The impossible void to fill

I don’t watch political conventions other than listening to the candidates’ acceptance speeches. Kamala Harris, the Democratic nominee for vice president, spoke of her mother who passed away in 2009 as her inspiration. Joe Biden, presidential nominee, spoke of the incredible loss he’s endured over his lifetime.

Some of the rhetoric in their speeches — and what they would have done differently than our current president — can be debated or dismissed, but there is no denying that their description of losing loved ones close to them resonates with anyone who has experienced such pain.

“I know how it feels to lose someone you love. I know that deep black hole that opens up in your chest. That you feel your whole being is sucked into it,” Biden said in his speech Thursday. “I know how mean and cruel and unfair life can be sometimes.”

That struck a chord with me.

For me, it was the loss of my mother, mostly, that is the black hole that remains. She was born at the end of August and died at the beginning. She was 58 years old when she left us, and I was 34. She was born in Germany on Aug. 30, 1939, two days before Hilter invaded Poland. She died Aug. 1, 1998, too much life in front of her.

At an early age she knew how to survive. She recalled moving from building to building if she was caught in an air raid. The scars of destruction were still visible during our family trips to Koblenz. We would go to visit her mother and family. Unexploded munitions littered the Rhine River where we children often played on the banks.

Like Harris, my mother was raised by my grandmother, “Oma.” Oma raised five children. Opa, who I never met, wasn’t much of a participant. I recall asking Oma about my grandfather. Her reply loosely translated was, “We don’t talk about gypsies.” Mom had two brothers and two sisters. Both boys were born blind. I marvel at the fact that Oma lived through two world wars, the Spanish flu and raised five children (two handicapped who lived with her as adults until her own death).

She was strict and hard on my mother, but Mom was the polar opposite. She was empathetic, compassionate and reasonable. My favorite places as an adult were the front steps of my parents’ home, their backyard under her lilac bush, or the dining room table — all places she and I would talk for hours about life. All subjects were on the table.

When Harris spoke of her mother, saying, “My mother instilled in my sister, Maya, and me the values that would chart the course of our lives,” I understood where she was coming from. I feel my parents charted that course for my two brothers, my sister and me.

I describe the loss of my mother like a house fire: The grief it left was the smoke that fills the air, and there’s no escape. You just can’t get low enough to breathe, but in a house fire, the smoke eventually clears. Grief subsides, but it never really goes away. It lays below the surface and appears sometimes unexpectedly, even years later. Events jar you back in time or, many times, into the reality that loss is permanent. Maybe the faithful are right and we’ll see each other again. But in the midst of grief, there is no consolation for the possibilities of another world where your loved one is still living. There is only the painful reality.

From Biden’s speech: “First, your loved ones may have left this Earth, but they never leave your heart. They will always be with you. And second, I found the best way through pain and loss and grief is to find purpose. As God’s children, each of us have a purpose in our lives.”

The escape route from our grief is just that. We find our purpose, but more importantly, we build new relationships with the realization they will never fill the void. As hard as that is, we can’t let that void be a roadblock in our relationships with our friends, family, co-workers or adversaries.

The day after my mother passed I recall having a cup of coffee on her front steps. I observed her neighbors go about their day. I wanted to scream, “What are you doing? The most beautiful person in the world just died.”

I was still inhaling smoke from the house fire, and straight thinking was nowhere on the horizon.

But whoever you believe to be in charge did something special — or twisted — depending on how you look at it. Two of my mother’s grandchildren were born while she laid in a coma for almost the entire second half of July, as we waited for her eventual fate.

She hung on until August, as if to give her two grandsons the opportunity to celebrate July without grief interfering. One of those children was my son, Jon, who is now twenty-two. There are many similarities between my mom and Jon — facial features and expressions, compassion and kindness toward others. The void is still there, but the gift is forever present. And while my life has purpose and I am truly grateful, I just can’t help but think about the lost time with my greatest inspiration.