Monday, March 22, 2010

Midpoint

Back when I was a kid, I always prayed before going to sleep. And before I ended each prayer, I had “wishes” that I would always enumerate. A lot of kids would wish for super powers, and I was one of those. And the last thing that I would always ask for is to live a longer life--- to live until the age of 30 to be exact. I was paranoid when I was young, I kept on thinking that each day could be my last. I don’t know the reason why I thought of the age of thirty. I guess back then, a 30 year old guy seemed to old already. I guess I thought back then that by the time I reached 30, I would have accomplished a lot of things. Back then, I thought I would have my own house, I would be happily married, and I would already have several kids. Back then, I thought that by the time I reached 30, my life would already mean something.

And now that I’m thirty, I can say that nothing can be further from the truth.

I feel as if my life hasn’t even begun yet. There are still a lot of things that I want to do, and here I am, still struggling to get out of the starting point. I want nothing more than to move forward, but things keep holding me back. I want nothing more than to gain independence and live my life on my own and see where it takes me, but I can’t seem to move forward because I still depend on my family for almost everything. There are still things left at home that I can’t just leave behind. I want my self to amount to something, I want to leave my mark. I’ve probably already lived more than half of my life. Thirty years can go by so fast. I may have less than thirty years left to live... I wonder if I can still do so much.

Not having a job makes me feel worthless. And with all of the things happening these days, God knows I can use some sort of a day job to keep me distracted. Yet I know that having a job would throw the entire family in disarray. I’m the only one who can watch over my grandfather in the hospital at night. So I guess this has to be my everyday routine until the next month or so. With the rate that his illness has been progressing, I seriously doubt if he would live until the next month anyway.

When the clock struck twelve midnight on the 20th of March, I was with him at the hospital. He was sound asleep, nothing seems to keep him awake for long these days. Amidst all the stillness, I just sat there beside his bed, staring at him. He looked so different from the grandfather I knew. He looked so different from the person I said goodbye to last November, he looked so different from the person who welcomed me back when I got home. He looked so tired and beaten, as if all the life has already been taken out of him. I touched his arms, and all I felt were skin and bones. He couldn’t even eat even if he wanted to. At those times when he would awaken for a few minutes, he would ask for something to eat. He couldn’t even swallow liquids anymore. Each attempt to feed him is an exercise in futility. He would also ask if he could stand up, which actually means only leaning on us because he can’t stand up on his own anymore. I never really felt that close to him in the past, but a few minutes after twelve that night, after staring at him for a few minutes, I felt tears running down my cheeks. I couldn’t figure out why, but as I sat there alone with him, I couldn’t help but cry.

Each day my grandma and my dad would remind me to ask my grandpa where he put the money that he withdrew from his bank account a few months back. For some reason, they think that if my grandpa would tell it to someone, that someone would be me. They want me to ask him if he bought something, if he gave it away, or if he hid it somewhere--- apparently, that’s a riddle that has to be answered in order for them to have some peace of mind. That’s quite an impossible task because he’s just sleeping most of the time, and whenever he speaks, I couldn’t even understand what he’s saying anymore. But even if I could understand what he’s saying, I couldn’t really bring myself to ask him. It’s just money. There are more pressing concerns these days besides money, and to ask him such things during those few minutes when he’s awake seems a little too insincere. The very thought of that made me cry even more. It would be better to just make the remaining few days of his life as comfortable as possible. There’s no use in dwelling on such things. I wonder why they couldn’t just let it go.

He has already lived for 80 years. I wonder if he already feels fulfilled. I wonder if he thinks that he has lived long enough. I for one do not wish to live that long. Looking ahead while I’m at that certain point in time, I wouldn’t want to live past the age of 70… or whatever age when I would have to depend on others for everything. Never mind if the people who are with me that time are more than willing to take care of me, never mind if they are willing to make a lot of sacrifices just because they love me… I don’t think my sense of pride would allow me to revert back to such a dependent state. I wouldn’t want to cause any burden to anyone. And losing that sense of independence that I would have worked so hard to achieve would cause an even bigger burden on myself. Although we’re doing all these things for my grandfather now out of love, I know how much trouble this whole ordeal has been causing us, and I would never want to cause this much disarray to my future family. I’d rather die abruptly than to watch myself slowly wither away. I’d rather die quickly than to watch such burden slowly break down my family. Better to end my life abruptly than to prolong the agony for all of us. There’s this feeling of ambivalence that can’t seem to go away. You’d want nothing more than your love one to life longer. If it’s possible, you’d even want them to live forever. Yet on the other hand, You’re wishing that such an ordeal would end soon, because the physical and emotional strain that it has been causing can seem a little too much, especially when it drags on and on, and there’s no end in sight.

I’m probably more than halfway through my life. Would have some sense of accomplishment 30 years from now? I don’t really know. 30 years go by so fast, and at the rate I’m going, 30 years might not be enough.

And the sad thing is, when that time comes, I may no longer have the strength to do the things that would give me some sense of fulfillment. And I would hate it if when that time comes, I would lie in some hospital bed, barely able to move, thinking about the sad, pathetic life I have lived--- full of regrets, wondering if I could have lived my life differently, wondering if I could have done more. I hope that such is not the case with my grandfather. I hope that as he looks back on his life, it would leave a smile on his face. When the time finally comes, I hope that he would die a happy man.

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