Caught between two generations... my in-laws and his mother. It’s a delicate balance, constantly navigating the expectations, emotions, and needs of both. My fil's mother, now too old to be the active person she once was, feels like a shadow of her former self. But I still remember the first time I saw her. Her presence was calm, but strong. She gently asked me to sit beside her, and even in her old age, she carried herself with grace. I used to admire how much she managed to do. People respected her, they would invite her to their homes, almost as if her presence brought blessings.
But those days are gone. Time has taken its toll. Now, she wakes up and waits for someone to bring her coffee, sitting silently, guarding the house, her eyes always observing. She’s aged, but there’s still a sharpness, a watchfulness about her.
There were times when, as I passed by her, she’d call me softly, so quietly that no one else could hear. She’d ask for a biscuit, or sometimes say, "Pappa, can you give me something to eat?" I’m not the emotional type, but with her, it was different. I found myself drawn to her, almost as if she needed me in ways no one else did. It became a routine, every day, after my mother-in-law went upstairs, I would give her something small to eat. She would eat it quickly, before anyone could notice. Isn’t it sad, though? That she had to sneak food like that?
Months passed, and life around her seemed to shift. No one seemed to want her around anymore. I noticed how people’s priorities changed. One day, she ate a banana and left the peel on the floor. My father-in-law found it, and of course, I got the blame. I remember feeling embarrassed, but then later, she came to me quietly and said, "Sorry, paapa." Those little moments, they weigh on you, don’t they? The apologies of the elderly, they carry a certain heaviness, like they know their place is shrinking in the world.
These small acts, the things we take for granted, meant the world to her. And yet, her body couldn’t keep up anymore.
She grew weaker with each passing day. Now, she can’t walk. She keeps a pain balm with her at all times, and whenever it runs out, I’m the one who brings her a new one. Even when bedridden, she hides it behind her pillow like it’s her little secret. Sometimes, I sit and wonder, what kind of life is this? To be so strong once, and then reduced to this... dependent, fragile. I’m the one who gives her a sense of dignity.
Life is strange, isn’t it? It moves so fast, yet for some, it slows down to a crawl. For her, time is no longer a luxury. It’s a series of endless days, blending into each other. She’s counting down her days, but she’s still here, watching, waiting. And I, caught in the middle, wonder if I’m doing enough for her, or for anyone. Am I failing, or am I simply playing my part in this never ending cycle of life?
I didn’t realize that her last day had come. No one was home. My in-laws were out of town, set to return the next day. I gave her breakfast, but she couldn’t eat solid food anymore, so it was mostly liquids. I asked her, "Patti, do you need anything else?" She just said no, her voice quiet, almost resigned.
It was around 4 PM when I went to check on her again. My heart sank when I saw ants gathering near her eyes. I panicked. Something inside me knew what was happening, but I didn’t want to accept it. I cleaned her up, settled her pillow, made her comfortable, as if I could somehow hold back what was coming. I checked on her a few more times after that.
At 11 PM, I saw her breathing, slow but steady. She was lying in a separate room, her own little space. I went back to bed, but something inside me felt uneasy. At 11:45, I got up and opened all the doors. There was a strange fear creeping in, but still, I went to check on her. There she was, lying peacefully. Only this time, she wasn’t breathing anymore. She was gone.
Life… what a mysterious thing it is. It gives, it takes, and in between, we are left trying to make sense of it all. Here was a woman who once had so much energy, so much life, and now… gone. In the end, it’s the little moments we remember. Her soft voice, her asking for biscuits, the way she hid the pain balm. It’s those small, almost insignificant things that stay with us, long after the person has left.
But those days are gone. Time has taken its toll. Now, she wakes up and waits for someone to bring her coffee, sitting silently, guarding the house, her eyes always observing. She’s aged, but there’s still a sharpness, a watchfulness about her.
There were times when, as I passed by her, she’d call me softly, so quietly that no one else could hear. She’d ask for a biscuit, or sometimes say, "Pappa, can you give me something to eat?" I’m not the emotional type, but with her, it was different. I found myself drawn to her, almost as if she needed me in ways no one else did. It became a routine, every day, after my mother-in-law went upstairs, I would give her something small to eat. She would eat it quickly, before anyone could notice. Isn’t it sad, though? That she had to sneak food like that?
Months passed, and life around her seemed to shift. No one seemed to want her around anymore. I noticed how people’s priorities changed. One day, she ate a banana and left the peel on the floor. My father-in-law found it, and of course, I got the blame. I remember feeling embarrassed, but then later, she came to me quietly and said, "Sorry, paapa." Those little moments, they weigh on you, don’t they? The apologies of the elderly, they carry a certain heaviness, like they know their place is shrinking in the world.
These small acts, the things we take for granted, meant the world to her. And yet, her body couldn’t keep up anymore.
She grew weaker with each passing day. Now, she can’t walk. She keeps a pain balm with her at all times, and whenever it runs out, I’m the one who brings her a new one. Even when bedridden, she hides it behind her pillow like it’s her little secret. Sometimes, I sit and wonder, what kind of life is this? To be so strong once, and then reduced to this... dependent, fragile. I’m the one who gives her a sense of dignity.
Life is strange, isn’t it? It moves so fast, yet for some, it slows down to a crawl. For her, time is no longer a luxury. It’s a series of endless days, blending into each other. She’s counting down her days, but she’s still here, watching, waiting. And I, caught in the middle, wonder if I’m doing enough for her, or for anyone. Am I failing, or am I simply playing my part in this never ending cycle of life?
I didn’t realize that her last day had come. No one was home. My in-laws were out of town, set to return the next day. I gave her breakfast, but she couldn’t eat solid food anymore, so it was mostly liquids. I asked her, "Patti, do you need anything else?" She just said no, her voice quiet, almost resigned.
It was around 4 PM when I went to check on her again. My heart sank when I saw ants gathering near her eyes. I panicked. Something inside me knew what was happening, but I didn’t want to accept it. I cleaned her up, settled her pillow, made her comfortable, as if I could somehow hold back what was coming. I checked on her a few more times after that.
At 11 PM, I saw her breathing, slow but steady. She was lying in a separate room, her own little space. I went back to bed, but something inside me felt uneasy. At 11:45, I got up and opened all the doors. There was a strange fear creeping in, but still, I went to check on her. There she was, lying peacefully. Only this time, she wasn’t breathing anymore. She was gone.
Life… what a mysterious thing it is. It gives, it takes, and in between, we are left trying to make sense of it all. Here was a woman who once had so much energy, so much life, and now… gone. In the end, it’s the little moments we remember. Her soft voice, her asking for biscuits, the way she hid the pain balm. It’s those small, almost insignificant things that stay with us, long after the person has left.
