From the vortex of grief: On aging gracefully

 Right from my school days, I'd always felt worried when I looked at my friends' parents. The worry stemmed from this : My mom and dad were 38 and 45 respectively when I was born. By the time I was in school, my Dad was in his 50s, and my Mom in her late 40s. I couldn't help but notice that my most if not all my friends had parents in their 30s or 40s. I asked myself, What are the consequences of this? Initially, I saw the more obvious ones: My Dad would retire before even I finished my tenth, a fact he obsessed over and worried far more than I did. Gradually, I started realizing another thing. My parents were no longer in the prime of their lives. Sometimes, this meant lesser energy. Other times, it meant preferring afternoon naps over restaurant lunches. It meant many things. I never resented them for any of this though. 

Because I understood where they came from. I understood why they took a decade after their marriage to have a child. They were both from families of modest means, and they had started out with close to nothing. They took this decade to focus on their careers, to build up their savings, to acquire all the things society deemed as indicators of financial stability - a house, a two wheeler, a car, appliances for the house. It took ten years of grueling work. No vacations. Barely any dinners outside. Hours of using public transport to save on fuel. Every penny squeezed and saved. I was grateful that I had a roof over my head, that I could afford a good education. That I could buy all the books I craved for, even if they were second-hand. I was truly grateful for all their sacrifices, and if this meant I had to have parents a decade older than my peers, then I was okay with that. It seemed fair, I thought.

At times, I'd take a piece of paper and write down all 3 of our ages at various years. 10, 48, 55... 15, 53, 60....20, 58, 65.....25, 63, 70.....30, 68, 75. The numbers seemed foreboding, given that average life expectancy was around 70 years. This was a sacrifice I was not prepared for. I wanted them around for as long as I could have them. What would I do with the rest of my life if I lost them so early? It was a fear that gripped me tightly in its vice.

But I would look at my grandfather who was staying with us, who was 20 years older than my father, and I would find solace. He was 70, and full of energy and vigor. A civil engineer with almost 5 decades of experience, he presided over the construction of my parents' house. I watched him in fascination as he worked a full day, ate 3 healthy meals, and walked for an hour everyday. He had the customary diabetes, hypertension and heart disease, just like my Dad, but that never deterred him.

He retired at 72, still very active, and wanting to learn new things. He learnt Kannada from me, both to speak and write, and I marveled at his ability and perseverance. Every time I finished a school year, he would take from me the previous year's textbook and work on covering all the material. Later, he learnt how to use a mobile, a smartphone. He kept walking, although the aches and pains increased. The years rolled by, and he turned 80. He had many hospital admissions and procedures over this decade- cataract, prostate, cardiac incidents, falls, pneumonia. Each time he struggled, but emerged victorious. His wits never dimmed, his memory and calculations remained razor sharp. He had strong opinions, and loved to engage in philosophical debates. He was inquisitive, and asked many questions about everyone, and everything. 

When I turned 25, he turned a healthy 90. I rejoiced, and envisioned the same path for my parents. I dared to write those numbers I had never written before. 35, 73, 78....40, 78, 85....45, 83, 90....50, 88, 95. Maybe I really could be that fortunate. Old age wasn't all that bad. It slowed you down, and there were many bumps in the road, but the journey could be graceful. Happy, even. I imagined my parents 20 years later, hair a silvery white, wrinkled skin, a little leaner, walking slowly to the nearest store, a smile on their faces. I prayed that this day would come.

9 days after I wished my grandfather on his 92nd birthday, I watched my dad being wheeled out of the ambulance in a stretcher, face smeared with vomit, nose clogged with mucous, an entire side of his body paralyzed. I cried over my dreams of graceful aging, and this nightmare of a reality. When he first opened his eyes two days after his stroke and saw me, tears started flowing out of his eyes at his predicament. I raged against the world Where is the damn grace? A week later, when my Mom asked him how he felt about his condition, he scrawled on a piece of paper - Undignified. Hurtful. Demeaning. I echoed his thoughts. It has been a month now, and he has held on to life, against all odds. Even now, he has bad days, where every breath is a struggle, and that thread holding him to life seems all too fragile. 

At the end of this month, I have realized one thing. Where that mysterious grace is. It is not in that silver haired picture of old age I painted for you. It is in this other picture, the seemingly dreadful one- Lying on a hospital bed, unable to move, clad in a hospital gown, wearing a diaper, a tube to feed, a catheter for urine, every breath a rasp of pain. And yet, when he spoke to me two days ago, a struggling rasp that was barely audible, he said only this: "Happy Birthday". Could there be anything more graceful? Frankl was right when he said: “Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms—to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.”  My dad will always be full of grace, and nothing can take that away from him. Nothing.