Adonis Diaries

When the ultimate of thieves is to pay us a visit? Have we gathered the tiny bits of great memoirs of our close relatives?

Posted on: October 18, 2013

When the ultimate of thieves is to pay us a visit? Have we gathered the tiny bits of great memoirs?

Lately, many close older relatives of mine and of my parents are dying, practically handicapped, bed-redden, losing their memories, and spending more time in the emergency rooms than at home.

This getting old condition is extremely exhausting physically, emotionally and financially to the sick and to those taking care of them.

I paid a visit to one of my “uncles”, the husband of one of my mother’s sisters, and my aunt was again in the hospital. My aunt has undergone many surgeries of all kinds in the last 20 years and is confined to walk in her house using a walker.

My uncle looked depressed and blurted out “Here we are. When the ultimate of thieves is to pay us a visit?

The French author Pivot wrote:

“Most of my old classmates, when they lose their parents, and even more when their grandparents disappear, regretted not having had the time – in truth, curiosity – to ask them about their childhood, their youth, their debut in existence, their joys, their disappointments.
They have let go the older close people, retaining only what was considered the most essential of their life, but leaving out to nothingness the thousand small grains which are the sugar, salt and pepper (of what is living).
They lament their too late inability to answer the questions they failed to ask: it never crossed their mind to ask when there was still time.
They regret to have breached the duty of remembrance (of collecting and gathering their memoirs) and to have missed so many opportunities to add to the truth and the Romanesque of the family saga.
I’ve known of inconsolable persons, who after the funeral, considered themselves as negligent and idiots.” End of quote
When I started by blog in 2008, and after getting the hang of posting at least one post every day, I wrote my autobiography and published my diary.
It dawned on me that no autobiography is worth writing if I fail to collect the bits and pieces of my parents’ remembrance.
Particularly that they lived the hard way in Africa, when Africa lacked electricity and running water, and far away from any family members or relatives.
Although I don’t recall sitting with dad and having any useful conversation or discussions, I tried twice to extract a few bits of information, especially names since his memory is intact and vast on ancient people and the town.
My major source of intelligence pieces is mother. Her memory is failing, but I pay close attention to her constant rambling when she sits down to rest from a busy day, and feeling bored for not having enough energy to create tasks in order to fill the time.
I don’t mind listening to mother, as long as she don’t start asking questions on people, where they are, how they are faring, and complaining of the tight financial conditions we are reduced to, and the thousands of worries she has about every one she recalls, the dear dead ones she dream of,  her sleepless nights recollecting the dead ones…

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