When you reach the age of 60, compassion for older people becomes a second nature. Understandably so because you see yourself in the shoes of older people. You suddenly feel a sense of kinship with the stroke survivor in the next block; with the lady who just had a cataract operation; with the 70 something who can't travel long distances because of involuntary leaks on her underwear.Age 60 makes you reconcile with your own humanity; with your own mortality.
Yesterday, I was looking around for a condom-sized catheter to be attached to a urine bag for my father who is a stroke survivor for more than a year now. With a catheter
inserted to the most delicate part of his body, he is spared from the embarrassment of incontinence. My mother too is spared from interrupted sleep in the night just so my father won't feel the discomfort of wet sheets.
My father is a lucky guy. Aside from my mother's undying attention and care for him, we, his children, look after his every need to the best we can. Every time I think of him, I think of all the fathers, the widowers and the older bachelors who are in the same situation as my father.
After buying the disposable item from the drugstore, I felt so thirsty I headed to a nearby restaurant for a cup of ice cream or maybe even just a cold drink. I ate my ice cream very quickly because I needed to go back to the office to pick up some stuff. As it is natural for 60 something women, I had to go to the ladies room before leaving the restaurant. It was a tranquil afternoon. There was no queue to put me under stress. But as soon as I was about to enter the now unoccupied room, the occupant who just got out slumped his tired body on the wall with a sigh. "I feel very dizzy", the woman said. "Can I help you", I asked. "Do you have vicks or something that I can smell?" "Nothing in my bag", I said. Because of that scenario I was in, I brought the weak woman to one of the empty tables in the restaurant and applied my basic reflexology on a point between her thumb and forefinger. I asked her where she came from. "From Southern Luzon", she said. "My parents' home", I said. "Where in Southern Luzon?" "Near Mayon Volcano"."So we are from the same place!"
As she was recovering from her nausea, she cried and showed me her back pack that was slashed by a thug in the jeepney. She was inconsolable because all the money which was supposed to be his father's pension money which she was authorized to follow up in Manila was all gone. She felt so helpless she couldn't buy a bus ticket. If I were in her shoes right that moment, I would wish someone, with no much ado, just handed me money for a bus ticket for me to travel the 500 kilometers from Manila to the town near Mayon Volcano. I knew I still had some money in my wallet. I took five hundred pesos and gave it to her. She was so thankful she told me she'd come back to Manila to pay me. I told her not to worry.
When I think of her I could not but wish someone was always around to help me cope with stress if I were in a situation like her.
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