The blow of losing a parent 

It just occurred to me that during the last two years, I have attended more burials than I did five years before this, and that almost all have been of parents of relatives or friends.

It is then that it hit me that as we grow older, our parents are growing older, too, and with each year, their death draws near. It’s a disconcerting thought because generally, parents are a constant anchor in our lives, our confidants, the ones many run to first when going through a difficult time or when in need of refuge.

They know us through and through, they are aware of our strengths and weaknesses and are accommodating of them in a way that no other human being would.

Has the statement, “Do I look like your mother?!” Or, “I’m not your mother…” ever been directed at you? In a nutshell, what this person is telling you is that whatever mistake you made, only your mother would tolerate it.

You now grasp just what an important role parents play in our lives. Their loss, sudden or not, is therefore a big blow that tends to turn many lives upside down, and even if they are 100, having lived their life, so to speak, it is still jarring when they leave.

A couple of weeks ago, I visited my maternal grandmother, who is in her 90s, though you’d never tell it from looking at her because she might as well be a sprightly 70. Her eye-sight is perfect, and having lived alone for decades, (she likes it that way, thank you very much), she still does almost everything for herself, including cooking.

Anyway, I went to visit her because when I called, she sounded unwell, and when I asked her what the matter was, she told me that she had joint pain and a bad flu that was giving her sleepless nights.

Turns out that she had arthritis, (and the bad flu) and when, concerned, I mentioned that I didn’t recall her ever being that sick, she casually said, “People get sick when they get old, I’m old, I won’t be here much longer…”

Saying that I was taken aback would be an understatement. You see, my maternal grandmother has always been a constant figure in my life ever since I could remember, ever since my mother died way back, before I was old enough to join school.

Almost all school holidays were spent with her, and I loved it because every day I got to eat nice things, nice things cooked by the best cook that ever lived. True, she was old, but it had never consciously occurred to me that one day she would die. I had never thought of her death until she mentioned it.

In more ways than one, she is my mother, the person who calls me every other day, the person who gets concerned when I fail to pick up her calls, the person who prays for me and the person who visits with a kiondo full of vegetables and fruits.

She is also the person who celebrates whatever progress I make, however little, losing her therefore would be a brutal blow that would be difficult to recover from. 

That jarring statement she made regarding her death motivated me to appreciate her even more and to spend as much time as I can with her. I will allow you to draw whatever lesson you will from this. 

The writer is editor, Society & Magazines, Daily Nation. Email: cnjunge@ ke.nationmedia.com