Almost a year ago my mother suffered a very serious and
debilitating stroke. In that time all of us in the family have had to cope,
adjust, and endure the daily trials and tribulations of caring for her. Nanay
is now 85 and Tatay is now 86, and he serves as her primary caregiver. As she
is wheelchair bound, with little movement in her left side, transfers from one
horizontal surface to another can be a task.
Simply moving from chair to chair can be a challenge.
While she has made some strides forward, there are times when we feel like the slippery slope of life is taking different parts away. Lately she seems more confused than normal, not believing that the house that she and by dad built in 1975 is truly theirs. She asks about relatives from her province in the Philippines, and wonders where they are. It’s difficult for all of us but we know that between the damage caused by the stroke, the slew of medications, and time itself that we must endure and comfort her. My dad, strong willed and stubborn to a point shows his frustration, but also his loyalty and love.
Tonight I went over to their house to visit and then to help
put my mom to bed. I arrived in the
afternoon, my dad resting in his recliner, and my mom watching TV in her
wheelchair. As she has been more confused lately I thought it would be a good
idea to bring a couple of DVD’s of the grandchildren from a few years ago. As
my dad made dinner we watched and laughed, my mom recalling those days when my
children were small.
I had also brought over a picture DVD that I had made for my
mom’s 80th birthday. We watched and relived days in nursing school,
to early photos of their immigration to the USA. The bounty of their gardens,
and fish caught in the lakes and streams of Minnesota. Memories of our house being built in Andover,
and trips we had taken around the globe.
I smiled again as I looked upon their faces.
The DVD played quietly in the background as the three of us
gathered around the table to say grace.
As my dad started to pray his voice cracked a couple of times. He looked at me and says, eyes welling with
tears, “I’m sorry for being so emotional, but these pictures remind me of how
young we used to be, and how old we are now.” I stood up and gave him a hug, my
own eyes filling with tears. I walked over to Nanay who was crying now as well,
“we are so old now son,” she said tearfully. All I could do was hug he back, “Nay,”
I said, “we are all getting old.”
We continued our meal and I kept on thinking about how many
joys, smiles, and tears we had shared around that table and in that kitchen.
Family gatherings, meetings, and arguments. Stories of days gone by, hopes, dreams, and
disappointments. It’s forever the place
where my children will have learned to cook pancit with their Lolo and Lola.
I think about these things as sit here at our kitchen table in our home. I run my hand over the small indentations on its surface in the place between where Brenda and I sit. Those indentations are the marks from toddlers utensils being banged against wood. I look upon those marks and smile. On the other end of the table you can feel rough lines from colored pencils and crayons pushed too hard into coloring books and scrap paper. It's a place where Halloween pumpkins have been carved, birthday candles have been blown out, and now where college admission letters are read.
What will our children remember from our kitchen and that table I ask myself. What dreams and hopes, and disappointments will they remember?
We are all getting old.
