“Ayúdanos,  Mamá”

My father ages, slowly but surely. Next week he turns 84-years old. The changes in his physical health, and the decline in his critical faculties, are glacial. But they are also cumulative. Like a glacier wearing down a rock formation over millions of years, one does not notice much in the short-term. But zoom back and take the long view, watching over a millennium or two, and the change can be drastic. Entire mountain ranges can be reduced. In similar fashion formerly strong and healthy persons are laid low by Father Time, who is inexorable and unremitting. 

My dad recently suffered two small strokes in the left hemisphere of his brain. I talk to him on the phone and he comes across just fine, for the most part. But I visit him in person and the picture is more complex. My dad is declining. He might live another ten years, or it might all go south quickly; there is no way of knowing. This fact stabs me in the heart and holds me like a fish skewered on a pike. My father’s fate is not in my control. What will be, will be. I watch and wait. I listen more, talk less. While I enjoy every moment I have with my father, it is tinged with the dull pain of waiting for the unavoidable. It can be confusing and overwhelming, the mix of love and fear. Tears well up. I grow unnerved.

My mom got sick and died almost twenty seven years ago, and so when my dad passes away I and my siblings will be orphans. (My stepmom also died two and a half years ago.) None of this should surprise me. I am almost 56-years old myself, and so I am no “spring chicken” either; this is the time of life when one’s parents decline and die, and their children do what they can. I see it with my friends, too. I tell myself instead of mourning the fact of his gradual decline and eventual death I should be happy I had a loving and supportive father for so many years. Many people don’t. There are some who never really had parents worthy of the name. I had wonderful parents.

Nevertheless, I find myself profoundly threatened by the thought of my father passing away. It is like a dagger pointed at my heart. It is made worse by the fact that time is not on his side, and his death is coming. It is foolish to think it were otherwise. I might pass away before my dad, but it is unlikely; my brother, sister, and myself most likely will be responsible for burying him and settling his affairs. It will probably be sooner rather than later, in the parade of years, although nobody really knows. My siblings and I wonder to ourselves, “Will his final days be ugly, or otherwise? Will he suffer, or not? Will it be quick, painless, and easy? Or long, lingering, and miserable?” We have next to no control over the answers to these questions. And they are emotionally painful and highly worrisome. I am sure they are difficult for my father, too. It is no small thing to approach death with grace, dignity, and courage.

So I pray to my mom. I talk to her. I have only started doing this in the past decade or so. I have a photo of my mom next to my bed and I look at it often. “Hey, mom,” I think to myself, “Are you looking out for us?” Especially when it comes to the demise of her husband, my father, I implore her help.

PHOTO OF NIGHTSTAND

“Mom, please help dad to exit this earth gracefully and easily, and not otherwise. It is two and a half decades after you died, and finally it appears as if dad approaches his moment to join you. Can you assist us? Can you help dad to make the transition from life to death? Do you have any sway where you are? Can you help us out? We may need it. Dad needs you, mom. Your death was one shoe hitting the ground. Dad’s will be the other.”

Why do I speak thusly with the dead? Is it weird?

Do I really think my mom hears me? Can she help?

Is this more an emotional coping mechanism for me than a concrete action which will render a desired result? (Does it matter?)

Am I like a little boy who asks his mom to “save him” in a difficult moment? Am I regressing? Reverting to earlier stages of maturity? Am I asking to go back here –

– and is that a form of weakness? A sign of surrender in the face of difficulty?

I can hear my mom responding, “Help your own self out, Richard. You are almost 56-years old! You’re asking for help from your ‘mommy’?” My mother always was a strong advocate of getting her kids to fix their own problems instead of “saving” them. (But she did “save” us when we needed it, or tried her best.)

Is the conversation in my head one-way? Does my mom hear me? Does it help? Or is it just me spinning my wheels?

I have no idea. None of these questions have easy answers. They might not have any answer at all.

But I talk to my mom, nevertheless. I look at her photo. I cogitate.

And I feel she is there with me when I do so.

Even if there is no heaven or afterlife or whatever – even if her body is dead and moldered, and there is no everlasting soul which lives on – it is enough for me to remember my mom, and a part of her lives on in me. That is enough. That helps. They say a man’s interior voice is the one his parents used with him in childhood, and I think that is true. My mom’s voice, and my dad’s voice, are the ones that run through my head. Especially in moments of crisis. Especially when there is a need. Especially when I struggle in a difficult situation. When I need an answer. When I need help.

Reverting to a child-like state under stress? Abdicating my own responsibility to act? Maybe. 

Or perhaps it is me marshaling my internal resources and value system to respond to a particular challenge. Maybe it is me asking for and relying on the collective strength and wisdom of my ancestors. My grandparents, long dead, are with me. And their parents before them, and so on and so on – they are with me. And all the effort and energy in the lineage which has led to me – my ancestors. I am their terminal point. They will not let me down.

I know where I come from. I know who I am.

I will respond how and where I need to respond. I will endure. I will make the best of it. I am not alone. There are resources available to me. I can do this.

What must be endured, shall be endured. Maturity, patience, grace, acceptance: they will all be needed, and I will know how to use them. We grow old and die. “Ripeness is all.” It cannot be avoided. So it goes. The other shoe will fall. I will become an orphan.

I feel my mom’s presence when I think this way. I cannot hear the voice but I perceive her message — “It will be ok, Richard.” And afterwards if I don’t feel good about all this, I feel less bad. I am more able to do what is necessary. Empowered, I feel gratitude.

Thank you, mom.

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PHOTO OF DAD AND I AT BIRTHDAY PARTY

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