Today I said my last goodbye to my grandmas; both of them. I’m not sure why the realisation of this about to happen only dawned on me this morning as I woke up, but it’s been the first time in a long time that a tear has escaped my eyes.
When I mentioned I’m heading back to Australia and will see her next time, ‘Amma’ looked away and responded “Unfortunately there wont be a next time..” with a slow wipe of a tear. I was clearly keen for a wave of ignorance to make this easier for me, but her self-awareness made this a soul-crushing experience. Naive and cowardly of me to want an easy way through this. In my inability to sit with the discomfort, I said that that wasn’t true and asked what she’d like from Australia. She replied with a slow and subtle smile, and said “Have a happy life, and you will have given me what I want.”
Through this chat, she kept her frail hands on mine and held them close. The warmer and more comfortable this felt, the more confronting its meaning seemed.
My other ‘Amma’ had been bedridden and unable to recognise her close ones for a while. Before leaving, I sat next to her for a bit, held her hand, told her I was leaving the country again. I requested she take care, eat well, and assured her she would be in my thoughts. Unexpectedly, she made direct eye contact, looked intently, and made some low noises. There’s no way to be sure if she recognised me and wanted to say something, or if it was an unconcious response to having a person nearby. I’d like to believe that there was a hint of recognition and a form of communication there. I can’t begin to imagine how it might feel to be trapped inside your head while both your body and your memories betray you, and that doesn’t even begin to address the impact it has on the loved ones caring for the person in their final months.
Predictability of mortality is a torturous thing. To have everyone around you, including yourself, expect the end and await it. It’s no way to live, and it’s unfair in so many ways.
Dad and I had a long chat about euthanasia earlier during this visit to India, which clearly arose from a discussion of his mum’s health and the remaining presence she had. He’s made it pretty clear that if he’s past 80, bedridden, and not in full control of his bodily functions, he doesn’t want to carry on.
I’m quite proud that we could have this conversation without any awkwardness or stigma around it. My thoughts echo a similar sentiment, albeit with some nuances around the governing parameters like age, mobility, and cognitive abilities. But this thought bubble is less about controlling how your life ends, and more about how the experience of observing an oncoming end is a harrowing experience and completely unwarranted.
It is a luxury to be able to sit in the mundane if you wish, and observe the seconds/minutes/hours/days/weeks pass as your loved ones grow, experience, and navigate life. Or to stay ambitious with your own goals and purpose. We don’t deserve to have this freedom taken away and replaced with an impending sense of end and helplessness.
To my two ‘Amma’s, you lived a full life, held strong opinions, pursued your beliefs, nurtured amazing families, and showed your great grandkids the love and passion they’ll take into their formative years.
I might have vehemently disagreed with your devotion to church and your savage ways of consuming a burger, but we love you and are more grateful than we’ve ever brought ourselves to express. Thank you.
(P.S. Less than 2 weeks after this post was written, my Amma from Dad’s side passed away on 10 Jan 2024. Rest in peace; you’ll be remembered.)
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