the funeral speech I couldn't give
2001 (updated : 2025.03.19)
Of my four grandparents, one held a special place in my heart – my father's mother (my "Oma")*. Despite this, I couldn't bring myself to speak at her funeral.
For years, Oma was my sole grandmother (my mother's mother passed away when I was just 3 1/2 years old). She was a straightforward, practical woman who managed to keep us disciplined while still spoiling us. I frequently visited her over the years, often making it a weekly habit every Sunday. Although my uncle Wolfgang took care of her and the property, I would drop by to say 'hello' and enjoy some company. Our connection continued through postcards and letters until her passing.
Her death occurred shortly after I returned to Canada from a year and a half in Australia. I had just arrived in Vancouver to visit my brother and his wife when we received the news that Oma had been hospitalized, was hallucinating, and appeared incoherent. As a family, we decided it was best not to disturb her with calls (what can you really say to someone who might not recognize you?). We prepared to travel back to Niagara for the inevitable funeral.
At the memorial service, my mother suggested I speak as I had at my grandfather's funeral, but I couldn't.
One of the last times I saw my Oma was when I brought my now-ex-fiancee and her five-year-old niece for a visit. Zoë, her niece, had been tearful all weekend, and my ex and I were at our wits' end. Despite being eighty years older and speaking her second language, Oma managed to comfort her, get her to sit on her lap, and cheer her up quickly. This story came to mind when considering speaking at her funeral, but I didn't have the strength.
My return to Canada was driven by the end of my first engagement. As I thought about sharing this story in a eulogy, I realized I would never see my Oma, my ex, or the niece again. I returned because job opportunities vanished while I was in Australia, and I was worried about my financial situation (lots of savings but no income). I felt homeless, rootless, and disconnected from the world.
I've always regretted not speaking for my Oma, but I understand that sometimes our limitations are genuine, and even when we try our best, we can't always rise to the occasion.
That said, I believe Oma would have found the strength. Her ability to handle five children during wartime (and losing one) gave her a talent for focusing on the important tasks, which always endeared her to me. It seems I'm still learning to emulate that.
Note
*Oma is German for 'grandma,' and Opa is, of course, 'grandpa.'