September 2013
In a white and blue checkered gown she lay on a wheel-bed, still. Sporadically, she would gasp for some breathe. At least six intravenous pipes passed through her body and the nose, which was covered by an oxygen mask. A nurse, in a pink blouse and skirt that fell just below her knees and hair neatly tied up in a bun, would be around all through the day and night, noting down her blood pressure and heart rate on a log sheet.
'Patient no-620' was critical, and survival chances grim, so said the doctors. For us, her kith and kin, even the smallest signs of revival was good news -- blood pressure holding well, blood counts improving, brain scan normal and so on. The doctors' pessimism over her chances would dampen our hopes only momentarily!
Just a fortnight ago, patient no. 620 was a normal, smiling, laughing 61-year old mother of two big boys, one of whom is married to me. We were in God's own country, Kerala - the beautiful, lush green south Indian state - on a family holiday. We had a great time gorging on the yummy Keralite food and trying to mimic their accents. We spent our time playing cards against a picturesque backdrop on a houseboat, chatting about all and sundry and later shopping away to glory!
Within days of returning, a terrible, gnawing pain in her abdomen made mummy cry with discomfort. What we suspected to be a minor case of food poisoning turned out to be a life-threatening chronic infection that rendered her vital organs lifeless.
In her last couple of days, she started growing paler, and gradually a shade of sunshine yellow. In her two weeks at the hospital, memories of her at home, amid daily chores, teasing, laughing and, at times, grumbling would flash in my head. She was not a hearty, happy-go-lucky person. She was quiet, non-controversial, a great learner and very open-minded. For her age, I thought she was way ahead of her times. Unfortunately, when I was with her, I never realised what I was learning with her by my side. I would also later find out that her demise was a turning point in my life, in a lot of ways.
"Is it hepatitis?" I asked the doctor at the Intensive Care Unit (ICU).
"No," he said before considering, "it’s a case of liver degeneration."
"Liver failure, you mean."
"Ummm, yea. You can say so."
"Is she in a coma"
"Sort of coma. Her brain is not dead, yet."
"How much time does she have?"
"Difficult to say. You should be prepared. Any moment...," he trailed off.
I am not sure if I imagined this but I felt he chocked at those last words. I pursued no further and left.
Good times don't last forever, they say, but you always feel that you'd be spared the rod. That something so terrible could happen to us came as a rude shock.
There was an abominable lull around the waiting area where my family sat. Tears would never stop. Meanwhile, my husband, brother-in-law, and I had become friends with some relatives of other ICU patients in the hospital. If you see pain and death there, you also see love, kindness and prayers.
"How is your mother-in-law?" a petite, 30-something woman asked me, very warmly. I couldn't stop noticing her sense of style. I would later find out her name was Deepa. She and her sister, both impeccably dressed, would be in the hospital every single day.
"She is stable, but not much improvement," I replied, tears clouding my vision. "Sorry, you are here for...?"
"Ah, my dad," she said. "He is just next to your mum. Whenever I go to see my dad I say a silent prayer for her too," Deepa touched my soul with those words.
This was during the initial days of hospitalisation.
In my own worries I had not bothered to look at other patients, their relatives and their sorrows. Over a period of time, I would learn about more people who saw their dear ones swing between life and death. And like me, who saw their loved ones go far away. Very far.
On one occasion, two old women sat next to me sobbing silently. Both were trying to offer strength to the other but tears wouldn't stop. Coming from an economically weak background -- her husband a carpenter and she a housewife -- a big worry was meeting the ballooning treatment costs for her 22-year old son who was struck a full-body paralysis. Fortunately, doctors had shown hopes, and said he would be normal soon. Her heart was sinking. He was her only son.
Another bloke by the name of Ashwin had made the hospital his abode for the last 2-1/2 months. His dad was battling brain hemorrhage. There was gradual improvement during the time we were there.
"The doctors here are great, you don't have to worry," Ashwin told me in the first week of us admitting my mother-in-law. And "even if it takes time, don't lose hope. Taj Mahal took years to build," he had once quipped.
Mummy, as I called her, had a pathetic diet regime and she would often get mad at us for forcing some food down her throat or pushing her out in the open for a leisure walk. She almost, always preferred to be home-bound, and a good way of getting her out was to take her shopping or for a Shah Rukh Khan movie.
When she got angry, we would all look for a place to hide. Sometimes, even the smallest things could bother her but she kept it all in her heart. Like all mums, she was great -- always willing to sacrifice, ever-ready to make that favorite dish that would bring a smile on our faces and sure to compromise in the terrible situations.
To be continued...
In a white and blue checkered gown she lay on a wheel-bed, still. Sporadically, she would gasp for some breathe. At least six intravenous pipes passed through her body and the nose, which was covered by an oxygen mask. A nurse, in a pink blouse and skirt that fell just below her knees and hair neatly tied up in a bun, would be around all through the day and night, noting down her blood pressure and heart rate on a log sheet.
'Patient no-620' was critical, and survival chances grim, so said the doctors. For us, her kith and kin, even the smallest signs of revival was good news -- blood pressure holding well, blood counts improving, brain scan normal and so on. The doctors' pessimism over her chances would dampen our hopes only momentarily!
Just a fortnight ago, patient no. 620 was a normal, smiling, laughing 61-year old mother of two big boys, one of whom is married to me. We were in God's own country, Kerala - the beautiful, lush green south Indian state - on a family holiday. We had a great time gorging on the yummy Keralite food and trying to mimic their accents. We spent our time playing cards against a picturesque backdrop on a houseboat, chatting about all and sundry and later shopping away to glory!
Within days of returning, a terrible, gnawing pain in her abdomen made mummy cry with discomfort. What we suspected to be a minor case of food poisoning turned out to be a life-threatening chronic infection that rendered her vital organs lifeless.
In her last couple of days, she started growing paler, and gradually a shade of sunshine yellow. In her two weeks at the hospital, memories of her at home, amid daily chores, teasing, laughing and, at times, grumbling would flash in my head. She was not a hearty, happy-go-lucky person. She was quiet, non-controversial, a great learner and very open-minded. For her age, I thought she was way ahead of her times. Unfortunately, when I was with her, I never realised what I was learning with her by my side. I would also later find out that her demise was a turning point in my life, in a lot of ways.
"Is it hepatitis?" I asked the doctor at the Intensive Care Unit (ICU).
"No," he said before considering, "it’s a case of liver degeneration."
"Liver failure, you mean."
"Ummm, yea. You can say so."
"Is she in a coma"
"Sort of coma. Her brain is not dead, yet."
"How much time does she have?"
"Difficult to say. You should be prepared. Any moment...," he trailed off.
I am not sure if I imagined this but I felt he chocked at those last words. I pursued no further and left.
Good times don't last forever, they say, but you always feel that you'd be spared the rod. That something so terrible could happen to us came as a rude shock.
There was an abominable lull around the waiting area where my family sat. Tears would never stop. Meanwhile, my husband, brother-in-law, and I had become friends with some relatives of other ICU patients in the hospital. If you see pain and death there, you also see love, kindness and prayers.
"How is your mother-in-law?" a petite, 30-something woman asked me, very warmly. I couldn't stop noticing her sense of style. I would later find out her name was Deepa. She and her sister, both impeccably dressed, would be in the hospital every single day.
"She is stable, but not much improvement," I replied, tears clouding my vision. "Sorry, you are here for...?"
"Ah, my dad," she said. "He is just next to your mum. Whenever I go to see my dad I say a silent prayer for her too," Deepa touched my soul with those words.
This was during the initial days of hospitalisation.
In my own worries I had not bothered to look at other patients, their relatives and their sorrows. Over a period of time, I would learn about more people who saw their dear ones swing between life and death. And like me, who saw their loved ones go far away. Very far.
On one occasion, two old women sat next to me sobbing silently. Both were trying to offer strength to the other but tears wouldn't stop. Coming from an economically weak background -- her husband a carpenter and she a housewife -- a big worry was meeting the ballooning treatment costs for her 22-year old son who was struck a full-body paralysis. Fortunately, doctors had shown hopes, and said he would be normal soon. Her heart was sinking. He was her only son.
Another bloke by the name of Ashwin had made the hospital his abode for the last 2-1/2 months. His dad was battling brain hemorrhage. There was gradual improvement during the time we were there.
"The doctors here are great, you don't have to worry," Ashwin told me in the first week of us admitting my mother-in-law. And "even if it takes time, don't lose hope. Taj Mahal took years to build," he had once quipped.
Mummy, as I called her, had a pathetic diet regime and she would often get mad at us for forcing some food down her throat or pushing her out in the open for a leisure walk. She almost, always preferred to be home-bound, and a good way of getting her out was to take her shopping or for a Shah Rukh Khan movie.
When she got angry, we would all look for a place to hide. Sometimes, even the smallest things could bother her but she kept it all in her heart. Like all mums, she was great -- always willing to sacrifice, ever-ready to make that favorite dish that would bring a smile on our faces and sure to compromise in the terrible situations.
To be continued...
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