Keeping tabs

It has been a while. The memories remain and the dream of keeping them alive through these snippets still thrives, but time. Time is such a monster; you believe the priorities you have in life are what count, until one fine day you forget who you are and what gave you joy in the first place.

Today is my mother’s birthday. I remember the last one we celebrated with her. We baked a cake and took plenty of pictures. I never suspected it would have been her last. I would’ve insisted on a bigger celebration and a better cake. She always claimed she was younger than she was – she remained thirty five for the longest time. I claim to be younger sometimes now, but I don’t think I fool anyone. She, on the other hand, most certainly could. To commemorate this beautiful day, I am going to share one of my most painful memories that blossomed into a lesson well learned. A memory that gives me shame and hurts me to this day. There is no better day to ask for forgiveness and cherish the wonderful teacher my mother was.

I was in a terrible mood that day. My mother was on chemotherapy and we had done at least a dozen trips back and forth for it. I was, at the time, supposed to be studying for my medical licensing exams – but in all honesty, it was not a priority at the time. I remember I was searching our house for a very particular set of highlighter pens - in the pretense of it being an absolute necessity for me to study that morning. I searched for it with my mother. She went upstairs and searched for it - for me. After a while, she came back downstairs and told me she found them upstairs. She went into her room nonchalantly when something in me cracked. To this very day I regret every word that I said. I asked her why she didn’t bring the highlighter pens downstairs if she found them. I proceeded upstairs and grabbed the pens on my desk (where my mom left them after finding them for me) and stomped back downstairs. And then I screamed at my mother, “I do so much for you – I come with you everywhere, I come to all your appointments, all the train rides and waiting rooms; and you couldn’t even bring me my highlighters downstairs?”. That was the end of the conversation. I went back to pretend study and my mom just sat on her bed, silent.

It took me a while to realize how much I hurt her. I asked her why she seemed upset and she said, if we were keeping tabs she would still be on top and that she didn’t bring the highlighters downstairs only because she didn’t realize I really needed them right then. Few among us are unlucky enough to experience moments in our lives that make us feel like the absolute scum of the Earth and wonder if we are monsters – this was one for me.

 My mother took care of everything for me. Even when she was sick, she made sure I was eating, studying and not wasting my time and energy on unimportant things. She made my life function from the day I was conceived till the very end. There was a very long period of time after she was gone that I really wondered if my life could go on, if I was capable of living it with some sense of purpose. Today, for the umpteenth time since I screamed at my mother that day, I apologize. I apologize for being ungrateful, I apologize for never recognizing your sacrifices, I apologize for being a brat, I apologize for never saying Please or Sorry or Thank you because flowery words never meant much to you, I apologize for the audacity of attempting to keep tabs on what you have done for me.

My mother taught me that day, in love there is no keeping tabs. Tabs are for the petty, when the love is not plenty. Happy Birthday Amma – I could never love you as much as you loved me; but I will try until my last breath to keep your love alive. Hope there is a better cake and bigger celebrations where you are.

Being unique

Being different is tough. Questioning social norms is not normal. I am not sure if my mother knowingly instilled confidence in her children or if it was serendipitous – knowing her, it was likely intentional. As we grow older nostalgia kicks in and thinking back on childhood, I can very clearly remember one particular instance when my mother showed us without doubt that being different was being unique. She showed us that being different was to be celebrated – something to be proud of.

I was probably no older than 6 years old. It was “Rainbow Day” in class. Honestly, I don’t even understand what the whole concept was for. Children were expected to come to class dressed in the colors of the rainbow. I remember thinking I would dress in red – I always loved the color red. Red made me happy, but somehow the color never defined me; still does not.

Children share so much time painstakingly explaining their days to parents. Little details about events that happen at school become conversation topics that take hours. And parents… good parents, patient parents, have all the time in the world to listen to these little nothings. My mother was a good parent, an exceptionally patient parent when it came to listening to little nothings. Sometimes I think back and I wish I had kept it up as I grew older. I wish I had not gone into the “You wouldn’t understand” phase. Because she never, not once, gave me any reason to believe she wouldn’t understand. She always understood, she always listened. Her life revolved around my little nothings. My little nothings were as eventful to her as they were to me even when I was barely 6 years old.

So that afternoon, my mother came to know “Rainbow day” was coming up. Having two older children she did not need any explanations – She knew the drill. She told me Indigo was the way to go. I remember I was unsure in the beginning. I wanted to wear Red after all. But she took the time and explained to me how there will be many Reds, Greens, Blues and Purples – but there will be only one Indigo, me. I needed cajoling. I was worried about being different, I was worried how I would explain Indigo, and I was worried I would stick out like a sore thumb in a sea of Reds, Greens, Blues and Purples. My mother told me being different means being special. She showed me being different was something to be proud of. She taught me the true meaning of unique and how sometimes sticking to the social norms is boring. She then went on to show me pictures of my older sisters dressed in Indigo for their Rainbow day and she had me sold. I would be Indigo. I would be different, no… I would be unique!

Rainbow day was fabulous! I still remember coming back home that afternoon and telling her how everybody was intrigued by me; how every child secretly wished they stood out as much as I did; how I felt absolutely special. In the sea of secretly jealous Reds, Greens, Blues and Purples – I stood proud as an Indigo.

I sometimes wonder if I will ever be as smart, patient and intuitive as my mother was. She was wise beyond her time. She would have changed the world if she were given the chance to… Instead she shaped her world, her children, with values and little lessons that make me someone who wants to try to change the world. Some lessons you do not learn in books. This was one among them. Be unique and take pride in being different. Don’t be a Red, Green or Blue if you do not want to; especially if it doesn’t define you.

Thank you Amma for making me an Indigo!

A moment of clarity

It has been too long.

Grief is never overcome by mundane life, it remains a newly formed scab forever. A little bit of picking at it, even if unintentional, sets the blood trickling again.

Sometimes the loneliness that envelopes everything just because of one person missing in your life is overwhelming. A moment of clarity, of purpose, is all that it takes to get one’s life back in order – but the scab remains, waiting to be picked on.

I have never been a very spiritual person. I honestly don’t know what to believe. I equally respect views of spirituality, religion and atheism – no judgement whatsoever. I have, however, been absolutely sure that my mother watches over me. I don’t know how, I just believe. I know the cynics will state that it is my inability to cope with her loss that is making me believe in this. Sometimes I feel like I may be grasping at straws, making something out of absolutely nothing. But that doesn’t stop me from believing.

I recently went through a loss. A loss that I had not prepared for, something I was sure I would not let myself feel ever again. I gave someone the ability to hurt me. Hindsight is always 20/20. But getting through this tough time in my life, I kept asking my mother – why? Why did you let this happen to me? Why can’t you fix everything for me – you have the power to do this… I begged and pleaded to her. But, in the end, what was over was over. It was time to deal with reality.

In the depth of sorrow, the loneliness was drowning me. I felt like everybody had “their person”. I felt my mother left me and now I was all by myself. The interesting thing about depression is that it can engulf you in a world of selfishness. Where nothing else matters other than your feelings of self-pity and hatred at everything even remotely happy. There ceases to be any hope for reprieve and any effort to stop the cycle is too daunting a task to take on. I remember wondering whether my mother was ever depressed. I wondered if she had ever felt pain comparable to what I was feeling. I wondered how she felt about leaving me alone in this big, bad world.

A week back I had a moment of clarity. I am unsure where it came from. I had it in the middle of the day while lazing around. No alcohol involved, no friend’s/family’s words of advice or support. It was nothing short of enlightening. Something made me think of what I want to do in life. Not about work/money/love/future. I started thinking about what I always wanted to do, but kept putting off. What is it that would make me happy as an individual full of hopes and dreams?…

Funnily enough, I realized having a partner in my life was never something that made me happy. I wanted to travel the world, I wanted to run a marathon, I wanted to go skydiving, I want to learn how to drive - finally! Not one of these needed a partner. I never had dreams of a husband and children. I never dreamed of being a doting wife or having a devoted husband. My mother lived her entire life for her family. She devoted her life for her children’s well-being, for their future and their dreams. I was not that person, I did not want to be that person. Not yet.

I have started a new chapter in my life. Where I live my life on my own terms. Where I stop trying so hard to make people love me – because honestly I couldn’t give a damn. A few years from now this might change but for now this is me – thanks to my amazing mother, I am a glorious being. Love and lust are just feelings as a result of hormones, feelings that have evolved to keep the human race reproducing. It is funny how much time and effort we put into this whole fiasco of finding a partner and living with them. Don’t get me wrong, I am not a cynic when it comes to love. I just believe there are things way more significant.

I believe my mother is my guardian angel. She gave me that moment of clarity because no one else I know at this moment in my life could have been so rational. For now, I live for myself – because I am not ready to sacrifice just as yet. I have too many dreams to fulfil before that point comes in my life. I know my mother would have wanted me to be happy. I know she is smiling down on me as I embark on this new journey of life.

Knowing what is good

I have tried writing this so many times and this time I hope I get it right. Pardon the simplicity of this post. The veteran blogger has given me a chance to put my thoughts to paper. Well of course now there is barely any paper to put it on. The world has been getting smaller and time has been moving quicker than ever. Feelings on the web and instant messaging to share the latest gossips. Amidst all this, there have been memories from childhood that are shared. One such memory which kept coming back are those of my school days.

There were girls in class who wore their hair neatly in plaits, girls with short hair which was low maintenance and so easy to manage and then there were some who’d just pull all their hair back into a messy ponytail. Of the lot, there were the ones most would envy, the ones who had pretty hair they would just leave open - for the world to see and admire. I was not very fond of the way my hair was, perhaps because it was not so frequently shampooed and was oilier than I would prefer it to be. But it was always pulled tightly into plaits and only special occasions called for letting down my hair. Better were the days when I would have my hair braided into a French plait - that was so uncommon back in those days; and then I’d finally be the envy of the class. But even on those rare days, I wished I could be one of those carefree ones, letting down my hair or just pulling it back into a ponytail. I have had friends come over and get their hair done by my mother just because she did it so well. Those days had not seen the magnificence of YouTube or any other means for skill or knowledge-sharing. She had learnt to do the French plait from a salon we once went to get our haircut. 

Recipes were only shared when food was shared and enjoyed. Again I was one of the few who enjoyed wholesome lunches during school break as my mother had dedicated her life to the well-being of her three children and a husband with a job that was too demanding. My mother’s idli chutney was popular amongst most, if not all, in my class. I never had a morsel to take back, the lunch box used to be licked clean. And funnily enough, I envied the girls who would rush to the school canteen, a dirham for a mini pizza or samosa and a juice. My mother had learnt the chutney recipe from our Tamilian neighbor whose chutney we loved.

Today I realize all that I had but did not appreciate. I envied the girls whose mothers did not have the time to braid their hair, they had to do it all themselves. I wanted to be one of those girls who had to rush to the canteen and get the small meal before it ran out only because their mothers had to juggle work and home. I envied those girls whose mothers had to balance their time between family and other commitments. I took for granted the mother who dedicated her life to my wellbeing, the woman of many talents left unpolished because she put us much ahead of her own life. She took time to learn what she thought was important for her children. She  even learnt to play Farmville, once popular among many, because her daughter told her it is a really good past time.

Now as a mother myself, I race against an example that was set for me, someone I know I can never match, one so selfless and bountiful. I hate not being able to do a French plait or even brush my hair like she used to. But then that is life. As the wise ones always say, you appreciate what you have only when it is no longer with you.

I know you are out there Amma, and this is me, telling you - I wish I had the chance to convey how much we appreciated you, how much you made us feel special and how much I wish you were here right now. Thank you for never expecting our gratitude in return for all your effort.

Choosing between life and death

We have so much power as doctors, it scares me. Power is sometimes an excuse to misuse responsibility. We see it all around us; with powerful nations and leaders, but have you wondered if you have misused power? Have you ever shunned responsibility and used your power to manipulate? The line between right and wrong is best described as grey. And the grey line morosely crossed more often than thought about. How does one choose death over life? When is it alright to give up?

Being on the other side of the medical system is an awful wake-up call –I wouldn’t wish it on my greatest enemy. Waiting tirelessly for hours on end for the few minutes, sometimes seconds that the white coat can spend with you is frustrating, to put it lightly. We had a system, my mother and I. She used to get her treatment for the day, we used to have a great lunch and then wait. Wait for hours. Wait for our turn. Sometimes I used to ask for favors from doctors I knew to decrease our waiting time. At other times I thought it unfair to rest of the countless waiting patients. In the end it was the same. A couple of precious minutes where we had to scourge our brains to remember every single query we had, lest we forget to ask something vital. And then it was the ride back home going over every word that was spoken. Reiterating every response, weighing in on every pause, imagining probable and at times ridiculous hidden meanings. Were there any unsaid words? Were there any unasked questions? Were there any words of manipulation? Was there blind, unthinking trust?

And then comes the shattering moment when the doctor says it is time to give up. Unforgettable, unforgivable, unimaginably painful. And you wonder why. You wonder if you did not follow every recommendation to the t. You wonder if it was your fault or his. And this is when the power that is misused comes to place. Doctors that give hope when there is none and doctors who take away hope to allot their time to more fruitful ventures.

This post stems from me being on both sides of the system. This post is me confessing to misusing the power more times than I am comfortable with. Giving up and giving hope – I am guilty of both. When is it alright to say choose death over life? Is it really for the white coat to decide? And if it wasn't, would you as a patient ever make the right choice? Is it acceptable suicide for a patient to give up? Is it legal murder for a doctor to give up? Is it foolish to keep fighting?

I think I would fight till the end. But I have never been the one suffering, I have only watched. A spectator up close, but a spectator nonetheless. Sometimes giving up is the braver choice. Sometimes you fight only for the ones you love. Sometimes the white coat’s words are just a way out of suffering - a way out you were hoping and praying for.

The only lesson I have learnt is – weigh your words. When you are wearing that white coat know that people trust you more than you can imagine. All I can do is try my best. And I think from somewhere out there my mother will guide me.

Battle wounds

There are days when it hurts so bad that I wish I could just huddle in a corner and hide from the world. There are days when I just don’t want to wake up to live in a world without her. And on days like these my friends sometimes see through the fake smile and the false enthusiasm. I feel terrible having to explain how it is something as simple as just missing my mother. It breaks my heart even more when they try so hard to say nice things. “She would've been proud of you”, “She is happy wherever she is”, “She would've wanted you to be happy”… I could imagine myself saying these same lines to my friends if they were in my position, but somehow nothing anybody says makes a difference. Nothing. You would think it might; you would think these words are soothing but in reality they are just like applying a tiny band aid to a gaping, grievous wound. The thought behind it is very benevolent but even my grateful self can’t help but mock the futility of the whole exercise.

If there was one thing my mother hated more than any other it was sympathy. She absolutely loathed everything about it. She was one of those proud and self-sufficient women who could have been dying inside but never let anyone know how much she was going through. She hated telling anyone she was sick. We hated telling anyone she was sick because we knew she hated it. Their concern even if genuine was useless to us. My mother never wanted anybody to think she needed their sympathy. She was someone who would try walking up steps even if she could barely stand. She was somebody who would crack jokes even if she could barely speak. She was that person who wanted to be independent even when she knew it was barely possible. And the thought that she couldn't be what she wanted to be, scared me more than anything else. The thought that she was losing in her own eyes frustrated me. Many a times I have cried thinking about the amount of fear she was braving through. I have wondered if she ever broke down when everybody was asleep. Maybe that is why I remained in denial. Maybe that is why I believed everything would be alright. Because she never lost – ever. She was always the one who won at musical chairs against all odds. She was always the one who won the lemon and spoon race on a windy day. She was always the one who remained standing, jubilant. And that was what I thought she would always be. Not just a fighter but a winner.

Maybe she did win in the end. I think she passed on her own terms. Dignity intact, never relying on anyone for too long. She tricked fate before it took away her self-respect. I would have loved to have had a few more days with her, a few more years to share. But she would have never wanted to be anything other than her proud, independent self. And she played the game of life really well. She quit while she was still ahead.

I know this post is more of a rant than any real memory. But this post is important because this is the one where I say I am happy my mother did not suffer too long. I am happy that my selfish wants did not lead her to a life of tubes and lines. I am my mother’s daughter. I don’t expect your sympathy even if it comes from a good heart. I have my dignity and I will hide my sorrows with a smile, because I have learnt from the best.

No band aids, please because in the end you and I know it is just words wasted - nothing you will say will ever change what I am going through or what my mother went through. Nothing anybody said made my mother’s illness go away. Nothing anybody said made her feel like she wasn't fighting her battle by herself. In the end whatever said and done she fought hard by herself, and I am not going to take that glory away from her. 

Nothing anybody says will make this pain go away. So let me be, with my fake smile and false enthusiasm. If you see through it, let me be. My grateful self says to you, my friend: This is my fight and I will survive; I may be bleeding but respect my battle wounds, a band aid isn't going to help.

An advocate of my abilities

I have begun on a new journey in life. For the past two years, statements about my career always ended in a question mark. For the first time in a long while, I feel like I have done something right, something my mother would be proud of.  And every day before I put on my white coat and head out my door, I wish my mother was here. Not for her to pat me on my back, she never was one to praise us within our earshot, but just to let her know I made it and it is because she believed in me.

My mother believed we were capable of things we were absolutely sure we were not. At school we were those children who participated in every competition that could have competitors because she told us to. There were times when I used to feel embarrassed to walk on stage for something I knew I would never win at, but went ahead doing it anyway. I was 13 and my sister was 15 when we were neck deep in extra-curricular activities. Unfortunately for my sister, she was a part of a dance routine at an interschool competition on the same day as an interschool quiz competition. Most parents would have helped their children choose between the two, my mother assured her we could find a way to do both.

As luck would have it, our dance routine got over right on time. But even though my dad tried driving like a maniac through traffic and my mother helped my sister change from her dance costume to our school uniform at the back of our car, we were late. We arrived at the Quiz competition venue and up on stage was my sister’s substitute representing our school. My sister and I were disappointed. We huddled together towards the back of the audience sharing her misery. My mother talked to our Quiz teacher and she affirmed our fear – it was just too late, and the teacher really didn’t care enough to stand up for my sister. My mother was not one to give up. The Quiz master was still just explaining the rules. She walked right up to the stage and in her broken English she explained to the quiz master that her daughter was here and that she was the primary candidate for the school. She explained like only a mother who believed in her daughter’s capabilities could, that her daughter deserved to be a part of that competition. I remember wanting for the floor to open up and swallow me because of the unwanted attention we were getting. Everyone in the audience wanted to know what was going on. Our quiz teacher didn’t utter a word, she didn’t even stand up from where she sat. The quiz master told my sister to come up on stage and that she could participate but he wouldn’t repeat the rules of the competition. I was in awe.

My sister won the competition. The Quiz teacher and my sister were congratulated by many in the audience. I stood right next to her basking in the attention of being a proud sister. The quiz master walked up to us right before he left and said “Congratulations. You did great. But remember this win is as much your mother’s as is yours. You should be a really proud daughter.”

All the while when we were driving back to the Dance competition venue I kept thinking about the Quiz master’s words. Be a proud daughter. We won for the dance routine that day. It was a good day. It was a good day because my mother made two right decisions. She knew she didn’t have to choose - we were capable of winning at both and she made the decision to fight for her daughter.

Repeating the words I have already blogged which one of my friends wrote about my mother:

“… My mother always believed that your mother was one of the wisest people that she has interacted with in her life. She would sometimes tell me - "Do you know why they do so well? It’s only partially because of their own caliber, but it's mostly because of Sujatha's strength as a person"….”

I don’t know if you knew all along, Amma. I don’t know if you had doubts about me being able to make it or not. But I believe you didn’t. I think you believed in me more than I believed in myself. And I think you did put up a fight for me with the Big Guy up there.

I am a proud daughter of a mother who will always remain my best advocate because she believes I can do it, even when I don’t.