Oma

Oma

There are many different phases and chapters in life; each with their beauty, intrinsic value, joys, sorrows and bittersweet endings. It’s difficult for me to write this entry, while healing to do so.

While shopping with Atlas for a new pair of shoes, I got a call from my Mom. Her words pierced my heart as soon as I heard them.

“Aaron, this is the call you’ve been waiting for.”

Everything around me seemed to snapshot itself into my memory. The racks of shoes, Atlas’ voice as he tried on a second pair, the arrangement of the store fixtures and even harsh glow of the bright lights flooding the retail space.

“Oma passed away at 3:30 this afternoon.”

I watched as Atlas walked up and down the aisle, trying on the fit of a new pair of Nikes. My heart felt like the ways ears ring after hearing a large explosion, and I leaned against a display cabinet as I tried to catch my breath. I wanted to weep. I wanted to scream. I wanted to be anywhere but in the middle of a chain sporting goods store.

In the fragile hourglass of our lives, much of the first half of our life is spent wishing that we were somehow on the other side of where we are in that moment; racing to graduate, get a promotion, have a family or even find some measure of success – all of these things feel forever in the distance until we cross that bridge as the sand of our life drops further down the glass.

A full hourglass seems like it will never empty. However, as the final pieces of sand near the middle of the glass, it seems to rush faster and faster until there’s nothing left at all.

So many things seem important at various intervals of our life, which have absolutely no worth when the final moments of our lives come – or when we’re no longer breathing.

None of my grandparents left behind huge fortunes of ‘generational wealth’ for their children/grandchildren. None of them built miniature empires in business, or lived in estate-like homes – much less, had second and third properties. They didn’t leave behind assets for their children to fight over after their death.

What they left behind was a family that loved each other, and they were present to witness the moments where that tight-knit bond was established, just as my own parents were there to cultivate strong relationships between me and my siblings; relationships that have lasted decades – and will continue until each of us pass into what’s next.

A lot of life is wasted chasing things that don’t matter in the grand scheme of things. As somebody who has spent a considerable amount of time in a cemetary, there’s one thing noticeably void from all of the grave markers:

“Here lies a man who bought his dream home.”

“Here lies an accomplished CEO.”

“Here lies the owner of a huge portfolio.”

“Net worth: $XXX,XXX,XXX”

“The biggest house in the neighborhood.”

None of this shit matters after somebody dies and begins their journey into decomposition, nor are they the tennants of recollection that people remember when they think about the deceased.

Perhaps one of the most difficult parts of losing a loved one is in the own sense of recollection and thought that occurs when you lose somebody; you’re forced to ask yourself if the way you’ve been living is something you’d be proud of at the end of your life, and the answers can be as haunting as the memories of the lost loved one that now fade into the past.

“Have you hugged your grandparent lately?” Opa wrote as one of the opening lines of his book, The Empty Hourglass.

When I last saw Oma, I knew that it would be the last time I gave her a hug. The space in her room felt as if it were etching itself in my memory as I sat and smiled at her. I watched as Atlas tenderly crawled into her bed and gave her a ‘soft’ hug before he walked out of the room and told her “I wuv you.”

Before I walked out, I turned to give her “one more hug.” and told her that I loved her.

The next thing I knew, I found myself in the hallway of her hospice facility. I felt a similar recollection of the moment where I walked into the hallway after shaking my Dad’s hand as he returned a weak handshake to me – the first time in my life. The arsenal of emotion that seemed to rush at me had to be diverted, as I needed to walk outside and comfort my little brother, and it has remained diverted until this day.

There was no time to let the tears fall that day – just as there was no time to grieve when I got the phone call in the middle of a store.

As Atlas beamed with joy in his new shoes, I quietly thanked my Mom for letting me know the news, and told her that we were off to the climbing wall. It wasn’t the time or place to begin the grieving process. It was time to climb.

“This is the moment that matters now” I heard something tell me as I looked at Atlas and walked to the checkout counter.

When my Dad passed away, I remember getting the phone call early on a Sunday morning. As soon as my Mom hung up the phone, I fell back asleep, knowing I wouldn’t be the same person when I woke up. In similar fashion, Atlas and I went to the climbing wall and I chose to lose myself in the hours that passed, knowing that things would hit me as soon as we walked out of the gym.

For two hours, he climbed. He climbed better than most adults I’ve witnessed in my life – and I’ve seen a lot of them, as a former employee at a rock climbing gym. I couldn’t take my eyes of of him the entire time, and got lost in cheering him on, guiding him to the next hold and watching him drop down to the ground with glee as I lowered him before he rushed back to each route to begin again.

For that brief moment in time, I was lost in the moment. It was exactly what I needed – and Atlas, too.

As I put Atlas down for sleep that night, we prayed before bed.

“God, keep Oma safe up there – and give her food.” he prayed. Right before he fell asleep, he said:

“Oma is up there holding my frog.”

Oma, you were the best grandparent a child like me could have had. I will never forget the grace, care, compassion and love you bestowed on all of your children and grandchildren.