I’m Jade and this is my Oma. Here’s her story…
This is my Oma. She didn’t just raise me—she saved me. She adopted me when I was a baby and gave me the only real love I’ve ever known. I’m 19 now, and I’ve never been apart from her like this. I’ve never felt this alone. The house is so quiet without her. It doesn’t feel like home anymore. Her laugh, her humming, her footsteps—they’re gone, and the silence is crushing. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, I can’t stop spiraling. I don’t know how to do life without her in it.
She’s been a mother to five kids and raised four grandkids like we were her own. She gave up her freedom, her retirement, her dreams—just to make sure we had a fighting chance. She worked long hours, sometimes two jobs, and still came home and made us feel safe. Even when she was hurting, she made sure we felt joy. She wore the same clothes for decades so we could have new outfits for school. She went hungry some nights so we’d have full plates. She didn’t have to take us in, but she did. She loved us like only a real mother could.
Just a few weeks ago, she was laughing by the lake with us. She was walking on her own, moving freely, smiling. We had vacations planned for her. We were excited to give her something to look forward to—something she deserved after all she’s sacrificed. She was doing her best to be healthy, to stay strong, to live longer for us. And now, suddenly, all of that has been stripped away. Her body betrayed her. Her independence—the thing she clung to with such strength—has been taken from her. For someone who’s always done everything on her own, this is more than just physical. It’s heartbreaking.
A few months ago, we thought she might be getting dementia. She was forgetting things, saying strange words, getting confused. But it wasn’t dementia—it was mini strokes. Silent, unnoticed, slowly damaging her brain. And then two days ago, she had a major stroke. She can barely speak now. She can’t eat properly. She can’t walk or coordinate her movements. She’s in rehab, trying to fight her way back, but the reality is brutal. She’s scared. I’m scared. Watching the strongest woman I know be reduced to this is something I wouldn’t wish on anyone.
What hurts even more is that she hasn’t even seen me graduate yet. That moment we always talked about—her in the crowd, proud, crying happy tears—it hasn’t happened. I graduate soon, and I’ve spent so long feeling like a disappointment. Like I didn’t do enough, like I wasn’t enough. I’m just now starting to figure life out, to try and become someone she’d be proud of. But I don’t want her to leave this world scared, or worried, or disappointed in who I became. I’m not ready for her to go. It’s not time. But so much of this is mental, too. Life has been so heavy on her shoulders, and I’m scared that somewhere in her heart, she’s starting to feel like giving up. Like dying in that hospital bed would just be easier. And if that happens—I don’t know how I’ll live with myself. I’ll feel like I failed her when she needed me most.
She turns 74 on July 12th. And this past year has been so cruel to her. After decades of working hard, she lost her job due to age discrimination. She fell into a deep depression and was forced to leave the home she dreamed of retiring in. She moved into a small studio apartment she can’t afford, surviving on just her Social Security. No car. No extra support. Still—she smiled. She kept giving. Kept showing up for us, even when life stopped showing up for her. Now she may not even be able to go back to that apartment—it’s upstairs, and she can’t walk stairs anymore. We can’t afford to move her into a better place. We can’t afford therapy, equipment, or even basic groceries. I don’t have a car to get to her. I don’t have the funds to carry us both. But I know she deserves more. She deserves comfort. She deserves peace. She deserves the love she spent her whole life giving to everyone else.
I’m starting a fundraiser to help get her into a safer home and cover her care. I want her to live the rest of her life in comfort and dignity, not fear and struggle. If you’ve made it this far, thank you. Even a kind comment, a share, a dollar—it all matters. My Oma is more than a statistic. She’s the reason I’m here. She’s the reason I made it this far. And I refuse to let the world forget her. She gave up everything for us. It’s time we try to give something back. Please, help me give her the life she was never given but always deserved.
This isn’t just physical—it’s emotional. It’s mental. The depression she’s been carrying has been slowly eating her alive. She doesn’t smile the same anymore. She doesn’t dream like she used to. The spark in her eyes has been dimming for a while now, and this stroke has only made it worse. She feels like she’s losing her sense of self. She used to be so independent, so proud, so full of life. And now she needs help just to sit up, and I can see it hurts her more than the stroke ever could. She doesn’t feel like she’s living anymore—just existing. And it’s breaking her. It’s breaking me. I can tell she’s tired. Tired of trying. Tired of surviving in a world that keeps beating her down. And I know she’s starting to wonder if there’s anything left worth holding on for.
