“Write as if your parents were dead.” In retrospect, there was something ominous and sinister about this piece of writing advice. At the time, it seemed harmless. So I took the tip when I was in college.
While in university, I wrote two one-act plays that touched on themes such as virginity and physical and verbal abuse in relationships. My parents watched the play, and they applauded along with the audience. The writing tip worked.
On the ride back home, when all the hype was over, they made sure to say they were proud of me, but that they disapproved of certain elements in my works. “Relationships are meant to be healthy,” Mama said. Papa gave his usual silent nod.
But what’s done is done. I have already written it and I didn’t need to ask for their approval. I wrote with a certain fearlessness, as if my parents were six feet under, buried deep enough that they’d be unable to give their opinions and parental advice.
Little did I know that just two years later, both my parents will be diagnosed with stage IV cancer. Time was no longer a luxury, but a finite resource for them. They were already in their 50’s, successful in their respective careers and just spending their time travelling the world. Needless to say, their much-awaited trip to Europe got cancelled. Dates turned into visits to the doctor, and sometimes they’d even be confined at the same time, in separate rooms. Romantic kisses turned into pained hugs as they struggled with the oxygen attached to them. As I write this, I am no longer writing “as if” my parents were dead. They already are.
I watched both of them suffer in very different ways. My father, a respected geologist in the country, experienced the most excruciating pain as his pancreatic cancer spread to his other organs. He was a handsome man, and it hurt me to see him with greying hair and a skeletal body. He worked hard till the very end. His mind remained sharp, but his body gave up.
My mother, on the other hand, lost her mind, literally, as her lung cancer metastasised to her brain. A girl boss in the IT world, her professional life dwindled as she forgot her phone and computer passwords. At one point, she even forgot she had me, her daughter. It broke my heart. If there is anything I’m thankful for, it’s that she didn’t forget my little brother, who was only 12 years old at the time.
Grief is an inexplicable part of the human condition. It cuts through your bones and lungs until you can no longer move or breathe. It sucks the life out of you.
In 2015, I got diagnosed with bipolar disorder. I was always on one end of the spectrum of moods, never in the middle. I was either euphoric, partying nonstop and meeting strange men, or catatonic, unable to leave my bed on weekends.
I worked like a horse. My career was doing okay, but not fantastic, and I always crashed when I got home. I was a constant source of disappointment for my sister, who is a new doctor. I gained 35 pounds and counting, turning to food and alcohol for comfort. I lost my love for yoga and fitness. And I went through a series of unhealthy relationships, losing the love of my life in the process. I even stopped writing.
Now ask yourself this question. Should you write as if your parents were dead? For me, maybe not. Just write as if they were on vacation and you’re about to throw a huge teenage party at home, leaving no evidence of it. Write as if they’re on a sabbatical somewhere, or heading to Auntie Beth’s home to drink wine till 3am. Write as if they’re coming back.
Because when the time comes, you’ll live in regret and maybe you’d wish you asked for their take on a certain dialogue before staging that one-act play. Most parents, after all, have the greatest source of wisdom. And to be honest, they won’t be around forever.
By Nannie Flores
Originally published on www.ideiya.com.
