The Unspoken Phobia

The English language is full of idiosyncrasies -- there's no plural form for "deer", the past and future tense for "read" are the same, and there are far too many silent letters for a non-native speaker to keep track. We even have a list of over hundreds of phobias people possess, but not a single one of them addresses the most widespread fear of all: losing your parents.  Ironically enough, we have a word for children who lose their parents at a young age, but there's no parallel for it when adults do.   

My family's fears came to fruition last Sunday. 

"Baa just passed away."

Four words that had been lingering in midair for a month.  The inevitable four words we were all dreading to hear.  There they were, uttered in cold hard truth.  When I first found out she was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease, my immediate instinct was to believe it was all unreal and that everything will be alright.  But like a bad dream, thoughts haunt you.

Admittedly, I hadn't been the best grand-daughter ever since I moved to America 20 years ago.  Trips back home were even more sparse than the phone calls.  I had only a handful of memories I could vividly recall, but each time the thought of her on her death bed filled my mind, my eyes glistened as I bit back tears.  But on Sunday night, I finally let go and sobbed until my eyes ached more than my heart.

When asked why I was so disturbed by the news -- given my lack of effort in keeping touch with her over the years -- I was deeply offended.  I felt like I was being asked to justify my feelings, and articulate my unspoken love for her.  "How dare you ask me that?", I thought.  But when I asked myself that question, I was unsure myself.  Did I really need a reason to feel a massive sense of loss? No, I didn't think so either.  But my manager said something interesting to me which seemed to answer the elusive question.  

It was because of my Mom; she was the eldest of seven kids so she had naturally formed an indescribable bond with my grandmother over the past 58 years.  Seeing your own parent in such a state of vulnerability makes you subconsciously realize that with the eldest generation now gone forever, your parents are now that generation, and thus a step closer to the same inevitable path in their destiny.    

When I spoke to my Mom when the news broke, her first words to me were, "I lost my mother."  My heart sank to my feet like an anchor paralyzing me.  Hearing my Mom sound almost child-like was a stark reminder that no matter how old you get, how many kids (or grandkids) you have, you are still someone's child.  And maybe that's why no matter at what age you lose both your parents, you are still just called an orphan.