World Mental Health Day - 1st story: "Soon, things will be better again."

The 10th of October marks World Mental Health Day - leading up to it, I've decided to share a series of blogs I've written in the past years, and shared with my friends and colleagues at Swiss Re, about my parents fading away, my dad's passing, my brother's suicide, my mom's dementia.

I'm sharing these blogs here in the hope that they help raise awareness to the many invisible burdens we care, and that they may give someone out there the courage to open up. Whatever you're going through, know that you are not alone - and that's what you'll experience when you let someone know. More about the rationale for sharing these stories.

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"Soon, things will be better again."

(Shared internally as is at Swiss Re on 22 December 2014)

Just about a year ago I wrote about my parents, my dad being emergency-rushed to the hospital, my mom with us. His failing health, her failing mind. What a year it's been. They're still with us, with me. A lot has changed ... Mom's wrong, there's no more improvement, not his health, not her mind ... things will not be better again. 

We all die and I'm oddly at peace with this thought. Even as I sit with my parents, as I watch a bit of soup getting caught in Dad's beard, as I hug Mom and feel nothing but skin and bone, as I clip his toe nails, cut his hair and groom his beard, as I talk to her and watch her staring into space ... I'm okay. It's melancholy, every one of the visits, but it is what it is, it's good. I've started the weekly visits a year ago and it's been a gift. I'm just taking time, not doing much. We're just enjoying each other's company. I go through the old photo albums with them, coax stories from them, hear about their past, stories I never knew. I do stupid stuff to make them laugh, I sit with them and watch them eat, I have a glass of wine with them, I go for a walk with my mom, I enjoy a cup of coffee and a slice of cake ... cake I brought, my mom can't bake or cook anymore.

How do you cook if you don't remember the recipe? Oh, of course, just use a book. But did you remember to buy the ingredients? And wait, did you already put in the salt? After the intense time last year it soon became apparent that my mom simply wasn't able to cook anymore. For a while we didn't notice because Dad covered up for her. "Are you eating well, Dad?" I'd ask and he'd reply, "Sure, sure, everything's fine, Son." Keeping up the pretense, trying to keep his wife from feeling bad ... but then it became obvious. They both lost even more weight, visibly so, and at some point Dad had to admit that something needed to change. It was a huge shift for them, especially for Mom. And then she agreed, too, to have meals delivered. "But only until things are better again," she added. Things don't get better with them, not anymore. Today they get daily meals delivered and it works and it's good and at this point they couldn't imagine it any other way.

Everything my mom's been proudly responsible for, all her life, is taken away from her. Just as her mind goes, so go the responsibilities - and isn't that how we often define our worth. Why are we needed? What are we good at? Often we don't define ourselves by how much we love and how much others love us in return, but by how much we do and how well we do it. "Mom cooks best." Her entire life's she's been getting compliments for her culinary creations, smiles, recognition, every day. Then the pride of the household, the house, keeping it all looking beautiful and clean - and the garden! Lovingly tending every blossom, every sapling - and the joy to hear villagers, people she's known since kindergarten, congratulate her on the lush green paradise in front of the house. Now there's a cleaning lady. And the food is delivered. And there's help with the shopping, and the laundry. I try to give my mom all the love I can and hope it compensates for all those lost responsibilities. Of course she's worth the world ... all I can do is be there, hug her, as she fades away more and more.

My parents still live in the house my grandfather built, the house where, back then, my dad shoveled deep to dig out the space for the cellar. The house he says he hopes he won't see being torn down in his lifetime ... the house they hope to die in. Things have changed a great deal - they still live there, yes. But only thanks to a good system in place here in Switzerland. They're taken care of. And I visit, and others visit. Little sparks in their daily routines. And every visit is a spark in my life, too. I used to take my parents for granted - I guess we all do when we're young, when they're young. Not anymore. I'm there, I appreciate every moment. I listen, I watch, I help. I'm there, just there.

My mom comes alive with stories from the past, she remembers a lot. The present escapes her instantly, but the distant past remains with her for now. My dad, my giant of long ago, is now small in my arms. No, things will not get better anymore. But they don't have to. My parents will continue to fade away until, one day, my heart will break ... and it will be okay. Life. Death. The warmth of an embrace. The happiness of giving. The joy of a smile. To feel my feet on the ground, to breathe in the fresh air. To breathe. I don't know most things, but I do know one thing: Life is simple.