From Partner To Parent: What Happens When One Half Of A Couple Falls Ill?

Not long ago, perhaps just as we passed the sunset mark of 60, I wrote a column on a quiet bedroom discussion my wife and I had on a moonlit day. It was about something most would dismiss as implausible at our age: the idea of having another child. A masterpiece on a fresh canvas, we mused, after having learned, the hard way, what shades to avoid, what strokes to soften.

We pulled the curtain on the possible last act after wifey - my ever-practical, quietly philosophical companion - reworked the script on the grounds that if one of us fell critically ill, who would be the next protagonist to carry forward the play. So, we decided to end it with a soliloquy delivered by the last actor standing.

While the proposed finale is still to be conceived, fate rewrote our script again. The idea of children returned to the stage, but not in the way we imagined. A new canvas has been mounted on the easel, but it bears just a single, solitary stroke. Or maybe two.

Because today, I find myself parenting not one child, but two.

A grandson who's in a hurry to grow into a teenager and an adult who's steadily and silently slipping back into a second childhood. One is roaringly ambitious; the other, reticently reclusive.

Imagine a kindergarten where half the children are bouncing with boundless energy while the other half seem permanently drowsy, unmoved by any call to action. Now imagine me as the class teacher of this bipolar batch - with endless advice flooding in from parents, relatives, and medical counsellors. One child refuses to rest - he jerks his sleepy head and springs into action. The other could sleep 20 hours a day,
blissfully ignoring the doctors and loved ones' pleas. For Shutti, my two-and-a-half-year-old grandson, the concept of“sleep” doesn't exist. His day runs from 7am to past
midnight. Meanwhile, the other child -
my wife - emerges from bed only to float
back into the comfort of her quilt shortly after breakfast.

I gently remind her of Dr Bahaeldeen's favourite metaphor from the animal kingdom:“If a lion gets lazy and doesn't hunt, it loses strength and becomes prey. The same applies to humans. The moment
you give in to lethargy, illness catches up. You need to make your muscles and brain work.”

She listens with indifference, staring blankly past the doctor.

Meanwhile, Shutti is busy learning rules.“This is Appopa's (grandpa's) phone - don't touch!” he repeats with the seriousness of a courtroom order.“This is not screen time. Let's eat.”

“This is the time to colour the Mandala book. Please finish the dragon who you had been working on for a month now,” I tell wifey while she frowns at that suggestion and rolls to the other side of the bed.

I say to wifey:“Walk a bit. Your limbs need to get back to work - you haven't exercised in a week.”

Then to Shutti:“Boy, don't run too fast! Appopa can't keep up. Stop right there.”

He freezes, looks at the sky, and shouts:“That's an aeroplane! And look at the half moon!” He loves to stargaze.

“It's so hot and sticky and so uncomfortable even at 7pm. Why do we come out to walk in this heat?” Wifey frets and fumes and she learns to toddle again.

As we walk past a juicery, Shutti throws a tantrum,“I want watermelon. Ammoma (grandma) had green tea yesterday.”

But she insists:“I want falooda. With ice cream.”

“What? It's full of sugar!”

“It's okay once in a while.”

“What was your last sugar reading?”

“Doctor said it's fine.”

“Give me the number.”

“Something like 9.7. My father had 11.5 and lived till 95!”

Buoyed by a large falooda, she wants to watch Guru Dutt's Pyaasa, while Shutti protests:“This isn't screen time! Let's play.”

He builds block towers and moves to his book corner, dragging me along:“Appopa, help.” We read word by word.

Meanwhile, Ammoma fiddles with the remote, replaying Yeh Duniya Agar Mil Bhi Jaaye To on a loop.

At 8pm, Shutti announces:“Let's go to the park.”

“To the park, are you mad? It's sizzling hot.” Ammoma tries to calm the boy, with Johny, Johny yes papa. And the boy teaches her his latest invention, Here We Go Round The Mulberry Bush.

“I'm getting my phone from the car. Watch the boy,” I tell wifey as I dash towards the parking lot.

“Where's the baby?” I ask wifey as I return.

“Which baby?” she murmurs from bed.“Didn't I tell you to have one years ago?”

“I'm talking about Shutti!”

“Must be around.”

I find him in the kitchen, dangling from the edge of the sink.

“What are you doing?!”

“Helping Dad. He cooks. I wash.”

My mind drifts - not to Shutti, not even to his dad, but back to the days when my son was a toddler. When this same Ammoma raised him in old Dubai, before the Gulf War, when Al Ghurair was the only mall and the RTA and Metro didn't exist.

There was no Instagram, no YouTube, no dopamine addiction. Just life, raw and refreshing. She raised him then, with nothing but her bare hands and a heart full of love. No gadgets. No guides. Just instinct and grace. They played in monsoon puddles. They laughed without filters.

And I, in those years, toiled in my office - too busy building futures, too blind to the present. But she? She walked him through life, step by joyful step.

And now here she is - fading gently, yet defiantly alive, clutching a bowl of falooda and an old Guru Dutt tune, while our grandson tugs at my hand, dragging me into the future, one storybook at a time.

And somewhere between the past and the present, I am learning to parent both childhood and memory.

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