Of ageing parents and time: What if "soon" is too late?

 

The people we once imagined as permanent are, in fact, growing old. Pix from Magnific.com.

THE day has barely begun. The sky is a soft, pale blue, the coolness of morning still lingering in the air. Somewhere in the distance, I hear the low rumble of a neighbour's car coming to life, followed by the creak of a gate sliding open down the road.

And there they are — standing side by side at the doorway, waiting to wave me off.

My parents are 79, their faces creased by a lifetime of living. Yet they still break into the same warm, almost childlike smiles whenever they see me leave for work. There's something so touching about the pride in their eyes, as though I'm still the little girl setting off into the world and they're sending me out with their silent blessings.

Without quite realising when it started, their goodbyes have become an integral part of my morning. My good luck ritual, if you like; Mak with her gentle little wave, Abah with his slightly jauntier one.

"Ahh, now the world will be just fine," I'd tell myself as I stepped on the accelerator, bracing for the ubiquitous morning rush-hour traffic and the sea of fellow Malaysians heading to work.

Until one morning, I was in too much of a hurry.

There was somewhere I needed to be and something already occupying my mind. So, in my haste, I simply left. I started the car, pulled out and was already on my way when it suddenly struck me: I hadn't said goodbye.

It was such a small thing, almost ridiculous really, to turn the car around over something so ordinary. But I did. I drove back home, my heart suddenly unsettled.

They were still there. My father had wandered off to tend to his plants, but my mother was still at the doorway. They both looked surprised to see me return. I rushed in and told them I'd forgotten to say goodbye properly.

And then, for reasons I still cannot quite explain, I felt a lump rise in my throat. Perhaps it was because, in that moment, I realised I'd been taking something precious for granted.

Not the goodbye itself.

Them.

I hugged them, said goodbye properly this time and returned to my car. As I drove away again, my heart felt lighter. The morning looked exactly as it had a few minutes earlier. The sky was still blue, the neighbourhood still waking up.

Somewhere, another car was starting its engine.

CAUGHT IN THE MIDDLE

Perhaps the most important thing we can give our elderly is our time. NSTP file pix By Hazreen Mohamad.

Lately, I find myself thinking about how easily we mistake the things we have always had for things we will always have, and how dangerous that assumption can be. As our parents grow older, the ordinary things begin to carry a different weight.

The phone call we keep meaning to make… the Sunday lunch we postpone because the week has been exhausting… the invitation we decline because there's work to finish… or the elderly uncle we keep telling ourselves we'll visit next weekend.

We say it so casually: when work settles down, after this deadline, next week, next month. As if time is something we can keep putting aside and return to when life becomes less busy. But time doesn't work that way.

Sometimes, "next weekend" arrives and we discover there will be no next weekend. No next visit, no next cup of tea, no next opportunity to listen to the same story one more time. Sometimes, the phone call comes before we've had the chance to make ours.

And then we're left with that terrible, private arithmetic of regret: all the calls we could have made and the visits we could have squeezed in, as well as the moments we assumed would still be waiting for us.

Perhaps this is one of the hardest things about watching our parents age. We're not only witnessing them getting older; we're being confronted with the fact that our time with them is finite.

SANDWICH GENERATION

Ageing is also about something far less tangible -time. NSTP file pix by Hazreen Mohamad.

Yet, life doesn't stop to let us absorb that. We're so busy working, raising children, paying mortgages, meeting deadlines, trying to save for our own futures, while also trying to be good parents and good children.

Increasingly, we're the sandwich generation — squeezed between children who need us and parents who may increasingly need us too. It's a phrase that has become familiar in Malaysia, but trust me, there's nothing particularly neat about being caught in the middle.

According to Malaysia's 5th National Population and Family Survey, 70 per cent of elderly people live with their children or extended family, while 95.3 per cent of elderly parents have received at least one form of support from their children, ranging from cash and daily necessities to transportation, personal care and help with household chores.

The pressures are only expected to grow as Malaysians live longer, families become smaller and more women participate in the workforce.

The numbers matter. But numbers can make ageing sound like something that happens to a population: 4.1 million people aged 60 and above. An ageing nation and a dependency ratio.

The latest Statistics Department figures put the number of Malaysians aged 60 and above at 4.1 million, or 12 per cent of the population last year. Its latest population projections also indicate that Malaysia is expected to enter the "ageing nation" phase in 2036, when those aged 60 and above surpass 15 per cent of the population.

PRECIOUS TIME

Behind every number, however, is a person.

There's a mother waiting for her daughter to call; a father sitting quietly in the living room; a son trying to finish one more thing at work before he goes home; or a daughter looking at her calendar and wondering how to fit one more responsibility into a life already bursting at the seams.

That, perhaps, is the part of Malaysia's ageing story we don't talk about enough.

We're getting better at discussing the infrastructure of ageing — healthcare, retirement savings, nursing homes, dementia care, professional caregivers and government assistance. Of course, we need all of these things, urgently. But ageing is also about something far less tangible: time.

Who has it? Who can afford to give it? And what happens when the people who need us most need us at precisely the moment everyone else needs us too?

There's a temptation to romanticise family care, especially in a country where filial piety remains deeply woven into our understanding of family. But love doesn't make people limitless.

Malaysian research on informal caregivers has captured this reality: those juggling caregiving with work and family responsibilities can face significant strain, while studies have also highlighted the need for practical help, respite, emotional support and better access to caregiver training.

That's why I don't think the answer is simply to tell Malaysians to "take better care of their parents". We need to ask a bigger question: what does caring actually mean in an ageing Malaysia?

Is it being there when a parent is sick? Paying the bills, arranging appointments, buying medication and ensuring there's food in the fridge? Or is there another kind of care we overlook because it has no price tag and cannot be measured?

The 10-minute phone call, the visit that takes an hour's drive, the cup of coffee at the kitchen table, the patience to hear a story we've heard before, the willingness to sit for a while when there's nothing particularly urgent to discuss…

SMALL GOODBYES MATTER

The writer's parents, or Abah and Mak, whose morning goodbyes have become a treasured ritual.

Perhaps the harder question isn't whether we're there when our parents need us, but whether we're there before they need us. Because our parents are not burdens; they're the people who carried us when we were.

They stayed awake when we were sick, waited for us to come home, worried when we were late and stood proudly at the milestones we thought important enough to invite them to. And now, slowly, the roles begin to change.

The people who once knew all the answers may ask us how to do something. Those who once drove us may need us to drive them. Those who once waited up for us may be the ones waiting for our call. There's something humbling about that reversal, perhaps because it reminds us that the people we once imagined as permanent are, in fact, growing old.

I think about that morning at the guardhouse often. Not that anything terrible happened. My parents were still there: Abah with his plants, Mak contentedly waiting at the doorway.

I had been given the luxury of turning the car around, but not everyone gets that chance. There will be a day when the doorway is empty. One familiar face will be missing, and then another. I know this... I just don't know when.

Malaysia will need policies, money and systems to prepare for its ageing future. It will need better care, stronger communities and more support for those who quietly shoulder the work of looking after others.

But perhaps it also needs us to rethink something more personal. We keep treating time with our ageing parents as something to fit around the rest of our lives. Perhaps we should start treating that time as part of our lives.

I still leave for work every morning and my parents still come to the doorway to wave me off. And now, no matter how late I am, I wave back… and maybe smile a bit longer than necessary.

Because while they're still at the door, I want to be there to say goodbye. - NST

intanm@nst.com.my