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.