“I’m going to get us memorial plans in Haven of Angels,” my father said over breakfast. “That’s courting disaster!” my mother retorted. “It’s preparation,” my father replied. We continued eating eggs and then went about our day like nothing happened. It’s been several weeks since then and it still lingers in my mind.
Admittedly, my father had a point. It’s best to be prepared. Memorial plans provide you with options for when you’re dead—length of wake and where, urn or casket. At the same time, my father was wrong. Memorial plans are for those who will leave and not those who will be left behind.
The truth is, there will never be a memorial plan to prepare me when my parents will not be there for me anymore.
My parents’ age and mortality are things that I deliberately ignore. But turning a blind eye to the toll that time is taking on their minds and bodies is getting more difficult. The changes that my parents are undergoing are neither sudden nor clearly obvious. It’s the little things that make me think: “Oh, my parents are getting old.”
Sometimes it’s when they forget. My father loves cars and loves tinkering with them. He is incredibly meticulous when it comes to cars. I’ve been scolded more times than I can count for letting my car go unwashed or for leaving the lights on. It was shocking when he told me that his car battery was discharged. Apparently, he had turned on the car and was about to clean but got distracted by something else. He left it running overnight. “I forgot. Must be the old age,” he said with a laugh.
Sometimes it’s when they have difficulty doing something. My mother enjoys crochet. I think she finds it a bit therapeutic. She used to make tiny doilies. Her crochet process is often long because she’d unravel her work if it’s not to her liking — and it hardly ever is. She’s been crocheting the same circular shape for two months, and it’s still the size of the center part of a tissue roll. She confided that she couldn’t crochet for long periods anymore because her hands would shake. “I’m getting old,” she said. “At pasmado kaya kamay ko.”
Sometimes it’s the way they get into mishaps. They have slipped on stairs, on inclined surfaces, even on the front porch while they were looking at the garden. It used to be that when such an accident happens, they’d get up, put ice on the sore part, and brush it off. Now every slip and fall warrants ice and a trip to the hospital for reassurance that they don’t have a fracture or a concussion.
When I was a teenager, my parents often said they wouldn’t be young forever. I laughed, believing that they would always be in their prime. But now, every time I visit, I see how time has taken a toll on them. I see it in the lines on their faces and the gray in their hair. I see how they move a little more slowly and rest a little more. I see how they forget things that they otherwise would not forget. I see how we have conversations that I never would have had with them years ago.
Age is just a number, it’s said. My parents are 67 and 66. They are both senior citizens, which qualifies them for discounts on movies, medications, and meals in restaurants, but also disqualifies them from being dependents on my health insurance. I used to snicker when my parents would blame their mishaps on their senior status. I still snicker now, albeit with a cloud over my head — a somber certainty that, yes, my parents are old, and that they are not going to be there for me in the future.
I’m going home this weekend to maybe look at the memorial plan options. There won’t be a time that I’d be prepared to go home on a weekend and not have them there. I’ll never be prepared for that inevitable moment. But right now, I pray for and look forward to our moments full of joy and laughter, and maybe looking back at our wonderful moments.
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Mae N. Edillon, 28, is a sustainability assistant at Phinma Foundation Inc.