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I’ve been moving through life, blissfully oblivious to the passage of time. I notice my kids growing up and tackling new challenges, and I’m excited to see where life takes them. My parents are always there to witness these milestones, and I am forever grateful for their presence. However, it hit me recently that my parents aren’t as youthful as they once were.
Not long ago, I had to take my dad to urgent care. Thankfully, it was nothing serious, but that moment struck me hard: my parents are getting older, and I’m not sure I’m ready to face that reality. When you find yourself filling out forms for your dad that ask about medications and family health history, it makes you pause. The man who once towered over everyone, capable of fixing anything and always there for me, now looks to me for help, and it feels strange.
Traditionally, parents are the caregivers—the ones with wisdom and knowledge. They bring you chicken soup when you’re under the weather and take care of your newborn to give you a much-needed break. They host family dinners and create a home that feels forever familiar. They are the glue that holds everything together. The idea of time slipping away is unbearable; imagining life without them is something I prefer to avoid. But then, I find myself at urgent care, and my heart aches.
My parents are not old; they are in their late sixties and early seventies. They have plenty of life left in them. This is not an urgent situation—thankfully, there’s no terminal illness involved. However, I understand that tomorrow is never promised. Both of my grandmothers lived into their nineties, almost reaching 100. My paternal grandfather passed away in his eighties, but my maternal grandfather died at just 56. I’ve always tried to ignore that, never wanting to confront the possibility that my mom might not reach a ripe old age. Just writing those words brings tears to my eyes. I’m not ready.
Looking back at old photographs, the changes in everyone’s appearances are undeniable. Yet, I don’t perceive my parents as old. Perhaps it’s a generational thing; when we were kids, grandparents seemed ancient, often sporting gray hair and dressing in ways that reflected their age. I refuse to let my mom fall into that category. The moment she suggests that something from the Alfred Dunner collection looks cute, I redirect her. No elastic waistband culottes on my watch!
To be fair, I don’t have to work hard to keep my mother young; she does that herself. She actively participates in her ten grandchildren’s lives, stays fit, eats healthily, and maintains a vibrant social life. My dad might be more easily swayed into a senior lifestyle, but she ensures he stays youthful. However, there’s no denying they are officially silver citizens. You can bet they take advantage of any discount available to those over 65. As my dad says, “Absolutely, I’m getting that discount! I’ve earned it.” After 72 years, he certainly has.
While I want my parents around for as long as possible, I sometimes realize that I may be pushing them too hard. At 42, I can start a baseball game at 8 a.m. and stay active until 8 p.m. My mom often accompanies me, but she sometimes reminds me, “You may not want to believe it, but I’m getting older, and I tire more easily.” She’s right—I don’t want to accept that, but I must respect it. That’s a challenge for me.
I want to savor the time I have with my parents. I refuse to say, “while I can” because that feels too somber. Instead, I’ll enjoy every moment. I’ll never decline an invitation for dinner or a lazy afternoon swim. I’ll take my mom shopping and laugh as she tries on clothes over her existing outfit, asking for my opinion. I’ll practice patience when they struggle with new technology that seems straightforward to me. I’ll listen closely as they share stories from their past—stories only they can tell. I’ll cherish each hug, kiss on the forehead, and the sweetest words: “I love you, Jamie.”
I hope my parents live to see 100. If they do, they’ll witness their grandchildren grow, marry, and perhaps even welcome great-grandchildren. They are the best parents I could ever ask for, embodying true love, sacrifice, and hard work. Every day together is a gift, and I intend to embrace every moment. They were there for me when I needed them, and I will be there for them as long as they need me.
The thought of saying goodbye someday is daunting, but I won’t dwell on that now. I’m simply not ready. But then again, who truly is?
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