My relationship with pain. The one I’ve held since my ‘Popus’ was first diagnosed with a hereditary brain disease called Cadasil. The silent micro-bleeds and mini-strokes rip his brain blurry. His cognitive abilities are compromised. Recalling events from the day before and planning ahead, are unreasonable expectations. Popus is my father, who I lose little by little with every decline. The loss is ambiguous and painful. When did he stop calling me his Jaan Praan? When did he stop checking our well-being? When did the pain become so strong? The excruciating physical pain I felt in my already clotted liver when I told him I was hospitalized and he replied, “How is everyone else?”. Processing and interpreting information appropriately are abilities he has lost. His actions driven by instant gratification, primal in nature, shock us to the core. The only comfort he caters to now is his own which brings pain more so when it snowballs from mom to me, who happens to be his caretaker by default.
COVID home restrictions drove my dad to the point of insanity. Our international calls doubled as I kept him occupied during the wee hours of the morning. As a family, our goal was to keep him indoors and unexposed. He finds solace in his daily routine and we were on a mission to bring it to a halt, even if that meant increasing his tranquilizers. He spoke about purchasing helicopters, travelling to Africa, being free and unconfined. Did I share his understanding of COVID? “The virus is a hoax to drive political agendas”, he shrugged off in our therapy session one day. He is the same man who provided us abundant luxuries, sponsored our college degrees, and built platforms for us to catapult in life. When he hugged, the squeeze was tight, his sneezes were smelly and love, oh-so pure. Popus’s endless jokes had a room full of people in splits and roaring for more. Mom looked at him coyly. He never understood Gurbani but prayed nevertheless.
Now, new learning is impossible for his shrinking brain. He insists on living a big, busy life and feels confused that it doesn’t provide solace. This emotional burden and pain occupies most of me. It is constant, even though we are separated by the Atlantic and Pacific. Pausing has taught me that this pain is constant. Reflecting has taught me that my father is the chosen one for me. Accepting his new baseline every few months, eases the journey. Resisting the pain requires struggle. Tears drain energy. Acceptance takes much less energy. Showing up with love rather than trying to control is so much easier.