This is one of the more apt late night thought post because it's 2 in the morning and I'm wide awake.
Fortunately, it's not one of the sleepless nights when my own thoughts attempt to consume me. I'm wide awake because it's the yearly affair at the temple for paal kodum, which literally translates to 'milk pot' if you must know. According to my mom, it's a way we give back to the gods for the blessed year before and to pray for a good year ahead. (Yes, reconnecting with my Indian roots.)
Anyway, this post is in no way related to the today's event. I've been meaning to craft this post since Ahma was hospitalized but never really got down to it because it all went down so quickly. Now that she's better, I thought I ought to chronicle all the thoughts I've been holding back; all the thoughts about growing old.
It never really dawned on me how real the process of growing old is. I mean, I always knew life was fragile and unpredictable. I've learned to not take anyone or anything for granted on so many occasions, which is partly the reason I practice gratitude and make a conscious effort to live in the moment.
Confession: I'm afraid.
I was afraid 15 years ago when I saw the medics carry Papa out of the home on a stretcher. I was afraid 4 years ago when I saw doctors take Aunty Usha off life support. I was afraid last year when I saw my 4-year-old nephew lay still in the coffin.
I'm afraid. I really am but just what exactly am I afraid of?
I've always told myself it's okay if I don't wake up tomorrow, if life was taken away from me in the most unexpected (and hopefully painless) way because I have loved and been loved. What more could I possibly ask for? I may not have a car or a house in my name. I may still be a student but I'm happy. A couple of hours ago, I was in the taxi with my family and I was about to explode with happiness because just being with them makes me happy.
Life is great. Although I had a rough day, and was filled with angst and frustration for a large part of the day, life is great.
But I'm afraid.
The ol' friend and I talked about this before - about how our parents won't be around forever, about how we will, one day, have to send them off their final journey - and I think about it on some nights as I lie on the bed facing Mama's back thinking, "The day will come when I won't get to wake up to you or give you tight hugs. The day will come when I won't get to rub cream on your legs or have you kiss me goodbye in the mornings."
That scares me.
I looked at Ahma during the weeks she was hospitalized. She seemed like an entirely different person. She didn't talk or move much. She was frail and always asleep. She wasn't the Ahma I have always known her to be.
Doctors said she'd only have 2 weeks left when we tried to bring her home. It was the worst news but we brought her home anyway, all the while trying so hard to prepare ourselves.
The thing about receiving news like this is we all try to act like adults and pretend everything's okay even though deep down, we knew nothing was. There was no way we could prepare ourselves for a permanent goodbye.
Whether 2 weeks or 2 months, there was just no way to prepare ourselves to send Ahma off.
(Thankfully, the woman emerged a winner. She's bed-ridden, requires assistance but hey, she's eating and drinking and even moving!)
Today, my brother brought my grandpapa for his medical check-up. His blood pressure rose to 190 the day before - a red flag in our books.
My grandpapa suffers from dementia and his brain continues to shrink even with the help of medication. He's got high blood pressure that requires medication to keep in check too. He has lost his sense of time and the ability to support himself be in financially or physically. He doesn't eat and when he does, it's always a slice of bread and coffee. Why? "I'm an old man. I cannot eat so much."
It's not just his brain that's shrinking; it's his stomach too. He sometimes wakes up at 4am and scolds my grandmama for not feeding him. But who can blame him?
I look at him and have a feeling he'll live a long life. I mean, he's 89. He has lived a long, good life and he'll live for more years ahead. But... how long more?
I don't have another 10 years with him. I don't have the luxury to plan trips with him or even bring him out for a meals. I will never get the opportunity to pay him back for the years he stuffed $5 into my hand each time I visited my grandparents at their Bukit Batok home. He'd always say, "Don't let your Amuma find out."
The old man never earned a lot to begin with. He handed half his salary (or more) to my grandma every month but he still kept money aside for his grandchildren. He had a liking for anything banana and enjoyed having beer with my uncles.
He was a plump man with a perfectly bald patch right in the middle of his head. He was sturdy, independent and never spoke much. He only often reminded me how important education is (and still does so today).
In his mind, he's 70. He's stopped ageing and so has everyone else. I'm still 7, his wife still 60 and his children stuck in their 40s.
I'm afraid of how fast the remaining time I have with him is slipping away. I'm afraid of how he would not wake up one random day and I would not have said enough I love yous.
Growing old doesn't scare me. It is having to say goodbye to the people I love that does.
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