Loving and losing parents

Loving and losing parentsby Rajbir Deswal

One out of every three senior citizens in our country being subjected to abuse, ill-treatment, dishonour and disrespect, and nearly 60 percentile of their total population being made parties in property-related disputes, compels me to think as to whose property they themselves are. Whether you love your children is never a question; but whether you love your parents when they are middle-aged or really old generally varies from person to person.

When my mother died, I was surprised to see a doctor-friend of mine, who was treating her till then, breaking down inconsolably. I have always since then known him to be a parent-lover-worshipper rather!

A colleague of mine does his mother’s nursing himself who is now 80 years old, despite the doctors’ advice to engage a professional female nursing attendant. I have always found a typical glow on his face, which is surely the result of his basking in the glory of his mother’s blessings - unsaid and not conveyed though, for she is incapacitated even to that extent.

An uncle of mine, whose father was murdered when he was just 18, fought valiantly all the legal battles with his mother being around. He said he was actually orphaned when his mother died. I remember what happened when he was to celebrate his son being commissioned in the Army. He cried with his face buried in a pillow, whispering to himself, "O’ God! Only if Bebe were alive today!"

A friend’s wife living in the UK lost her mother at home. Condoling and consoling her as is the custom, I said, "Take heart, at least you have had your mother by your side till the ripe age of 82!" "What are you trying to tell me, please!" she said being more upset. I realised then that I should not have said that a ripe age is the right age for some one’s parent to go from our midst.

Now a senior bureaucrat, once a childhood buddy of mine, went to call on his parents staying back in his village. Having met his father first, he ushered in an ante-room to meet his mother lying on her cot, struggling for breath and coughing due to an attack of asthma.

Holding her skinny hands, the son assuaged her by saying that she would be alright soon, but that his father too was worried about his mother. "Why? Did the old man say that? And does he really think about me, himself being unwell? Take care, O’ son, he is going to be gathered to his ancestors soon!" Believe it; my friend informed me that his father breathed his last the following day. And his mother died day after. He was a broken man.

When we were shifting Bau Ji, my father, from a local hospital to the PGI, Chandigarh, after he suffered a heart attack, the paramedics holding the wheeled stretcher dragged him inside the ambulance so unprofessionally that one of his hands got stuck in a latch and his skin tore off. I couldn’t bear the sight of seeing blood on the hand of my unconscious father, who might have at that time not felt any pain. But it pains me till date - his loss apart!

Emotions, bonds, tags and values enhance our love for parents. Skirmishes, demands, expectations, environment, place, sacraments, biases, circumstances and your own becoming parents make all the difference. But parents do deserve the desirable, if not equal amount of love, compassion, care and respect.

Remember your father’s finger that you held while trying to toddle, now has fissures on its skin, and the cushiony lap of your mother has only bones to make no bones about it. Take care before it’s too late!
http://www.tribuneindia.com/2012/20120629/edit.htm#5