In a recent conversation with a friend who is house hunting, she told me she had to rule out any home that involved a lot of stairs in case her mother was going to live with her someday. And this is not just a possibility, but almost a certainty, that one day, her mother will need to move in with her. I admired her for her foresight, but felt a little sad that she had to have it.
It made me think, are we already here? Is this what it means to be an adult? When did that happen?
The more I thought about it, the more I started to believe that the day you start to worry about your parents really is the day you step over into official adulthood. It may not be a defining moment per se. For me, it’s been a gradual realization that decisions I make about my own life – career, finances, etc. – actually affect more than myself. And the tide changes from you causing them concern and grief to the other way around. I worry about my parents. About their happiness, their health, if they are eating well. And while I don’t think they expect or maybe even need anything from me at this time, I still feel guilty for not doing more…or doing something. Although I don’t know quite what.
Earlier today my mom called to tell me that she and my father have booked tickets for a trip to India. My initial reaction, internally, was not good. In fact, I hate the idea that they are going to risk their lives on a plane (I know, statistics blah blah), then spend six weeks in a country where if they get sick or hurt I can’t be there to help. And who doesn’t get sick in India?
You see, other than the one, rather huge trip in their early thirties when they immigrated from India to America, my parents have rarely travelled. We never went on vacations when I was younger. There just wasn’t enough money for that. Occasionally we’d pack up the old station wagon with seven or eight people and visit family in Pennsylvania, but we wound not often stray beyond that. In fact, the highlight of the trip would be if we stopped at a service station along the way where we could chat with the locals or get some McDonald’s fries – you know, real American road trip goodness.
I always think that I could literally pick out any place on earth and successfully plan a trip there on my own. But my parents – how will they know how to get around? I mean, sure, they speak the language and have a ton of family in India, but still. What if they get lost? Who is going to stop my dad from drinking the bacteria and virus filled water? Or remind them to take their malaria medicine? See, there is a lot to think about.
Anyway, I blame their lack of travel experience as the source of my concern, but it’s more than that. I just worry. I want to beg them not to go, but I know that would be so hypocritical. After all, imagine what I must have put them through when I travelled to Thailand and Peru – alone nonetheless. But then again, I’m invincible. After all, what could possibly happen to a young girl alone in Bangkok?
It’s such an uncomfortable feeling, being scared about something happening to your parents. It’s unsettling in a vague, hard-to-define way. You get to a point of life where you no longer depend on them, but can’t comprehend not having them around. And you start to factor in all the things that they will soon need to depend on you for, like avoiding houses with stairs.
So to my friend from the aforementioned conversation – yes, it seems we have arrived. Cheers to adulthood.
Half way...where? 