Papa and Covid-19
Image credit: Whitney Nuku
I spent the morning trying to convince my Papa to stay home. He's one of those kaumātua who doesn't know how to rest. From work to the church, family commitments, and serving his community, Papa's learnt the uncanny ability to fit sleep in anywhere. He's most famous for sleeping in his seat on the stage behind the pulpit at church – facing the whole congregation.
Even in his retirement, he and Nanny bought a property that needed constant maintenance. My little family and I try to visit at least four times a year, and every time we come, I swear we spend most of our time working. Mowing lawns, cutting hedges, splitting firewood, pulling weeds, going to the tip, planting veggies, pruning trees, picking potatoes, decluttering the lounge, fixing technology, washing, folding, cooking, cleaning and caring. That's not what bothers me; I enjoy giving service to my grandparents. I spent more than half of my life with them; they're a big part of who I am.
What bothers me is that my Papa always finds something else to do when we come to visit to take some of the load off their shoulders. With his calloused hands, arthritic neck, and bung knees, he still can't sit back and let my 29-year-old partner do his mahi.
Is it out of habit?
Is it so he can feel he has 'something to show for his day'?
Is it for fear that my darling will think he's weak?
I told him, ‘Papa if you catch Covid-19, you will die.’ I paused, trying to hide the tears from betraying my staunch facade. ‘You will die, and it will be self-inflicted if you don't listen to me and stop going out.’
He sat back in his chair, arms folded over his chest with a slight smirk on his face. Heat rose in my stomach, and the verbal vomit spilled from my mouth, ‘You will die if you catch it! You are 82 years old and had pneumonia last year, and Nanny had cancer. You don't need fertiliser... who cares about your avocados? This is a global pandemic, and you are most at risk! There is no cure for this! You will die and take Nanny with you if you catch it!’ Nanny flinched slightly when I said that.
I've never spoken to my Papa so harshly. He and Nanny are the only people I have such care and patience for in the world. Still, Nanny smiled encouragingly at me to carry on.
‘Don't think of it as being restricted; think of it as a time to rest and reflect. Mum suggested you pray about it and ask the Lord for guidance.’
He sat there in silence, looking in my direction but not directly at me. My tutū toddler had paused his relentless moving and looked at his great-Papa, aware that something in the air had changed.
After a moment, he replied, ‘All death is self-inflicted. We can't control when it is our time.’
The heat in my stomach shot to my head like a rocket. I wanted to scream. I wanted to yell and curse and throw the dishes in front of me on the floor. But I slowly stood up, let the disappointment cripple my facade, filling my entire face and walked away. My grandparents aren't going to survive this. The tears ran, and I felt rejected, dismissed and defeated.
The tears continued as I packed the rest of our bags. They carried me through the rest of the mum-life jobs I needed to get done until I was sitting on the floor, back against the bed and looking out the window.
A story my mum told me came into my mind. When Papa was a little boy, sometimes all they would have for dinner was a single boiled potato, which was considered a nutritious meal. In the winter, he'd stand in fresh cow poo patties to warm his frozen feet up on his walk to school. At four years old, he was woken up at dawn to help his mother milk the cows.
Compassion and realisation flowed through my body. It dried the tears. Rest to this generation means something more than it does to mine. Something most of us will never understand. Rest comes so easily to us, but we've never had to live through a Great Depression or a World War. Our grandparents did and then made the world better, so we wouldn't have to suffer their experiences.
The seemingly never-ending supply of canned and bulk food in case a multitude needs to be fed. The aversion to throwing anything out because it can be used again. The single orange for Christmas every year is a reminder of how lucky we are to get more than just an orange. Gratitude flowed through me, and I decided then and there to stop trying to change him. Who am I to judge? I chose to love him as he is.
While I was putting my baby's shoes on his feet, Papa spoke softly, ‘I want you to know, Whitty, that I've heard you. I've heard everything you said.’ His voice was gentle, and his face had lost all the defiance from hours earlier.
I felt a sceptical relief but smiled, "Thank you, Papa. I hope so."
As I walked away to put our bags in the truck, I sensed weary energy around me. I ignored it and held on to the hope that my passionate berating and his love for me would prevail, that he'd do his bit to preserve their lives. We prayed together, as we always do when we leave, and I listened carefully to Papa's words – searching for any conviction in our earlier conversation. I kissed them goodbye and hugged them a little longer because, although I didn't want to admit it, I knew deep down, that he wouldn't change a thing.