Does having a Mom make you wiser?
During the festive Eid days me and the family dined outdoors in a big mall. I was planning to meet my friend after so we parted ways when the night was young. Since I’m the one responsible for administering my father’s medication, I’d taken the correct amount of pills of all the nighttime doses with me, and then handed them over to my sister on their way back home, informing her about a specific important heart medication that father must take once they get home. I’d collected the pills from their different strips and put them all in a specific, well sealed drug box, that was then sitting safely in my sister’s purse.
After midnight I returned and found out that one of the strips, of that specific med, was on the table and missing a pill (believe it or not, I notice it when an extra pill is missing). I, enacting casual stance, asked father whether he took the pill from the strip or from the box sister had. He didn’t remember, which means that he could have possibly taken both pills, forgetfully. I called my sister and she never picked up. I called my little sister (who at the time was staying at uncle’s upstairs), and she told me that dad took the pill from the box, confirming my fears. My anxiety started to show, and father was startled. He tried telling me that it’s okay, but I already know about the possible side effects, one of which being especially fatal to his condition.
I started looking for the doctor’s number, wondering whether he’ll pick up after midnight on a holiday, when my sister finally called back. After a hysterical episode of wondering why the heck she didn’t pick up earlier, which dad managed to hear, she informed me that he took all the rest of the pills from the strips, and that the box is still in her purse, untouched. Incredulous, I made her open it and make sure that the extra pill is still there, which she did, pitying me of course.
Now that’s not even the hardest part. The hardest part was two minutes later, when I dived in the couch with a relieved sigh, and dad lost it because of me. His rage was quite spectacular, not because of its nature, but rather because of what it made me realize; that I was my dad’s sole source of stress. I unintentionally did that because of how excruciatingly careful I’d been concerning his condition. Of course I reacted a dozen of times. This time though, his peace was irked in a way that didn’t exempt me from harsh censure. He actually warned me that I might kill him with my obsessiveness one day. I was stunned.
Since that day, I’d practiced one advice I’ve been given two months earlier by my grandpa, when he’d noticed the deterioration in my health after dad’s operation. He told me: “You’ve done your job, now leave it to Him”. Up until that night of rage, I never had it in me to be that cool – maybe it was lack of faith, maybe the situation was actually that hard, it could be a lot of reasons, but I never gave dad the comfort or space I was supposed to provide.
Surprisingly, I got better when I did that. Emotionally and physically better. Dad, too, became calmer all in all, and assumed a relieved, quite stable condition, that I’m monitoring from afar. And these days I’m asking myself: did he have to do that? Did he have to reprimand me that sternly? Was I locked in such a miserable trance, that I had to be shaken out of it that violently? You know what, maybe I was.
And then I think about the question I asked on the top of this post. Would my Mom have given me a similar kind of guidance? If she sees the length of the pause I’ve been stuck in for like two years now, not knowing what, or who would make me happy, not knowing what is wrong with me, not knowing about what is coming, and whether I’m prepared, and what and what not, and all of those stuff, weighing on my heart, and soul, and mind, and my entire being, would she slap me back to my senses?
Sometimes I imagine her giving me an order, you know? Like: go do this. Stop thinking. Go freaking do this, and that. And just because she said I should, I would. I want that comfort. I want to throw away the wisdom of my decisions on someone else’s shoulder. I’m too tired from life, that’s how I feel these days. I admit it: I want someone to think on my behalf for a change. It’s been too much, lately.
“Why do you ask me to do something for you, when you know that you’re perfectly capable of doing it?”, says my sister.
“Because it makes me happy, knowing that you’d do it for me, in spite of that”, I reply.
May you never feel like I feel,