’m thankful that you were in my life and I hope you can forgive me. 

I love you, Oma, and you will always be remembered. 

–Your Grandaughter, Phoebe

In memory of my amazing Oma. 

1948–2023