I needed to write this. I had stopped writing, thinking, "What's the point?" It just seemed silly to be gushing anymore. Besides, having read the likes of John Irving, and listened to the likes of Joy Reid, I think, Who am I kidding? I am not a writer! I am barely an intellect.
I have suppressed the need to write in the past year or so (?)
And then, something life-changing happened, yet again.
Last summer, I revisited the town where I grew up, and the family I hadn't seen in 4 years, thanks to the pandemic known as COVID. I made a plan to visit more often. So I did, again in February this year.
Aunt Teresa is now in a home. My vibrant, beloved Aunt Teresa, who was my primary caretaker, one of the very few people on earth whose name I have not altered on this blog.
One just never knows when is the last time. The last time I walked with her the park known to the locals as "Pigeon Nest"; the last time I treated her to tea, complete with symphony cake; the last time she walked.
She's in a home because she no longer walks.
When I visited her this past winter, at one point I crouched to adjust her pants and to pull up her socks, because slivers of her calves were being exposed to the cold. I get it. It is not easy for the orderlies to fix up everything after they have gotten you to the toilet, cleaned you up, and hoisted you back in your wheelchair. Clothes get bunched up, inevitably.
As I bowed down before my aunt in this manner, busying myself at her feet, I felt a tender hand on my head, patting, almost gingerly. I looked up and it was Aunt Teresa, petting me, lovingly but uncertainly, like a child with a stray dog, almost with pity.
My heart completely melted at the moment. I didn't think I'd had a truer connecting moment with a human being since childhood. And even then...
Fast forward to this fall, my third visit since resuming after the global pandemic.
My mother's health is fast deteriorating. She has many ailments, and she's grown quite frail in her old age. She's been solely dependent on my Dad to get by each day even ten years before. Her condition has only gotten worse. She's lost a lot of weight, never has appetite, and everything pains her. She now practically does not leave the house except to go to doctors' appointments.
I tell my boss (to justify my frequent leaves of absence) that 1 year to older folks are like 5 to regular adults. It is true.
My Mom is still very much plagued by OCD and idiosyncrasies, and the assumption that all should bend to her will. But she's also become less controlling somewhat because she's no longer physically able. Sometimes when she smiles and laughs, I now see the child in her, which I never saw before.
How can you get mad at a child?
Both my parents have gotten much more emotional in their 80's, more remarkably in my Mom's case, because she's been so emotionally constipated up till this point. The guardedness has worn off to some extent, and she verbalizes how she feels more readily. Some might say it's typical to revert to childlike qualities at this stage, closing the circle of life. But still phenomenal in my book.
On one occasion, as my mother and I are seated in my parents' bed, half-heartedly watching TV before bedtime, I forget what the trigger was, but she reached out with her very bony hand and brushed my cheek, smiling brightly and innocently. Like she cherished me and was really happy I was there. I was moved, and naturally reached out to her cheek as well. It was such a tender moment. Honestly I can't say I'd ever had one with her earlier in life.
On one hand, I am so grateful, I am incredulous. On the other, Why has it taken 50+ years for us to have a loving relationship? Only when she is near death's steps.
But... to have had love at all... is truly a gift.
I've read recently that love is not lost. It is never lost. It helps to remember that, since time is not linear, every moment is ALWAYS there. As you are living, you are also already dead, and you are also unborn. Savor every moment as if it's eternity, because it is.
