What matters, is what matters to him.

 

 

 

It was late in the afternoon, and my wife was bustling about the kitchen as she usually does. My son was upstairs, probably tapping away at his computer. Tea was being served, and I was telling my wife that my back was hurting. She looked at me, unsure if it was anything serious (I wasn’t young, and elderly ailments of all sorts were already starting to dawn on me), or if it was one of my countless vies for attention. You can’t blame an old man for wanting to have some humorous fun with his wife of almost 40 years, now can you?

 

The wife was telling me about the next door neighbor’s children, and how they kept coming into out yard. I assured her that they probably meant no harm, but my back was starting to throb. The tea felt like it was “hanging” inside of me. The wife was saying something about missing plums and broken clotheslines, but all I could feel was the cakes coming out in ten-folds. I vomited onto the floor, careful trying not to hit the carpet, but it was beyond me. My wife turned, and it took some time for her to realize what was happening. She called out frantically for my son, rushed to my side. It mattered not that I was covered in putrid acid spewing across the floor. She held me close to her and rubbed my back.

 

My son sauntered down the steps, unaware of anything happening. His mother sounded just as frantic as if a lizard had wandered too near for her liking; he had no notion that anything was at all wrong. When he saw the mess I had created, he jumped the remaining of the steps, and ran towards me. He turned back, saying he’ll get the keys to the car. I told him I was fine, and that I just wanted to go to the toilet. He didn’t seem to like the idea; he wanted to take me straight to the hospital. But I assured him I was fine, and that I just needed to go to the toilet, and clean up.

 

He hoisted me up with incredible ease; and it occurred to me that I have grown a strong, but gentle son. He carried me to the toilet, put me down, and waited. He refused to budge, saying that if anything happens, he’ll be right there. I was embarrassed, but I understood. He was worried for me; and I had to let him worry.

 

My wife was anxiously cleaning up in the kitchen, and telling my son a long list of do’s and don’ts. After he cleaned me off, he helped me dress and put me in bed. He sternly looked at me and told me I was not to get out of bed. Think of that. He who I used to bathe, clothe, and carry to bed. Now he does the same for me. I didn’t know how to feel. Ashamed that he had to see me in such weak conditions, but proud that he did so without so much as a bat of the eye. Not a single sigh, not an ounce of a grumble.

 

Later that night, I felt a sharp tingle at the end of my toes. It shot up towards my chest. I tried to calm myself, telling me that it was just a slight aftermath. But the pain was too much. I reached out to my wife. She must have been sleeping than her usual deep slumber. She shot up immediately, and just as fast her hands reached out to mine. As much pain as I was in, I took comfort in her being there. I didn’t have to worry about getting out of bed; my son took care of that. I didn’t have to worry about packing my bags; my wife took care of that. My son carefully carried me to the car, locked the doors, and drove out into the still of the night. He must’ve been driving fast as I could see my wife clutch her bracelet like she usually does when she’s anxious.

 

I didn’t have to worry about looking for parking, or about telling the nurses what had happened. I knew I was safe; as safe as I could be. I could trust my son, I could trust my wife. What more could an ailing old man ask for?

 

He sorted out all the papers, he called my workplace for me. He inquired about insurance. Thank the Lord we were covered. He took care of that. He and my colleagues took away my worry for that. All I had to do, was to recover.

 

As I look at my fatigued wife’s eyes, she whose tears I have caused to shed, she whose hands have become worn out and wrinkled in her years of cooking, cleaning, and accompanying me. Me. A man who has nothing, who is nothing. I look at her and reminisce of those dark days when she cried because of me every single day. When I inflicted pain on her, and for what exchange? My happiness. How she begged me to make her pain stop, and yet I only told her to be strong, be patient, and accept what the doors of fate had brought us. Here was the same woman, holding my limp, lifeless hand. Here was that same woman, going back and forth searching for anything she could do to make me a little more comfortable.

 

There was my son. He who I raised in the barracks of decaying wood, he who cried himself to sleep after a day at school being teased for being the only one not joining the school trip. He who could not go to college because I said our future would be better off if he found a way to help me pay the bills now rather than in five years. Here he was, on the phone asking if there was better care he could provide for me. Asking for help to aid his ailing father.

 

 I am a blessed man, I am. And as these eyes flutter to a close, I can’t help but allow just a moment to relish the various blessings I have been given.