It's strangely therapeutic, and maybe that's because today the world feels just a bit darker, gloomier, and sadder.
On Sunday I was able to drive north and attend my cousin's baby shower. It was a fantastic opportunity to see my extended family. I got to sit next to my Oma and explain to her what each gift was as my cousin opened them. At various points the group would be in stitches over something Oma said or did. When she wasn't pretending to be pregnant by putting a balloon up her shirt she was talking about the possibilities of her having another child. She was cracking jokes (in true Oma style) and seemed so full of life.
Yesterday was a gorgeous day. I went for a run beneath the shining sun, cleaned my house, and enjoyed myself (I was allowed to mark from home). Then, just before lunch, my Mom called. She told me Oma had suffered a stroke. She had fallen because of it and was in the hospital.
I'm not going to lie, my initial reaction was "This is Oma. She'll jump back." I mean, you should have seen her after she fell and broke her hip. Jordan and I went to visit her and even on morphine she was making us laugh. She's the kind of woman that nothing seems to be able to hold back.
She was that kind of woman.
As the day progressed and clouded over, I began to realize that Oma was not coming back from this. It was a severe stroke and the most we could hope for was that she would make it through the night so that all of her kids could say good bye.
We went out last night and I got to hold her hand and kiss her forehead. I got to tell her how much I loved getting to be closer to her. That I loved her and would miss her. I said good bye to her for each of my siblings and made sure she knew how badly they wanted to be with her.
The woman in the bed was not the same woman I had the privilege of sitting with on Sunday's shower.
This morning, at 9:50 I got the text telling me she had passed.
I'm sitting here in the dark, crying, wrapped in the blanket she had made for me last fall. It's a baby blanket, meant for whenever we have children, but I don't care. It's keeping me warm right now. And it reminds me of her.
I wish I could describe how I feel but I don't know how. I want to yell "It's not fair!" and yet that isn't really the right sentiment. It has been less than 8 months since Opa died, but I thought for sure I would have Oma for a few more years. I had thought for certain she would be around at least for our first child so she could see it wrapped in the blanket she made. As we drove home from the hospital last night, both Jordan and I discussed the fact that our children will never know their great-grandparents on either side. They will never get to have a four-generation picture.
Words can't begin to describe how honored I am to have had these months being near my family. I get to be with them through this. I got to say good bye. My heart goes out to my siblings and cousins who can't make it back.
Right now it seems like the only thing I can do is cry, "Oh, God." I have no words. No explanations. I'm not angry. I'm just deeply grieved. My heart aches to get an Oma kiss on the cheek. To have coffee with her one last time. To eat all of her black licorice.
I guess I just ask that you would keep my family in your prayers. We don't really know how to respond or what to do. We are all hurting.
Oh, God...
No comments:
Post a Comment