| As we get older, we watch as family, friends, and acquaintances depart this world. Their passing reminds us of our own mortality, yet we subconsciously cling to the belief that we are immortal, and the end only happens to others. My father, in his senior years was a very healthy and robust man who looked like he would go on forever. He was always twenty years younger than his chronological age. When he developed diabetes in his sixties, he did a 180o lifestyle change and wrestled the disease to its knees and kept it under control. In his seventies, he raised his house to put in a basement; without any help. His age finally caught up with him in his eighties. When I visited him a few weeks ago, I noticed a marked difference in the man. He was no longer the man I remember. He had become physically frail, and his mental acuity was greatly diminished; verging on dementia. He had difficulty remembering recent events, and his speech was laboured and a bit slurred. It was excruciatingly painful sitting with him, observing a man I no longer recognized. In hindsight, I knew something was wrong, but couldn't put my finger on it. Yesterday, my sister phoned to tell me my father was in the hospital after suffering a stroke. He had collapsed after dinner and was rushed to the ICU in an ambulance. When I saw him this evening, laying in his hospital bed, he was floating in and out of awareness, his skin had become translucent and flaccid, and clung to his frame like wet clothes. I realized then, my father would never be the same and never able to look after himself and my mother, and harder still, never be able to drive his car again, losing the freedom he cherished. He and my mother, who is also frail, and living in another world, would now need home care if they are to stay in their home. Seeing my father in that state, nearing the end of his days, it struck me so hard I was forced to face reality, really for the first time, and recognize my own mortality. |
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