Adult Orphan

My husband is no longer any one's son. He feels like an orphan; an adult orphan. While I do not deny that it is the natural order of things, nor do I deny the tragedy of losing parents as a small child, the fact remains that however "adult" we are when both our parents die, we feel like an orphan.Today, my father-in-law was laid to rest, buried next to the bones of my mother-in-law who died 10 years ago.

We all know that we will lose our parents some day. And we all know that in the natural order of life we expect to outlive our parents. Yet that knowledge proves no comfort to the pain we experience and the void that we feel when we finally lose them. Nothing prepares us for how we feel when it happens: abandoned, orphaned, lost, and like a child, crying for our mama and baba. We grieve. But our grief stems from the sorrow of longing for the place and people we called home. A people who were the guardians of our childhood memories; the ones who recorded our every first move. They marked our journey to adulthood. A people who provided us with the first and last layer of protection when we let down our guard.

When the death of parents comes at the end of a life long and well lived we use the example of their longevity as a means to comfort. "He had a good life," we say. "She was fortunate to have seen her grandchild's wedding," we say. "We all should pray to live as he did," "Good health to the young and next of kin!" we say. It's as though we excuse ourselves from grieving because we are adults, and with so much else going on in the world around us we do not allow ourselves much space and time to grieve. Even the ailing or aging parent who lives long, justifies his approaching departure from this world of human warmth with similar reasoning. When last I saw my father-in-law a few month back, he was sitting in his upright chair next to the library in the living room of his home. He sat looking even smaller than his usual frame, his head drooped toward his chest. He was breathing through his mouth with his eyes closed. I looked at him as I listened to the rhythm of his steady breathing. His eyelids seemed almost transparent; his hands resting in each other were crooked and knobbly, thin, like a bird's claw. He raised his head, tried to clear his throat and in a faint whisper he said, "I've lived well, I've lived long."

"Yes, you have," I responded, "but that's not an excuse to die now." His lips started to quiver. It was an age induced quiver brought on by emotional sensitivity which, over the years, I have come to realize, is a distinguishing family quality. "It's not always that I feel this way," he said, his voice clearer, but still in a whisper. "Life has good moments. It is still sweet. Just, sometimes..."

"Well, you still have more to offer," I said in as upbeat a voice as was possible. "You've got grand and great grandchildren to teach." His eyes were wide open now. "Shall I repeat what you've done for me?" I asked, and without waiting for his permission I continued. "I am forever grateful to you and mom that you both taught your children to love as they do. You set the example for them to know what it means to be married to a spouse, what it means to have children, to raise a family, to know the value of work, the joy of sacrifice, to place the needs of others before their own, to create and be the masters of their lives, to act virtuously by eliminating many of the impulses that cause them to respond with anger, resentment, pettiness and ill will, and by acknowledging the potential of themselves by being closer to God."**

I stopped my ramble. His lips had started to quiver again. "You always like to talk a lot," he said with a low chuckle, this time his voice more audible. Then in an almost whisper he said, "Thank you." He shut his eyes once more.

The reality is that the death of both parents becomes a profound, life changing experience. We grieve for the passing of our own childhood and youth. We grieve as though their death somehow wipes away proof or acknowledgment of our own life through them. Truth be told, we find ourselves reassessing our lives, and we become fully responsible for our every day living with a heightened sense of mortality. We subconsciously realize that we are now the elders to whom the children and grandchildren will look toward for all their vices and virtues, distinguishing family qualities and inherited characteristics.

**Dear mother and father,
....What I placed above all was character and a strong family upbringing. Even in times of trouble, I placed above all, the pursuit of becoming richer in spirit, conscience, love, connectedness to family and friends and a strong sense of morals. Never could I have been closer to the truth in finding these qualities than since I entered your family. And for that I thank you. These qualities are gifts of character acquired through a network of years of parental guidance and heredity. I am forever grateful that you brought such a beautiful family to life as a manifestation of your faith in each other's love. I am forever grateful that you shared your son with me so that I too became an extension of a love I am proud to call my family. For that, and much more, I thank you both.
With much love, many hugs and kisses, and ...thanks

Silva **

**Excerpts from a letter I wrote to mom and dad March,5, 1999