Five Years, And It Still Hurts Like Yesterday

Today, November 18, I am reminded of a tragedy that changed our family in many ways, five years ago on this very day.

It was just days prior to Thanksgiving in 2003, and I remember it like yesterday. It had been a great day — I was stationed at Lajes Field in the Azores and I was shooting a Tops in Blue concert for the next day’s evening AFN newscast. In fact, it was my first solo news shoot and I rather enjoyed it.

I had spent some time in the radio studio earlier that day with the New England Patriots cheerleaders and comedian Andy Andrews doing some voiceovers for my morning show. We were having a blast and we did some radio interviews about their USO tour with Tops in Blue, in support of the troops.

I got all my footage, trekked up Santa Rita Hill to the station, dropped off my memory cards and prepared to edit the next day. I drove the Cushman (dang stick shift) down the hill, back onto the base, said good evening to the Portuguese security officer who checked my military ID and headed home.

It was 11:30 at night and I was ready to turn in.

No sooner did I change out of my uniform into something more comfortable, than the phone rang. Great, I thought, the TV signal must be out again and I need to go restart Avid AirPlay (the program that switched between local and satellite programming).

I picked up the phone, and to my surprise it was my dad. Then again, it wasn’t surprising, considering the family still lived in Oregon and they were seven hours behind me. It was 4:30 there.

Dad was normally really excited to talk to me over the phone. But that night was different — I could hear it in his voice.

“Oma had a medical emergency today,” Dad said. Jason and I always called Grandma Stephens Oma because, after all, she was German.

My heart sank and I asked what happened.

I listened as Dad described in detail of how Oma had been visiting a friend in Longview, when suddenly she grabbed her stomach and collapsed to the floor. Her friend called 911, and paramedics rushed Oma to St. Johns Medical Center, and she was clinging to life when they brought her into the ER. Mom and Dad were notified and rushed in…they were told Oma had suffered an aneurysm and was bleeding severly, internally.

Then Dad stopped.

“Dad…you gotta tell me. Did she make it?” I remember asking frantically.

“No, bud. She passed away a couple hours ago. She…” Dad paused to gain control, “…bled to death and they couldn’t save her.”

Oma was gone, just like that. My grandmother, a woman who loved her family dearly — she lived three houses away from us in Oregon — and was so involved in our lives that she may as well have lived with us, was suddenly gone. God had called her home, and I was 8,000 miles away.

I don’t remember anything else about that evening, except for the fact I did not sleep one minute. I spent that entire night sobbing like a child. Geographically separated from my family, at that point in time it was the only thing I could do.

When I arrived at work the next day, I asked for emergency leave from my station manager, Senior Master Sgt. Jesse Hall. He granted it to me, and being the Christian man he was, he prayed for me in his office, that the Lord would grant my family and I comfort. I will never forget how much that prayer meant.

On Monday, I was on the twice-a-week rotator flight to Baltimore, where I would connect with a civilian flight to Las Vegas, then Portland.

Those were the longest flights I’ve ever taken, and I don’t remember much about them either.

Dad picked me up at PDX, and it was only him. Jason was at school, and I couldn’t even imagine how Mom was coping. Dad was taking it well, and I think it was only because he had to. We were all close with Oma.

I don’t remember many details in between arriving home and the funeral. All I remember is the days were long, and it was the worst trip home of my life even though I was with my family. I hated seeing everyone in pain.

My uncles Bobby and Harrison, and my aunt Rosemarie had arrived in Rainier shortly before or right after I did, and they proved to be of great comfort to each other during that time. I would listen in the living room as they all gathered around and told stories of how Oma supported the entire family, all four kids, by riding a bike to and from work at Tollycraft — a shipbuilding company.

Whatever it took to support the family, Oma did it. Her family had emigrated from Nazi Germany prior to World War II, and that was the basis of Oma’s work ethic. It showed until the very day she passed away.

The day of the funeral arrived, and we all prepared…I remember simply wearing black slacks, a white shirt and black tie. Nothing fancy, and I didn’t have anything prepared to speak either. For the first time in my life, I had no words.

For anything.

We all situated ourselves into the van and cranked the heater. It was cold that late November morning, the sky was gray, and it looked like it could rain at any moment.

As we took off, we noticed that the road ahead was somewhat invisible through a white mist. Then as we drove further we realized something–

It was snowing. And it was coming down. Odd, considering it never snowed that early in our neck of the woods.

But maybe not. Driving through the snow, we felt comforted by it. Oma loved the snow, and that was her way of telling us it was okay.

The snow turned into rain in Longview, and as we arrived at the funeral home, we all slowly stepped out of the van. I still remember looking to the front seat and seeing Mom with sunglasses on. Uncle Bobby just looked up at her, then back out the window.

“Here we go, Sibbie,” he said, his voice cracking.

I don’t remember much of the funeral, but I do remember it was very small and respectful. Members of Oma’s church, the Alston Corner Assembly of God, and their pastor, Steve Berry, were there…in fact, Pastor Berry officiated the service. Many family friends paid their respects as well.

The funeral ended and the good folks at the memorial chapel let the family members say their final words. Everyone went before I did. I just remember hearing how Mom had hugged Oma in the hospital before the doctors pronounced her deceased and that came to my mind, how that must have been.

My mom, embracing her mom.

One last time.

The woman who embraced a peaceful body, as if to coax its spirit somehow back to this earth — then realizing she’s not coming back.

One last time.

The child embracing the one who had sacrificed everything to give her children the best life possible despite their situation.

One last time.

I heard her crying softly behind me during the family viewing and knew it would be difficult for me to properly say what I wanted.

My turn arrived and I slowly approached the casket, thinking of what to say. By the time I arrived, my thought process shut down, my mouth was dry and my eyes were already moist.

I apologized for being too idiotic to spend quality time with her on many occasions, apologized for not being around when she passed away…and then I thanked her.

“Thank you, Oma, for taking care of my mom.”

That was it. We headed home and the snow was still falling, ever so lightly. None of it stuck, but it was still falling. How sincerely fitting, that the snow lasted the duration of her funeral.

Thanksgiving that year was the hardest holiday I’ve ever spent with anyone. Even Christmas in Iraq pales in comparison. Oma was usually a guest of honor at our table and not seeing her that year…indescribably heart-wrenching.

We gathered around the table and waited for Dad to say the prayer for our Thanksgiving meal.

We waited patiently, and I think we all stole glances at the empty seat at the table. Before I knew it, Dad asked me to pray the Thanksgiving prayer.

For the first time in our family’s history at Thanksgiving, Dad didn’t pray for the meal. I still can’t comprehend that.

The next few days turned into weeks, and they turned into months. The time passed and the pain ebbed away ever so slowly, but we all feel it from time to time, all of us in the Brewer family. Especially this time of year.

I can never forget the wonderful friends and church members who helped my family immensely through such a difficult time. Pat & Patty Dillon, Ben & Susie Bear, John & Benita Parker, Kay & Dave Cabales, Paul & Shelly Symonds…the list goes on and there are too many to name.

I’ll also never forget the support system I had among my co-workers who helped me out tremendously over the next month. I took a leave of absence from the morning show until the new year, performing other duties and tasks around the station…and during that time, my colleagues really stepped up and helped me in more ways I can even describe. Sergeants Hall and Whitley, and my good man Robbie Arp. What good friends…

Today as I sit here and type this, I realize how Oma’s death changed the course of our family. Five years later, for us, the changes are still profound, and we still grow as individuals and together.

And on a day like today, we rely on each other and the Lord for strength, peace and comfort.

It’s been five years, but at times it still hurts like yesterday.

I love and miss you Oma…we’ll see you before you know it. Say hello to my big brother for me.