Last week I visited my Oma (grandmother) before I left for school. She lives on a farm that my mother grew up on and--in a way--I did as well. I was at the farm almost every week since I was born and have so many wonderful memories that took place there, but for the past two years, I have dreaded going there. I could not physically/emotionally/mentally go there without bringing up pain that I had pushed away. I refused to acknowledge my grief and pain from my grandfather's death. I could not handle it, and I did not want to.
My grandfather had multiple types of cancer. It was my junior year. I had a lot of school work and activities going on that I was in charge of, and when I wasn't doing any of that, I was working. My grandfather was put on hospice care, which meant that he was dying. They said he had months to live. I decided that I was going to go stay with him and take care of him one night. He was completely out of it, and I could not have a real conversation with him. He was having trouble breathing, and I was in charge of giving him morphine every couple of hours. My mom warned me to be prepared that he might die that night, but my Oma told me that she did not think that would happen. I stayed up with him, held his hand, and told him he was my hero. I told him how much I loved him and that he could let go if he wanted to. A couple hours later I gave him his morphine. I went to rinse out the syringe and then realized that he had stopped breathing.
I ran back to the living room in shock. I had just been there. He had died in front of me. I had to wake up my Oma and tell her that the love of her life had passed away. No one should ever have to do that. I sat on the chair while the hospice lady came; my aunts came to say goodbye; the priests came to console Oma; and then finally the funeral men came to take him away. I remember just sitting there feeling empty, like I would never be able to feel anything again. I had to be strong in front of everyone, and I was just sixteen. I blocked that night and those feelings out of my head. I hated being in that house.
I'm trying to work on myself now. I know that it is not healthy to do what I did for over a year now. The other night when I visited my Oma I asked her about Opa. They lived in the same community in Germany, and when she was born, he came to her house and gave her a flower. Later on, he visited her while he was in the military. When he left, he wrote her a letter every day.
I love that. My Oma and I miss him dearly, just as everyone else in our family. I have finally started addressing my issues about his passing away and am determined to work on them. I just got a tattoo of flowers for my Opa the other day. It reminds me of the flowers I would see on the farm as I was growing. Who knows--maybe one of them was like the flower he gave to my grandmother. It not only reminds me of him, but it also reminds me of the strength I have gained after going through this traumatic experience. My Opa has made me a stronger person overall, and I will always love and adore him.
