It is seventeen years to the day since I lost my Appa.
It is almost a month now since I lost my Amma.
My Amma was 86 years old when she passed away. She valiantly battled Parkinson’s, earned the title of “The Struggler” from her primary care physician. Her caretaker team cried longer and harder than her own daughters, such was the effect her gentle nature had on a team that had taken care of her like they would their own mother for four years. The fact that she had the same team of caretakers for four years is in itself a testament to how adjusting she was.
Her passing brought her much-needed relief from pain, discomfort and a diminished quality of life.
I was prepared for this mentally as well. A week before she passed away, her body began to give signs of shutting down. All of us including her grandchildren took turns all day to recite prayers, sing her favourite devotional songs and made every attempt to keep her comfortable.
Yet, when my sister called with the news, it hit me like a ton of bricks. I felt like a piece of me had also gone with her passing. It took me a few hours to realize what this feeling was.
I thought the term “adult orphan” was a product of my own creativity, but a quick Google search showed I am not alone.
Our family priest articulated it far better than I could when he said, “For all of us, we need that ‘elder’ in the house. They may not be productive, or alert, or even getting involved in our lives like they used to. But they are there, and that is a great reassurance for us.”
It is a new normal to exist in a world where the parents to whom you owe your existence no longer breathe the same air you do, or participate in the life that you live. It is an existence I am still getting used to.
My subconscious realized the void my Amma’s passing had created inside me and in the days that followed I began to get flashes of their life together running like an old movie behind my eyes. Every time this happened, I let the emotions wash over me and laughed, cried and laughed all over again, without fighting it.
Amma and Appa gleefully waking us up after getting up themselves at 3 am to make some special goodies depending on the occasion.
Appa covering our eyes and leading us to the altar where a mirror would be waiting so the first thing we see is ourselves on Vishu every year, while Amma would have arranged all the other items around this mirror the night before.
Amma dragging me to her sister’s home in Chennai after a fight with Appa, growing up I wasn’t even aware that every trip to visit my cousin sister was in fact a marital spat!
Amma calmly delivering bad news to Appa in the days of land lines and telegrams.
Amma waking up at 1 am and making coffee for Appa, giving in to all his demands without complaint when his cancer advanced to terminal stage.
Amma and Appa singing lullabies to us and all the grandchildren of the family.
The sheer teamwork that Amma and Appa’s marriage was… too many examples to recount. They left behind a roadmap for those that followed on how love along with mutual respect were the foundations of a solid marriage.
While I will sorely miss them through every triumph and tragedy life throws at me, I know they are both finally together, without any pain or suffering and in absolute peace and joy.
All I can do is to honour them through my actions, every single day. And when inspiration hits, weave another story out of the life they shared.