I am a child, of my own making and without a doubt of my parents’ making.
There are so many ways that could be used to delve into why we are or aren’t our parents’ children. Parental relationships can be a lot, even for those seemingly healthier and more present than so many might have the privilege of experiencing.
There’s always so much that can happen in life, and so little that can truly up-end life as you know it. Nothing quite makes sense, and yet renders you entering a state of hyper focus — What do we do now? What do I need to know? How do I show up better? Do I take over the reins? Why must I? (Yet I must.)
Such a moment reared its head a few months ago. I reckon there’s so much that can be said and experienced, but there’s also so much that was left unexplored and tucked away. The time that’s passed since has borne witness to all the ways that a child can find themself being a child that’s pushed to grow up and yet seek escape from.
The way we used to seek escape from the mundanities of life and want to spend all day frolicking with our toys or friends. The way that we would have loved to hold onto just one more time of singing folk songs in the classroom, as we said goodbye to the school year. The way that we used to clutch our favoured adult’s hand and drag them to take a look at the latest toy we’re eyeing. The way that we eventually learn to find hobbies that exist outside of what we were taught could be fun — or find our way back to our old ways. The way that we find ourselves unabashedly dancing along as we sing Dancing Queen in the darkened karaoke room. The way that we would send links of things that we love or briefly mention them in passing in phone calls or when we’re out and about.
There’s so much growing up to be done when we find ourselves trying to refine what it means to be a child. There’s even more staying stuck, then gradually untying ourselves from the shackles of our perceived weaknesses and miseries. There’s so much more to be left unsaid rather than whispered into the dark from the rooftop of the multi-storey carpark that can no longer be accessed.
There’s so much to hold onto without possession, for everything is ephemeral. There’s so little to be understood when there’s so much to be experienced for us to integrate into our lives, whether we’re ‘ready or not’.
The past few months, I’ve found myself being the worst and best child for so many people and reasons. For myself, I’ve been an absolute asshole to, yet I know there’s love and duty in so much I’ve chosen to do (or not). For my parents, I have tried to be present even in the toughest situations. Sitting with the fear, uncertainty, certainty of staying, anticipatory grief. If I could name it all, I’d spend the length of multiple books trying to encapsulate it all. There’s no stopping the avalanche of these emotions and thoughts.
If that was the case for me, I am struggling to fathom how it might have been for my parents. However, my parents have been busy trying to be parents on top of being human. If anything, these months have shown me far too much and little.
I know I am my parents’ child because I chose to stay. Staying was without a doubt the easiest and hardest choice I’ve ever made in my life. The day standing near the ATM on my way to finding them, and hearing the news that changed the trajectory of so many lives instantly. There would have been no other choice.
I know I am my parents’ child because I find myself smiling more than crying. The crying happens in the quietest nights filled with the loudest thoughts. What’s a warning for if there’s always tear ducts ready to empty their burdensome watery buddies? I choose to hold them in when I can. In the wake of the diagnosis. When I find myself standing near the bed with him lying down and slipping in and out of consciousness. In the train ride home, but my heart is breaking with no way of gaining reprieve. In spite of it all, a smile tides one through so many days of being scared shitless enough to continue nagging the same person who’d openly and unashamedly cheekily admit, “If you’re not here, no one is here to mother me.”
I know I am my parents’ child because I know that trying is not about not failing. It’s somehow okay to give no heed to advice because that’s inherent in the art of being human. In spite of that, to love is to care. It is to falter and plucking up the courage to bother trying even more. Even when I lapse in my efforts, I know I haven’t failed because in the effort of being present and learning what it means to be responsible, it’s shown me far more regarding how I’ve been raised or self-taught the tougher way.
There’s no easy or right way to be grappling with the reality of life and what it means to be living. There’s certainly no wrong way to be approaching this. However, if it has to take grappling with mortality through illness to learn about the fragility and preciousness of humanity… It might just have worked for me.
To the man who spent the greatest part of the past few months doing your absolute best while suffering, I hope your shaved head paves a well-designed path for a more intentional approach to your latter years. To the woman whose steadfastness in standing by your loved one is paying off so incredibly well, I hope you learn to continue choosing yourself in the ways you can and should deserve to.
I am my parents’ child because I hope to get to do justice to their journey of the past few months. There’s more to come, but come what may.
终究，我们得学习如何随着缘分的路程。
