The Unsettling Reality of Watching My Parents Grow Old

Birthdays are bittersweet reminders of growth. You growing old means that your parents are too. I absolutely hate that my parents are growing old. What’s worse is I can see them go through that pain of being self-aware. My mum and I used to love sharing ramen, but now it’s too spicy for her to eat. My dad and I used to heat cheese in the middle of the night to eat it from the microwave, but now his sugar levels spike so much he can’t eat it anymore. My parents get tired easily; they need frequent sleep, they forget to do the most menial tasks- they’ve started believing in God too much. These are all signs of growing old. I don’t want them to. I don’t know why - but it hurts. I hate seeing them this way. The pain, the loss, the torture. I hate thinking that one day, the very people I’ve been dependent on all my life will suddenly be dependent on me.

From that day onwards, I won’t be the kid anymore. Instead, I’ll be the adult who has to look after her ageing parents. I don’t know if it’s selfish, but it’s something that I don’t want to get used to. The grey hair on their heads now serve as a stark reminder that their youth is dissipating-along with mine. They’re not that lively, positive or healthy anymore. One day, I prayed to God, ‘Please don’t let my parents grow old’. It was a subconscious act, but every time I remember it, my heart breaks. I know it’s something I can’t control and age shouldn’t be counted; I can’t help but feel this way. I wish they didn’t. I wish I didn’t. To stay a kid forever in the warm embrace of your parents shielded from all the bad there is- oh, how wonderful would that be?

I know aging isn’t bad, but as I transition into my 20s, navigating love, life, work and heartbreaks; what hurts the most is watching my parents grow old. Maybe that’s how they felt when I hit puberty. Where I traded fairytales for romance novels, they are exchanging drinks for medicine. Its poignant enough to make me laugh and cry at the same time.

I now have to mentally prepare myself to take care of them. The same way they took care of me. Maybe it’s just a phase. Maybe that’ll numb the pain. The pain of my parents hitting old age. The pain of their vanishing youth, their mentality, their good health. That’s what I’ve been telling myself. Unfortunately, the hospital visits don’t let me.