My parents are aging and it scares me
It's 2006, and I am five years old. I fall asleep in front of the television on a weekend on the wooden sofa set that every middle-class family in Dhaka seems to have. I don't have to worry about much, so sleep comes quite quickly and, eventually, I wake up ever so slowly at nine in the morning.
But what is this? How am I on my bed? I swear I slept on the sofa; this has to be magic. It indeed was; the magic was my father. He carried me without stirring me from my stupor.
For all latest news, follow The Daily Star's Google News channel. Now, times have changed. Every year, my parents' footsteps get lighter; they seem to shrink. They occupy less and less space. It is a difficult fact to come to terms with.
I always complained to my parents about why they couldn't come to my sports events. My parents used to work as if the next Great Depression was almost upon us. It took a lot of growing up to understand that all the work my parents were doing was for my brother's and my sake. But still, that little girl in the back of my mind refuses to understand this at the age of 25.
Even if they couldn't always come to see me during the much-coveted sports day, they made sure to take us out on weekends to play zones. I knew if I got hurt, I could run to my parents, and they would carry me like I was lighter than specks of dust.
My parents' age wasn't as evident to me because I could always see them functioning healthily, like the healthy people they were. Even their grey hair didn't bother me because I didn't pay enough attention. But it all hit me when my father was scheduled for cataract surgery. I thought only old people got those, but there I was with my father, running from one room to another before the surgery.
My mother and I are very alike; we usually brave fevers and colds like it's nothing, but recently, she's been getting sick more frequently. She is still an amazing multitasker, yet I can see the freshly formed age spots when she looks at me while she does ten things at once.
It is extremely difficult to get used to my parents' age when I have been so used to them being strong and healthy. They always feel like they have to materialise out of thin air when their children need them, but the years have taken a toll on their bodies. The wrinkles are deeper, and the knee pains are beginning to get in the way.
As the years run by, it will be tougher to see them getting weaker, but I have to remember that they are getting used to the same fact as well. They now like to stay home as much as they can and enjoy the slow life, which they did not have the luxury of living when they were spirited and young (I blame capitalism for that). The age spots scare me, but I have to accept those pesky little brown spots even though I don't want to.
There was this one particular day when my mother made peace with her age, though not without some theatre. For years, I had been the designated plucker of the stray grey hairs in her brows. But this year, the greys staged a full invasion. She handed me the tweezers and then paused. To pluck them all would leave her with a bald spot. With a huff and a laugh, she waved me off, declaring, almost regally, that it was time to "let them flourish".
One day, I might have to carry my parents the way they once carried me from the sofa to my bed. The thought feels strange, like the world turning upside down, but maybe that is what love does; it rearranges the weight we hold for each other. They taught me how to be cared for; now I must learn how to care back.
Age is creeping in with grey brows, aching knees, and bottles of calcium tablets, and we laugh about it because otherwise we might cry.
Azra Humayra is majoring in mass communication and journalism at the University of Dhaka. Find her at: [email protected].
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