rust in vrede Oma

today is not a good day. yesterday wasn’t either. i think that’s what happens when you’re finally left to sit with your sadness – there’s no escape. no distractions. there’s nothing but you and your feelings. it’s been two months since my Oma passed away and instead of it getting easier, it’s getting harder. harder because the reality of never seeing her again is sinking in. harder because the reality of never talking to her again is sinking in. harder because i’m not only grieving the loss of her, but i’m grieving who i was when i was around her; the person she made me feel i was and could be.

i’ve wanted to write about her passing for a while now but i didn’t know what to say. so instead, i’ll attach the speech i gave at her celebration of life on the 29^th of June.

Oma,

How fortunate to have had a grandparent you never dreaded seeing, but always looked forward to seeing. That’s how I felt with you. You living around the corner was the best thing for us growing up because we got to see so much of you. I know Mum appreciated the spontaneous visits (and cleans!) as did I…even though it would quite often be accompanied with a phone call… “Oma…where’s my soccer shorts?!”

I always looked forward to Friday nights – chicken soup, omelette, a glass of milk and some chocolate followed by a sleepover where I always found myself rolling into you because of the small weight difference.

You were always heavily involved in my life – helping out at school and coming for craft days with Mum or even ironing every piece of clothing that was washed, yes even undies. You really did take care of us didn’t you?

You loved your routines. Cards in Glenelg. Hair cut at Clipjoint in the city. Catching buses everywhere. Who needed Google Maps when there was you?

I loved how easily you ‘moved’ mentally when things were explained logically. You never seemed too concerned with gossip and didn’t take anything too seriously.

When I lived in the US, it was you who I missed the most. We used to have the ‘you hang up’ ‘no you hang up’ kind of love. Every time I came home to visit, I wanted to spend most of my time with you. Taking you out for lunch, going for beach walks – Wednesdays became our day. I loved talking to you and I think you enjoyed talking with me because it was always about things of substance, never about nonsense. I asked difficult questions. You answered. I wanted to get to know you, and you me. And get to know each other we did. You became my best friend Oma. My person. You’re the first person who I felt really got ‘me’. That’s why I always wanted to sit next to you at family dinners – we could talk about things that mattered or we could laugh at the ridiculousness of each other. You were my pal. My comfort. My safe space. You brought out the best in me, as childish as it would be at times, but I was happiest when I was with you. 

You were adored by everyone. Neighbours, loved ones, and strangers alike. You had a warmth and a smile that instantly made people feel at ease. I think that was my favourite quality about you – your total acceptance and absence of judgement. You loved people as they are. As you loved me for me. Every weird, quirky, stinky facet. How lucky I was to be loved by you.

The one thing that always stood out to me though was your unwavering strength. You survived World War II, immigrated to a foreign country whilst leaving your lover behind, suffered devastation and heartbreak in more ways than one, yet you could never tell that’s what you’d been through. Your scars were hidden. Instead of bitterness and pain, you had forgiveness and openness. You accepted Opa back into your life when you had no reason to. But that was how you loved – unconditionally and selflessly.

We had so many great memories. I used to love the way you would dance to my music. Or we would dance together. I loved the way you would say ‘I’ve never tried this before’ even though you most certainly had. But I think that was your secret. You got excited over the boring. The mundane. The everyday things. You saw them with the novel excitement of a child and I loved that about you.

Covid hit and that was so hard for you – a once always sociable and integrated person, you suddenly became isolated and I think that is when your demise really started to hasten. Falls became frequent. Pyjamas your daily outfit. Your new home became Rembrandt where the beautiful Sanju became your adopted granddaughter. How thankful we are for her.

I’m so glad I had the time with you that I did – we had fun. Even though you didn’t like how fast I would drive. You were my favourite part of my childhood and even adulthood. I got to experience some very special time with you. And you? 90 wonderful years on this Earth.

I love you. We love you. Rest easy Oma. Everyone’s Oma.”

as the initial shock of her passing wears off, what’s left is the gaping hole she’s left in our lives. i’ve always been petrified of death, and i still am. i’m terrified by the finality of it. by the reality that there’s nothing else once we pass. but if there is at all a chance we might reunite with those who have passed, then perhaps dying wouldn’t be so bad. to be with my Oma again, to go for one of our walks, to have one of our chats, those are the moments i miss, cherish, and long to experience again.

grief is hard. and yes, it is a universal experience; we all go through it. but the commonality of it doesn’t take away from the difficulty of it. and this year has certainly been rife with it. first the passing of one of my parent’s cats – Millie, a beautiful old soul of a cat, then the passing of our dear friend Jude – someone we only met within the past 12 months but had an impact of a lifetime. shortly after, my Oma’s end of life care was initiated, and more recently, my partner’s granddad passed away. i know grief isn’t linear, and i also know it isn’t practical to grieve 24/7. instead, it appears in moments of solitude, either at home or in the car, or in moments of remembrance wherever that might be.

i know there’s no ‘fix’ for grief; there’s no before and no after, there’s just the during. and during that process you’ll have good days, and you’ll have bad days. and at the moment, i’m having a few bad days. i miss her. i miss everything that she was. i miss her smile. her laugh. her warmth. her comfort. she was my person. although we can never bring back those who have passed, they can live on in our lives. i suppose that is why i feel so committed to visiting Holland – to see where she lived and grew up. to experience the Dutch culture. it’s also why i’m learning Dutch at the moment too – although i realise it’s perhaps a few years too late.

i never wanted to experience a world without my Oma in it. which is how i feel about my parents too. i know these things are only inevitable, but it doesn’t make the inevitable any easier to accept. i suppose the only thing that can come of this inevitability is the desire to appreciate the present; to always say ‘yes’ to experiences involving those dearest to you. to live not as though you will die tomorrow, but as though those closest to you will. because for many of us, that’s a reality we will have to face at one or more points in our lives.

so here’s to living for those now - to live without regret of wanting more time with them or having had done more with them. i often think my obsession with death and obsession with my own mortality isn’t healthy, but in some ways it allows me to live with perspective. to live with an acute awareness of our finiteness. to live with an urgency to make the most of those around me whilst i still can. to in essence, live.