An unusual mail popped into my inbox today. It seemed like spam at first glance, and I almost hit the 'delete' button, before I took a second look. 'Anybody home' it asked in the subject line. I opened it to see a one-line mail in blue in the the typical Helvetica font that spammer's seem to adore.
This message is to determine if the email address is correct and will contact my grandson Josh?????
I could just picture it: grandpappy William sitting in front of his newly installed desktop, peering at the crumpled note of paper where Josh had hastily scribbled his email address. Perhaps he had just set up his first email account and was trying to contact all members in his family. Maybe he'd even sent out a couple of mails to Josh only to have them bounce back. And so the 'message to determine...'
It seemed sweet that a grandfather would attempt to contact his grandson by mail. I wondered what it would be like to receive an email from my grandfather. Not that I would, of course, considering he'd passed on when I was 13, but even if he were alive, I doubt he'd have gotten interested in email.
There are few things I remember about my grandfather, and they are mostly the quirks. Like the snuff box he always carried around, from which he pulled out tiny amounts of brown snuff which he tucked into his nostrils. It would result in thunderous sneezes which shook the room, and made his thick bushy hair stand on end. A bit like Einstein.
My granddad wasn't big on conversation. I remember him standing at the living room window, looking out at traffic on the busy Eastern Express Highway for hours on end. Or he'd sit on the black sofa lost in thought, his eyes hidden behind blurry spectacles, while his feet shuffled involuntarily. The only time he got really animated was while watching cricket on TV. If the cricketers ever heard the insults and abuse heaped on them, they would turn red with shame, and would probably rush to seek out alternative careers.
But one thing I'll always remember my grandfather for is the greeting cards. They always arrived early; the harbinger of birthdays and festive occasions. The writing on the envelope was unmistakable, a beautiful, unusual handwriting. And the cards always felt like they were specially created only for you. Where the printed wishes ended, my grandfather would continue with his personal missive. The entire blank space in the card would be filled with his wishes, counsel and blessings. And right at the bottom, he'd sign off with the date. Sealing off a moment in time. Even now, when I browse through the cards, I can recall the moment of receiving them. And relive the feelings of being an 8-year-old (with a birthday party to look forward to).
So yes, I doubt my grandfather would have embraced email communication. And I doubt I would have enjoyed receiving a mail from him without his trademark handwriting. And without the faint scent of snuff.
Showing posts with label Family ties. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Family ties. Show all posts
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Remembrance
It was a minute after midnight. The Cuban band took a break from the rousing samba numbers to play the familiar birthday melody. The crowd joined in singing and clapping, not knowing who was being wished. It seemed the perfect moment to whisper a wish for her too, and imagine her celebrating in some celestial hangout with newfound friends, and dancing uninhibitedly into the wee hours of the morning, the way she always loved to. She would have been 35 today.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Seven
I picked it up on a lark. It was so kitschy, so flimsy, I thought you’d get a laugh out of it.
But I was wrong. You loved it. I could tell from your voice that you were giddy with delight. They told me you couldn’t wait to come home and get your hands on it. And once you did, you didn’t put it down for the whole weekend. Maybe you even dreamed of it at night. For someone with a short attention span, that sure counts for something.
Perhaps, if I were six and I’d been gifted a glittery tiara with fake diamantes along with a shiny, star-tipped wand, I’d have been the same. Every little girl dreams of being a princess. And given the right embellishments, namely a tiara and a wand, the gulf between the dream world and humdrum reality is finally bridged. This ‘Middle Earth’ is a lot more exciting and believable, and best of all, is free of boring, unimaginative adults.
I’m told you went around waving the wand and making wishes. I still smile when I think of the urgent ISD call only to ask me for the ‘code which unlocked the wand’. I was stumped and mumbled something about whatever magic word you use that’s the code. Your snorted at that and querulously told me that I shouldn’t keep secrets from you. You weren’t going to buy a politically correct answer for sure. My next, equally unimaginative answer - Abracadabra – you dismissed as ineffective. D-uh, I almost heard you say.
I must have thrown in a few more options, but in a moment you forgot about that, and went on to tell me that the wand Really Worked. Yes, you said with conviction, I pointed it at the TV and it came on, and I also pointed it at the fan and the fan started moving. I found myself cheering along with you, ignoring the muffled laughter I heard in the background. Of course, it works, I said. It is a magic wand.
What's magic, anyway, if not a dream coming true. And don't all dreams start with a desire, a thought. There you have it. That's the 'code', the magic phrase.
So, as you turn SEVEN today, along with all the cutesy wishes, I wish you the power and possibility of magic. Don't ever stop believing...
Earlier posts: Five & Six
But I was wrong. You loved it. I could tell from your voice that you were giddy with delight. They told me you couldn’t wait to come home and get your hands on it. And once you did, you didn’t put it down for the whole weekend. Maybe you even dreamed of it at night. For someone with a short attention span, that sure counts for something.
Perhaps, if I were six and I’d been gifted a glittery tiara with fake diamantes along with a shiny, star-tipped wand, I’d have been the same. Every little girl dreams of being a princess. And given the right embellishments, namely a tiara and a wand, the gulf between the dream world and humdrum reality is finally bridged. This ‘Middle Earth’ is a lot more exciting and believable, and best of all, is free of boring, unimaginative adults.
I’m told you went around waving the wand and making wishes. I still smile when I think of the urgent ISD call only to ask me for the ‘code which unlocked the wand’. I was stumped and mumbled something about whatever magic word you use that’s the code. Your snorted at that and querulously told me that I shouldn’t keep secrets from you. You weren’t going to buy a politically correct answer for sure. My next, equally unimaginative answer - Abracadabra – you dismissed as ineffective. D-uh, I almost heard you say.
I must have thrown in a few more options, but in a moment you forgot about that, and went on to tell me that the wand Really Worked. Yes, you said with conviction, I pointed it at the TV and it came on, and I also pointed it at the fan and the fan started moving. I found myself cheering along with you, ignoring the muffled laughter I heard in the background. Of course, it works, I said. It is a magic wand.
What's magic, anyway, if not a dream coming true. And don't all dreams start with a desire, a thought. There you have it. That's the 'code', the magic phrase.
So, as you turn SEVEN today, along with all the cutesy wishes, I wish you the power and possibility of magic. Don't ever stop believing...
Earlier posts: Five & Six
Saturday, August 19, 2006
Six
The early years are a bit fuzzy, but the one memory that stands out clearly is of the day I turned six. I even remember the frock I wore to school. It wasn’t pink or yellow or anything else cutesy. It was beige with a criss-cross pattern in front, and it ended just a little above my scarred knees. It also had two roses embroidered on the lapel, and I couldn’t stop running my fingers over its knotted texture. I remember the day so well because I was the only one in beige in a sea of blue uniforms. I was also the only one with a plastic bag bursting with toffees. “Two for each girl” – mum had counted.
I waited impatiently for the class just before the recess. That’s when the teacher, Miss Pushpa, closed the book, looked straight at me and called me to the front of the class. I acted coy, just like the other girls who’d gone through this routine on their birthdays, but in effect, I simply lapped up all the attention, even took my time getting to the front of the class. That’s a Leo for you. But then, you would know that.
I grinned from ear to ear, not knowing where to look, while the class went through the birthday chorus. When the applause had subsided, I sashayed through the rows handing out two toffees to the girls, and holding out the bag to the teacher, so she could take as many as she wanted. Which was usually one. And then, as girls before me had done, I pulled out a fistful and pushed it into her hand while she protested initially, and then, accepted with a sigh. The dozen or so toffees left were reduced to wrappers by the time the school bus reached our lane.
I cannot remember any other birthday in school, except for this one. Maybe it was because it was my first year in school, just like it is yours. I’ve been trying to imagine what your day will be like. Will your classmates make you feel special? Will you be carrying a bag full of sweets? Will you be overrun with gifts this year, like every year?
Speaking of which, I bought your gift before you expressed your desire for ‘something with a remote control’. I was wondering if you meant a TV, when you clarified that it was a car. Were you serious? A car? You never fail to surprise me.
This would be the second year that I’m not around to wish you on your birthday. But you can be sure, I will be celebrating with you every moment. Happy Birthday dearest Alison.
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I waited impatiently for the class just before the recess. That’s when the teacher, Miss Pushpa, closed the book, looked straight at me and called me to the front of the class. I acted coy, just like the other girls who’d gone through this routine on their birthdays, but in effect, I simply lapped up all the attention, even took my time getting to the front of the class. That’s a Leo for you. But then, you would know that.
I grinned from ear to ear, not knowing where to look, while the class went through the birthday chorus. When the applause had subsided, I sashayed through the rows handing out two toffees to the girls, and holding out the bag to the teacher, so she could take as many as she wanted. Which was usually one. And then, as girls before me had done, I pulled out a fistful and pushed it into her hand while she protested initially, and then, accepted with a sigh. The dozen or so toffees left were reduced to wrappers by the time the school bus reached our lane.
I cannot remember any other birthday in school, except for this one. Maybe it was because it was my first year in school, just like it is yours. I’ve been trying to imagine what your day will be like. Will your classmates make you feel special? Will you be carrying a bag full of sweets? Will you be overrun with gifts this year, like every year?
Speaking of which, I bought your gift before you expressed your desire for ‘something with a remote control’. I was wondering if you meant a TV, when you clarified that it was a car. Were you serious? A car? You never fail to surprise me.
This would be the second year that I’m not around to wish you on your birthday. But you can be sure, I will be celebrating with you every moment. Happy Birthday dearest Alison.
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Friday, August 19, 2005
Five
I still remember the colour of your cheeks on the day you were born. Not translucent white, not baby pink - but a spectacular crimson. Two bright red blotches on either side of your tiny, twitching nose. It almost seemed painted on; like some nurse in the back room had decided to prettify you before presenting you to the public. Will her cheeks always be like this, I asked my mum softly. You’d save a packet on make-up if that were the case. No, my mum shushed, some newborns have that colour; it will fade in a couple of days. I was relieved, but I must add, those cherry-red cheeks were so inviting...
Your first birthday called for a big celebration. Your mother told me, “You’ve got to be the ‘Mistress of Ceremonies’ and conduct the games.” Didn’t she know how uncomfortable I was in crowds? But it was you, and her… how could I refuse? I was awkward, and affected; but I got through the afternoon. You looked adorable in your frilly dress. Your hair had finally begun to grow and there were soft tendrils around your ears. One memory stands out: your mother was trying to maneuver you, and the cake knife, with the same hand. For a few anxious moments, I thought she would slice the wrong goodie. But you escaped unscathed and went on to…
… your second birthday. I had just returned from a trip abroad, and you were so excited about the booty I’d got you, although it would be a while before you could actually use some of it. Pencils with your name inscribed on them, magnets, a magenta dinosaur which I insisted you call ‘Capuccino’, just so I’d enjoy your efforts to pronounce it. (Remember the doll, 'Enchilada'.) You were so excited, you kept repeating my name over and over again because you didn't know too many other words to express your delight. We dressed you in a ghagra-choli that your mother and I got you after much searching. I even got a fancy matching bindi. How you preened! You clearly were in control, even though the four other children were much older than you. What a clamor we made with the ‘Simple Simon’ game. The children didn’t want to leave.
It was a struggle to hold up three fingers the next year. It took a few moments of intense concentration, and with the fingers of one hand helping the other, you succeeded in telling us how old you were. It was a low-key birthday; just close family. I remember allowing you to take pictures with my camera, because I’d come across an article in the papers of a 3-year old who’d just held his first photo exhibition. For some reason, I thought I might discover a similar spark of talent in you. I was proved wrong when I developed the roll: you’d cut off our heads. But then, when it came to you, we’d lost our heads long ago.
I promised you four gifts on your fourth birthday. My mother wanted to know if I would keep up the gifts-corresponding-to-age for life. I knew about your notorious attention span, so I was insured against any magnanimous promises I made. Among the books and colours was the ‘magu-fine glass’. You’d been so fascinated by the one we had at home – the way the world suddenly seemed larger through it. When my mother asked what you were doing with a magnifying glass, you knowledgably corrected her, ‘It’s a magu-fine glass.’ And that was that. From then on, we only knew it as the magu-fine glass.
The much-wanted Barbie, along with her wardrobe, is on the way this year. I had fun shopping for it at the toy store. The array that passes for ‘kidstuff’ is quite simply amazing. A feather boa? An 8-foot doll? Barbie string bikinis? For a few minutes, your tickled aunt and grand-aunt could have passed off as your classmates. But that’s it. There will be no first-hand memories of the party this year. I know I will hear all the details, and will piece them together to imagine your day. It’s been a hard year for you, and I know everyone will pull all the stops to make it a memorable day. I’m only sorry that I cannot be there. Sorry for myself, that I won’t be a part of the memories. But enough about me, this is your day to celebrate. So without any more ado…
Happy Birthday to the sweetest niece and, of course, ‘bess friend’.
Your first birthday called for a big celebration. Your mother told me, “You’ve got to be the ‘Mistress of Ceremonies’ and conduct the games.” Didn’t she know how uncomfortable I was in crowds? But it was you, and her… how could I refuse? I was awkward, and affected; but I got through the afternoon. You looked adorable in your frilly dress. Your hair had finally begun to grow and there were soft tendrils around your ears. One memory stands out: your mother was trying to maneuver you, and the cake knife, with the same hand. For a few anxious moments, I thought she would slice the wrong goodie. But you escaped unscathed and went on to…
… your second birthday. I had just returned from a trip abroad, and you were so excited about the booty I’d got you, although it would be a while before you could actually use some of it. Pencils with your name inscribed on them, magnets, a magenta dinosaur which I insisted you call ‘Capuccino’, just so I’d enjoy your efforts to pronounce it. (Remember the doll, 'Enchilada'.) You were so excited, you kept repeating my name over and over again because you didn't know too many other words to express your delight. We dressed you in a ghagra-choli that your mother and I got you after much searching. I even got a fancy matching bindi. How you preened! You clearly were in control, even though the four other children were much older than you. What a clamor we made with the ‘Simple Simon’ game. The children didn’t want to leave.
It was a struggle to hold up three fingers the next year. It took a few moments of intense concentration, and with the fingers of one hand helping the other, you succeeded in telling us how old you were. It was a low-key birthday; just close family. I remember allowing you to take pictures with my camera, because I’d come across an article in the papers of a 3-year old who’d just held his first photo exhibition. For some reason, I thought I might discover a similar spark of talent in you. I was proved wrong when I developed the roll: you’d cut off our heads. But then, when it came to you, we’d lost our heads long ago.
I promised you four gifts on your fourth birthday. My mother wanted to know if I would keep up the gifts-corresponding-to-age for life. I knew about your notorious attention span, so I was insured against any magnanimous promises I made. Among the books and colours was the ‘magu-fine glass’. You’d been so fascinated by the one we had at home – the way the world suddenly seemed larger through it. When my mother asked what you were doing with a magnifying glass, you knowledgably corrected her, ‘It’s a magu-fine glass.’ And that was that. From then on, we only knew it as the magu-fine glass.
The much-wanted Barbie, along with her wardrobe, is on the way this year. I had fun shopping for it at the toy store. The array that passes for ‘kidstuff’ is quite simply amazing. A feather boa? An 8-foot doll? Barbie string bikinis? For a few minutes, your tickled aunt and grand-aunt could have passed off as your classmates. But that’s it. There will be no first-hand memories of the party this year. I know I will hear all the details, and will piece them together to imagine your day. It’s been a hard year for you, and I know everyone will pull all the stops to make it a memorable day. I’m only sorry that I cannot be there. Sorry for myself, that I won’t be a part of the memories. But enough about me, this is your day to celebrate. So without any more ado…
Happy Birthday to the sweetest niece and, of course, ‘bess friend’.
Sunday, June 12, 2005
Life after Preeti
There’s something remarkable about condolences. People come to share your pain, to commiserate, to listen to you. And invariably, sometimes without realising it, they start talking about their own brush with grief and loss. Suddenly, your own tragedy isn’t the biggest in the world. Pain, you realise, is omnipresent, tucked away behind smiles, soft sighs and the occasional bitter word. Sometimes, your own load almost seems a flyweight as compared to someone else’s. The galling unfairness becomes easier to accept; likewise, the grief. You observe the dignity and detachment with which they accept their crosses. And rather than wallow in sadness, you begin to take your first steps away from it. There's truly something remarkable about condolences.
***
A few months ago, I had posted about a fire at my workplace and the prospect of ‘losing everything’. At that time I wrote,
“The reality and inevitability of loss never hit me harder.”
I mentioned how a man’s acceptance of losing his entire family to the tsunami disturbed me more than the images of devastation.
At that time, I could not fathom his grief, nor how he and others would cope. Now I can. Anicca, (or impermanence) as I experienced it in Vipassana last year, has a much deeper meaning. As the old man said, the cycle of life trundles on.
****
P.S. Thank you all who've kept us in your thoughts and prayers. Thanks for your lovely messages and for being with us through this time. We truly appreciate it.
***
A few months ago, I had posted about a fire at my workplace and the prospect of ‘losing everything’. At that time I wrote,
“The reality and inevitability of loss never hit me harder.”
I mentioned how a man’s acceptance of losing his entire family to the tsunami disturbed me more than the images of devastation.
“Everything included three children and all seven grandchildren. He spoke in a sad yet calm voice… ‘The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. It is the cycle of life.’”
At that time, I could not fathom his grief, nor how he and others would cope. Now I can. Anicca, (or impermanence) as I experienced it in Vipassana last year, has a much deeper meaning. As the old man said, the cycle of life trundles on.
****
P.S. Thank you all who've kept us in your thoughts and prayers. Thanks for your lovely messages and for being with us through this time. We truly appreciate it.
Friday, May 27, 2005
Farewell, Preeti
Preeti’s struggle came to an end yesterday morning. With odds as great as the ones she faced, she still held her own for 57 days. We believed that she had turned the corner. We hoped that she would come through; we hoped that her struggle wouldn’t be in vain.
But hope is no match for fear and prejudice and the uncertainty of waiting.
A crisis doesn’t necessarily bring people together. And try as you might, you cannot make people see what they don’t want to see or what they’re afraid to see.
We did our best for Preeti, but doing your best doesn’t mean you will get the results you want. Our little consolation is that we never had to ‘make a decision’ for Preeti. She chose her own moment of passing on.
Someday we will accept the unfairness of it. Someday we’ll see the perfection in this.
Until then we will accept that this is what is best for Preeti.
Rest in peace, Preeti. We love you.
Thursday, May 19, 2005
The ties that bind… and choke
“We’re praying, there will be a miracle,” I’m told, each day, by relatives, friends, well wishers, even the lift operator in the hospital.
I smile at them gratefully, not wanting to contradict them. The truth is we’re witnessing miracles each moment, each day. We’ve lost count of the ‘magic moments’ we’ve experienced in the last 49 days.
* Countless people writing in to say they’re praying fervently - for a girl they’ve never even met.
* Family and friends rallying around with financial assistance.
* Superlative doctors, nurses and hospital staff, who’ve taken to Preeti like their own.
* Preeti’s awesome defiance of all predictions, diagnoses and statistics.
And in the middle of it all, there’s one more miracle which still has me blinking in disbelief – the ‘blog’ has entered my family vocabulary!
Circa 2003: sample conversation
“Leela!! Unplug yourself from that blessed computer!!!”
“Leela!! What ARE you writing? Block?? What’s a block??
May 2005: sample conversation
“Leela!! When are you going to update your blog?”
“Leave her alone, she’s writing her blog.”
At first I read out each comment on the Preeti posts to all at home. Now, I don’t need to. My blog is checked; each comment is read and marvelled at. “Such wonderful people, these bloggers!”
My blog has been shared with the extended family as well. And from there, it has found its way into yahoo groups, mailboxes and newsletters. I was pleasantly surprised to receive a mail from someone in Pakistan who said he and his family were praying for Preeti.
The spike in traffic has Spaceman Spiff working overtime to ensure that it doesn’t blow a hole through his precious programming.
I can’t help marvelling at the unlikely blog evangelism. My aunt, a school teacher has only recently acquired a computer and is still familiarising herself with MS Word. That hasn’t stopped her from reeling off the blog url to the Principal of her school. My mum cheerfully shares my blog with anyone who cares to listen and has recently discovered the thrill of commenting. Better still, of receiving replies to comments.
A couple of days ago, my mum called up an elderly pastor who runs a prayer group. In between the discussions about Preeti, my mum couldn’t help bringing up her favourite topic…
Mum: Did you know my other daughter has a blog?
Elderly pastor: A block?? Oh dear. Not to worry, we’ll pray for her too…
A special welcome to the family in Dubai, Toronto, Calgary, Mumbai and Delhi… this one’s for you
I smile at them gratefully, not wanting to contradict them. The truth is we’re witnessing miracles each moment, each day. We’ve lost count of the ‘magic moments’ we’ve experienced in the last 49 days.
* Countless people writing in to say they’re praying fervently - for a girl they’ve never even met.
* Family and friends rallying around with financial assistance.
* Superlative doctors, nurses and hospital staff, who’ve taken to Preeti like their own.
* Preeti’s awesome defiance of all predictions, diagnoses and statistics.
And in the middle of it all, there’s one more miracle which still has me blinking in disbelief – the ‘blog’ has entered my family vocabulary!
Circa 2003: sample conversation
“Leela!! Unplug yourself from that blessed computer!!!”
“Leela!! What ARE you writing? Block?? What’s a block??
May 2005: sample conversation
“Leela!! When are you going to update your blog?”
“Leave her alone, she’s writing her blog.”
At first I read out each comment on the Preeti posts to all at home. Now, I don’t need to. My blog is checked; each comment is read and marvelled at. “Such wonderful people, these bloggers!”
My blog has been shared with the extended family as well. And from there, it has found its way into yahoo groups, mailboxes and newsletters. I was pleasantly surprised to receive a mail from someone in Pakistan who said he and his family were praying for Preeti.
The spike in traffic has Spaceman Spiff working overtime to ensure that it doesn’t blow a hole through his precious programming.
I can’t help marvelling at the unlikely blog evangelism. My aunt, a school teacher has only recently acquired a computer and is still familiarising herself with MS Word. That hasn’t stopped her from reeling off the blog url to the Principal of her school. My mum cheerfully shares my blog with anyone who cares to listen and has recently discovered the thrill of commenting. Better still, of receiving replies to comments.
A couple of days ago, my mum called up an elderly pastor who runs a prayer group. In between the discussions about Preeti, my mum couldn’t help bringing up her favourite topic…
Mum: Did you know my other daughter has a blog?
Elderly pastor: A block?? Oh dear. Not to worry, we’ll pray for her too…
A special welcome to the family in Dubai, Toronto, Calgary, Mumbai and Delhi… this one’s for you
50 days later...
In my last update, I shared that Preeti was out of ICU. But even before we could start breathing easy, we had a ‘situation’. Preeti BP & heart rate shot up and she stopped breathing. She had to be rushed back to the ICU. The doctors sounded grim, “It could be a sign of further brain damage.”
Oblivious to these predictions, Preeti stabilised in the ICU. As if to prove the trip to the ICU was nothing more than a whim. Three days later, we were back in the room; better than before.
Now, her head moves slightly, she reacts sharply when we massage her still swollen ankles. And her toes twitch when we tickle her soles. (Pleomorphous, tickle stimuli works for adults as well…) But the most promising sign has been the eye contact. We hold up a picture of Alison and move it from one side of her visual field to the other. Her eyes follow every movement of the picture. “This is definitely not an involuntary movement,” says Dr. Thomas, amazed.
We eagerly look forward to more.
Oblivious to these predictions, Preeti stabilised in the ICU. As if to prove the trip to the ICU was nothing more than a whim. Three days later, we were back in the room; better than before.
Now, her head moves slightly, she reacts sharply when we massage her still swollen ankles. And her toes twitch when we tickle her soles. (Pleomorphous, tickle stimuli works for adults as well…) But the most promising sign has been the eye contact. We hold up a picture of Alison and move it from one side of her visual field to the other. Her eyes follow every movement of the picture. “This is definitely not an involuntary movement,” says Dr. Thomas, amazed.
We eagerly look forward to more.
Sunday, May 08, 2005
Reality Checked
She sits hunched in the wheelchair at one end of the hospital corridor. The attendant stands in front of her, not looking at her, not even when she gets a coughing spasm. Her thin frame heaves uncontrollably and her hacking cough echoes down the corridor. The spasm subsides and she noisily draws up the thick phlegm to the back of her throat. The silent corridor magnifies every sound. Although her back is towards me, I can tell her mouth is full of phlegm and that she’s readying to spit it out. Where, I wonder, horrified and fascinated? She pulls out a metal tiffin from a plastic bag on her lap, opens it, and forcefully expels the contents of her mouth into it. I look away before my eyes fall on the contents of the tiffin. The tiffin clangs shut and is pushed back into the plastic bag. The attendant stares ahead fixedly. A few minutes later she’s wheeled past me, down the corridor, and I see her wan, lined face, with tired eyes. I smile tentatively. She regards me suspiciously as she’s wheeled away, her hands still clutching the tiffin box.
The sounds and images of that encounter in the hospital two days ago keep coming back to me. In the last five weeks, I’ve encountered a certain kind of reality relentlessly. I’ve come up close and personal with mortality. I’ve even lain awake some nights speculating what keeps me alive, when, at any given moment, so many things can go wrong. I cannot even think about the old woman with the tiffin and say, ‘There, but for the grace of God, go I,’ without wondering, with some trepidation, what’s in store for me.
Have I become a pessimist? Or am I finally accepting reality? I once told a friend that I had no fear of dying, just an ardent curiosity. I hadn’t factored in the process, I now realise. There’s a certain indignity about sickness; a vulnerability and abasement. Lying prone on a hospital bed, strung up with wires, tubes and needles, with strangers poking and prodding you, can prove helpful in divesting you of your ego; of your notions of invincibility.
As I do my turn outside the ICU, I scan the faces of those who’re brought in on wheelchairs and gurneys. How do they deal with the mortification wrought by illness? I recognise those who come in for their bi-weekly dialysis by their spindly legs and bloated abdomens. For some, it’s a well established routine; there’s a look of silent resignation and acceptance as they’re wheeled in to the Dialysis Room. Some bow low hand on their heart or touch their fingers to their forehead as they’re wheeled past the Prayer Room, adjacent to the Operation Theatre.
One elderly gentleman would regularly enquire about Preeti before entering the Dialysis Room. And then he’d say, ‘When they put those two big needles into my hand, I’ll offer it up for your sister.’ It struck me later that it was his way of transcending the indignity of suffering. By thinking of someone worse off than himself in his moment of agony, he’d cocked a snook at infirmity. And the more I looked, the more I began to see the quintessential human spirit triumphing over the human body.
One woman, also on ICU duty, was full of suggestions of what we could do for Preeti. She insisted I try Crystal Healing therapy, and offered to set up an appointment with a healer. She was adamant that we sue the the family doctor who had misdiagnosed Preeti. She also offered to read Preeti’s horoscope, although she admitted that she’d given up the practise. A little later I learned her daughter was in the ICU with renal failure; the third time in as many months. The girl’s hospitalisation had resulted in a broken engagement. She also told me that her husband had Parkinson’s disease and was in a nursing home. The irony of her healing and soothsaying suggestions was unmistakable, but her desire to reach out was palpable.
Another unforgettable image was that of an elderly couple who came to the Dialysis Room each week. The old man wheeled his wife in and waited outside on the uncomfortable chairs for four hours while she underwent dialysis. When she came out, her face contorted with pain and fatigue, and with the catheter sticking out of her neck, he unfolded her dupatta, drew it over her neck and shoulders, and bent down to tie her shoes. He then held her hand while the attendant wheeled her to the elevator.
The hospital isn’t quite the forbidding, depressing place I once thought it to be. It seems to bring out the best nature of so many people.
There are light-hearted moments as well. On one occasion, I was padding around barefoot in the ICU with the medicine tray, when the doctor glanced at me, and began making small talk. Suddenly, she asked, “Which standard are you in?” Now, I’ve been asked ‘Which college?’ before, but not in such incongruous surroundings. Besides, ‘standard’ reduced me to a schoolgirl, which isn’t quite as flattering. Worse still, the doctor looked like a teen herself, and had it not been for the stethoscope, I would have pegged her for an earnest accountant type. Still, indignation expressed, I tiptoed out of the ICU feeling more than a little chipper.
A couple of weeks ago doctors recommended that we talk aloud to Preeti, reassure her of our presence, play her music etc. in the hope that something might trigger off an awakening. We began telling her about how we believed in her, about the prayers and good wishes of all the people, about how her vital signs were improving. One visitor taking the cue from us began telling her, “Yes, Preeti, you are doing really well. Your vital statistics are improving…." I couldn’t keep a straight face for a long time.
Someday I hope Preeti will laugh at this too.
**********
As of today, Preeti’s condition has been deemed stable and she’s been moved out of the ICU to a private room, where she’s being monitored around the clock. She’s still in a coma, but there are minuscule responses. She opens her eyes intermittently but it’s a vacant, unfocussed stare. Her mouth moves occasionally and yesterday I caught her yawning. She responds to pain stimuli (which doctors and nurses demonstrate by pinching her with remarkable alacrity. We hope for more than one reason that she begins moving her limbs soon.)
I began writing about Preeti, three weeks ago, as a catharsis of sorts. I also hoped that a few prayers and good wishes would come her way. To say, I’m overwhelmed with your response, would be an understatement. A heartfelt THANK YOU to all of you who’ve left comments, shared your experience, written to offer support, and all of you who’ve spread the prayer request through your blogs:
Pallavi, Smiley, Uma Mahadevan-Dasgupta, Parmanu, Moonie, Swetlana Sweety, Skunkstink, Neelima, Poonam, Rhyncus Kahini, Rash, Down to Earth, Mad Club, Hirdu, Drum Bum, Twilight Fairy and Alpha
(I hope I haven’t left out anyone. Write to me - dotdotdot@gmail.com)
The sounds and images of that encounter in the hospital two days ago keep coming back to me. In the last five weeks, I’ve encountered a certain kind of reality relentlessly. I’ve come up close and personal with mortality. I’ve even lain awake some nights speculating what keeps me alive, when, at any given moment, so many things can go wrong. I cannot even think about the old woman with the tiffin and say, ‘There, but for the grace of God, go I,’ without wondering, with some trepidation, what’s in store for me.
Have I become a pessimist? Or am I finally accepting reality? I once told a friend that I had no fear of dying, just an ardent curiosity. I hadn’t factored in the process, I now realise. There’s a certain indignity about sickness; a vulnerability and abasement. Lying prone on a hospital bed, strung up with wires, tubes and needles, with strangers poking and prodding you, can prove helpful in divesting you of your ego; of your notions of invincibility.
As I do my turn outside the ICU, I scan the faces of those who’re brought in on wheelchairs and gurneys. How do they deal with the mortification wrought by illness? I recognise those who come in for their bi-weekly dialysis by their spindly legs and bloated abdomens. For some, it’s a well established routine; there’s a look of silent resignation and acceptance as they’re wheeled in to the Dialysis Room. Some bow low hand on their heart or touch their fingers to their forehead as they’re wheeled past the Prayer Room, adjacent to the Operation Theatre.
One elderly gentleman would regularly enquire about Preeti before entering the Dialysis Room. And then he’d say, ‘When they put those two big needles into my hand, I’ll offer it up for your sister.’ It struck me later that it was his way of transcending the indignity of suffering. By thinking of someone worse off than himself in his moment of agony, he’d cocked a snook at infirmity. And the more I looked, the more I began to see the quintessential human spirit triumphing over the human body.
One woman, also on ICU duty, was full of suggestions of what we could do for Preeti. She insisted I try Crystal Healing therapy, and offered to set up an appointment with a healer. She was adamant that we sue the the family doctor who had misdiagnosed Preeti. She also offered to read Preeti’s horoscope, although she admitted that she’d given up the practise. A little later I learned her daughter was in the ICU with renal failure; the third time in as many months. The girl’s hospitalisation had resulted in a broken engagement. She also told me that her husband had Parkinson’s disease and was in a nursing home. The irony of her healing and soothsaying suggestions was unmistakable, but her desire to reach out was palpable.
Another unforgettable image was that of an elderly couple who came to the Dialysis Room each week. The old man wheeled his wife in and waited outside on the uncomfortable chairs for four hours while she underwent dialysis. When she came out, her face contorted with pain and fatigue, and with the catheter sticking out of her neck, he unfolded her dupatta, drew it over her neck and shoulders, and bent down to tie her shoes. He then held her hand while the attendant wheeled her to the elevator.
The hospital isn’t quite the forbidding, depressing place I once thought it to be. It seems to bring out the best nature of so many people.
There are light-hearted moments as well. On one occasion, I was padding around barefoot in the ICU with the medicine tray, when the doctor glanced at me, and began making small talk. Suddenly, she asked, “Which standard are you in?” Now, I’ve been asked ‘Which college?’ before, but not in such incongruous surroundings. Besides, ‘standard’ reduced me to a schoolgirl, which isn’t quite as flattering. Worse still, the doctor looked like a teen herself, and had it not been for the stethoscope, I would have pegged her for an earnest accountant type. Still, indignation expressed, I tiptoed out of the ICU feeling more than a little chipper.
A couple of weeks ago doctors recommended that we talk aloud to Preeti, reassure her of our presence, play her music etc. in the hope that something might trigger off an awakening. We began telling her about how we believed in her, about the prayers and good wishes of all the people, about how her vital signs were improving. One visitor taking the cue from us began telling her, “Yes, Preeti, you are doing really well. Your vital statistics are improving…." I couldn’t keep a straight face for a long time.
Someday I hope Preeti will laugh at this too.
**********
As of today, Preeti’s condition has been deemed stable and she’s been moved out of the ICU to a private room, where she’s being monitored around the clock. She’s still in a coma, but there are minuscule responses. She opens her eyes intermittently but it’s a vacant, unfocussed stare. Her mouth moves occasionally and yesterday I caught her yawning. She responds to pain stimuli (which doctors and nurses demonstrate by pinching her with remarkable alacrity. We hope for more than one reason that she begins moving her limbs soon.)
I began writing about Preeti, three weeks ago, as a catharsis of sorts. I also hoped that a few prayers and good wishes would come her way. To say, I’m overwhelmed with your response, would be an understatement. A heartfelt THANK YOU to all of you who’ve left comments, shared your experience, written to offer support, and all of you who’ve spread the prayer request through your blogs:
Pallavi, Smiley, Uma Mahadevan-Dasgupta, Parmanu, Moonie, Swetlana Sweety, Skunkstink, Neelima, Poonam, Rhyncus Kahini, Rash, Down to Earth, Mad Club, Hirdu, Drum Bum, Twilight Fairy and Alpha
(I hope I haven’t left out anyone. Write to me - dotdotdot@gmail.com)
Monday, April 25, 2005
What is best for Preeti?
It’s a question we ask ourselves anew each day. Would Preeti have wanted to go through this or would she have chosen differently? Does the fact that she’s pulled through for 25 days after doctors told us, ‘No hope, call your relatives,’ mean that she wants to fight it out or is that what we want to believe? Do we surrender to whatever has to happen or do we lasso her back with fervent prayers and heartfelt desires?
The days go by but the questions don’t get any easier. We are people of hope and faith. We affirm that whatever happens will be best for Preeti. But several times, we find ourselves having to make a choice on Preeti’s behalf. And that’s when the questions terrorise…
Early last week, Preeti caught an infection, and all the fledgling signs of improvement backed up and vanished. Her temperature started climbing into the alarming 100s, the kidney output decreased and she was back on the ventilator. There was more bad news, this time from two consulting neurologists. Both echoed the gloomy diagnosis of the first neurologist. (One of them used a quaint expression when I asked for chances of improvement – ‘hugely small’. The other said even if she recovered, brain capacity would be ‘greatly reduced’. Are neurologists trained to speak in oxymorons, I wonder?)
Confronted with bad news and worse news, all the doubts – effectively suppressed by hope - came rushing back in. Would we have to make that decision now? Is that what Preeti wants?
‘Make a decision’ is the euphemism that medics use to suggest that a patient has poor chances of recovery. Doctors are understandably cagey when you ask them for their recommendation. What do YOU want to do, they ask? We’ve never had to deal with this before, we say.
Between euphemisms and oxymorons, we deduce the options. One is to stop dialysis or switch off the ventilator. But can we do it knowing fully well that part of her brain still functions, that she can still breathe a little and that some body functions are stable? Another option is to continue the treatment, hoping for some improvement in the brain functioning, which might or might not happen. Neither of these is painless. For Preeti or for us.
Ultimately, each of these options is linked to the monetary factor. As one doctor told us, "The deciding factor in such cases is how long you can sustain the treatment. The day you can’t afford to pay for the dialysis and the expensive injections, the option is clear.” Mercifully, we haven’t reached there yet.
In the midst of these hopeless, confused moments, we’re truly thankful for Dr. Thomas. Three days ago, he told us, “She’s young, her heart is strong. Give her a chance.” That’s all we needed to hear. That’s all we wanted to do, despite the moments of torment and confusion.
Two days ago, the kidneys began responding to treatment. The dour nephrologist actually had a smile when he told us that. The new batch of antibiotics worked away at the infection and yesterday even the ventilator came off.
This morning, the nephrologist said, “The kidney output is extremely good. I may not even need to see her again. My work is done.” Family members and visitors gaze reverentially, even admiringly, at the urine bag hanging over the side of the bed. (Pardon this mention of unmentionables. It is a matter of celebration.)
Now, it’s the turn of the brain. Dr. Thomas warns, “It’s not a rosy picture. Be prepared for a prolonged, sometimes frustrating journey.” The damaged areas might never recover, but perhaps, the brain can find a way around them. We continue to hope.
A big Thank You to each one of you who’s praying and continues to pray for Preeti. I appreciate all of your comments. I’m also grateful to all of you who’ve written in sharing your stories of hope, and for those of you who’ve linked the previous post. I’ve shared all your comments and mails with my family and it has given us a great deal of strength to know that Preeti has so many well wishers. Please continue to keep her in your prayers.
You can write to me - dotdotdot@gmail.com
The days go by but the questions don’t get any easier. We are people of hope and faith. We affirm that whatever happens will be best for Preeti. But several times, we find ourselves having to make a choice on Preeti’s behalf. And that’s when the questions terrorise…
Early last week, Preeti caught an infection, and all the fledgling signs of improvement backed up and vanished. Her temperature started climbing into the alarming 100s, the kidney output decreased and she was back on the ventilator. There was more bad news, this time from two consulting neurologists. Both echoed the gloomy diagnosis of the first neurologist. (One of them used a quaint expression when I asked for chances of improvement – ‘hugely small’. The other said even if she recovered, brain capacity would be ‘greatly reduced’. Are neurologists trained to speak in oxymorons, I wonder?)
Confronted with bad news and worse news, all the doubts – effectively suppressed by hope - came rushing back in. Would we have to make that decision now? Is that what Preeti wants?
‘Make a decision’ is the euphemism that medics use to suggest that a patient has poor chances of recovery. Doctors are understandably cagey when you ask them for their recommendation. What do YOU want to do, they ask? We’ve never had to deal with this before, we say.
Between euphemisms and oxymorons, we deduce the options. One is to stop dialysis or switch off the ventilator. But can we do it knowing fully well that part of her brain still functions, that she can still breathe a little and that some body functions are stable? Another option is to continue the treatment, hoping for some improvement in the brain functioning, which might or might not happen. Neither of these is painless. For Preeti or for us.
Ultimately, each of these options is linked to the monetary factor. As one doctor told us, "The deciding factor in such cases is how long you can sustain the treatment. The day you can’t afford to pay for the dialysis and the expensive injections, the option is clear.” Mercifully, we haven’t reached there yet.
In the midst of these hopeless, confused moments, we’re truly thankful for Dr. Thomas. Three days ago, he told us, “She’s young, her heart is strong. Give her a chance.” That’s all we needed to hear. That’s all we wanted to do, despite the moments of torment and confusion.
Two days ago, the kidneys began responding to treatment. The dour nephrologist actually had a smile when he told us that. The new batch of antibiotics worked away at the infection and yesterday even the ventilator came off.
This morning, the nephrologist said, “The kidney output is extremely good. I may not even need to see her again. My work is done.” Family members and visitors gaze reverentially, even admiringly, at the urine bag hanging over the side of the bed. (Pardon this mention of unmentionables. It is a matter of celebration.)
Now, it’s the turn of the brain. Dr. Thomas warns, “It’s not a rosy picture. Be prepared for a prolonged, sometimes frustrating journey.” The damaged areas might never recover, but perhaps, the brain can find a way around them. We continue to hope.
A big Thank You to each one of you who’s praying and continues to pray for Preeti. I appreciate all of your comments. I’m also grateful to all of you who’ve written in sharing your stories of hope, and for those of you who’ve linked the previous post. I’ve shared all your comments and mails with my family and it has given us a great deal of strength to know that Preeti has so many well wishers. Please continue to keep her in your prayers.
You can write to me - dotdotdot@gmail.com
Friday, April 15, 2005
Spare a prayer for Preeti
The blog break didn’t turn out as expected. But then, neither has life in the last two weeks. I’m driven to write here on account of the extraordinary circumstances in my life.
I’m back in Bombay. I’ve been here for exactly two weeks. When I boarded the flight from Dubai on April 1, I hoped against hope that the call from home had been an April Fool’s joke. How could my beloved sister, Preeti, be in the ICU? How could a simple case of Rheumatoid Arthritis result in the doctors pronouncing her as being at death’s door? For god’s sake, she’s just 32. Her little girl, my ‘best friend’, Alison, is not even five years old.
I had to bow and scrape with the medics to be allowed to see her on the 1st evening. “I will only look at her for 30 seconds,” I beseeched. I stood by her bed in shock, totally unprepared for what I was to see. She was gasping for breath; her eyes were turned upwards, half-closed, revealing cloudy white eyeballs. Even as I stood there, her eyes flew open and focussed on me. Her wide, beautiful eyes were unnaturally large and there was that characteristic, pearly smile, which even the tubes sticking out of her face did little to diminish.
“You’ve come?” she asked half-astonished, “You’ve come on holiday?”.
I told her I had.
“For how long?” she inquired. The tube in her throat made it difficult to talk.
“My boss said I could take a holiday for as long as I wanted,” I lied.
I told her that she must be strong and fight. She beamed and nodded.
“Don’t make her talk”, scolded the nurses, and I was just so thankful to them. I could not stand there for a moment longer without openly sobbing.
I was the last person she spoke to. Preeti was put on the ventilator that night. She slipped into a coma the next morning, and continues to be in a coma until this moment, almost 15 days later.
****
Preeti has had Rheumatoid Arthritis for the last 6 years. How a 26 year old could contract a sickness typically associated with old-age is another fateful story. She was walking on the road near our home when a monkey – part of a street entertainer’s troupe – bit her. She took the three prescribed anti-rabies injections. Exactly a day after the last injection she developed debilitating pains in her joints. The doctors diagnosed it as Rheumatoid Arthritis.
In the last six years, not a single remedy, therapy or exercise has been spared, not a single prayer remained unsaid. But never did Preeti ever complain or be less than cheery. Her joint stiffness became apparent in the way she walked, but she never talked about it even with friends. In fact, her replies used to be a standing joke at home.
“How are you Preeti?”…. “Better”
“Have the pains started again?”….. “Only a little”
With her limited mobility – sitting cross legged on the floor, a gesture we take for granted, is something she hasn’t attempted for many years – she continued to lead as normal a life as possible, going to work, bringing up Alison, even occasionally, and very cautiously, shaking a leg. At the small farewell party before I left for Dubai, it was she who insisted on the dance music.
A warning bell should have sounded when she took sick leave for the first time ever in mid-March. A little knee pain, she said. When one week of sick leave turned into two, and when the steroids prescribed by the family physician didn’t offer any relief, the alarm bells should have woken up the neighbourhood. But sadly, Preeti’s tendency to downplay her illness, along with neglect and mis-diagnosis led to unfortunate delays. In the two weeks that she’d been at home, the inflamed knees had developed an infection, leading to pus, which invaded her blood stream, throwing her kidneys off gear. Advanced septicaemia, they wrote, on admission. Doctors roared at my parents when they discovered that her blood pressure was only 40. “What were you’ll doing for so long?” they asked. A question we’re still coming to terms with.
*******
The last two weeks have been plagued by what-ifs. Each morning we steel ourselves to hear the worst.
“Her kidneys have failed”
“Her blood pressure isn’t stable”
“She’s in total coma”
“She’s slowly sinking”
“Now her blood sugar has shot up”
“Call your relatives…”
The MRI report six days ago, confirmed the doctors worst fears - extensive and possibly irreparable brain damage.
On Monday, 11 April, Preeti was entirely on life support – dialysis took care of the kidney functions, breathing was with the help of the ventilator and powerful drugs regulated the the blood pressure and heart rate. A decision was to be made. We waited for the doctor to tell us our options.
He came in half hour late. “I’ve disconnected Preeti from the ventilator for the last 15 minutes. She’s breathing on her own.”
It was the first sign that Preeti wasn’t ready to give up. Preeti breathed on her own for the first time in 11 days. She was put back on the ventilator an hour later so as not to tire her or to let the oxygen saturation drop. Since that day, she’s been breathing on her own intermittently. Her kidneys which had completely failed produced a small amount of urine yesterday, in what doctors admit is the very early sign of kidney recovery.
But these tiny rays of hope signs are clouded by an unbeatable knowledge – that her brain might never recover. What’s more, most of the doctors on the panel, save the chief doctor and the orthopaedic surgeon, have subtly or unequivocally told us to give up. And here’s where logic and faith, optimism and pragmatism, love and self-interest have locked horns.
Until Monday morning, we were ready to let Preeti pass on. All the signs pointed to the fact that she wanted to. She has suffered enough, we told ourselves. We whispered in her ear that we would take care of her unfinished business.
But her grasp on life has surprised us all. Each day there are tiny signs – her eyes twitch, she sometimes responds to pain stimuli, on occasion when people pray over her, teardrops roll down her eyes.
Straws, scoffs the neurologist. But he also admits that the dilemma is tricky. One the one we could be “killing off the patient”, while on the other hand we could rack up huge bills, face months or even years of uncertainty, medical complications and even with best efforts, a patient with diminished capacities (I absolutely DETEST the word ‘vegetable’. I will never use it to describe a human being, whatever the condition.)
It’s a testing time for all of us who love Preeti. There are no easy answers. Each day brings new challenges and demands fresh thinking. I have followed the Terri Schiavo case intermittently. Living it, I can tell you, is a wholly different experience. As a family, we’ve discussed it extensively. And we’ve decided to take things one step at a time. Where there is life, even the small, negligible sign of it, there is hope, we believe. We have no desire to hold on to her for our sake, but if she is hanging in there, so are we. There are voices which oppose out of interests that are perhaps misguided. But we believe they too are there for a purpose. Each day we discover new reserves of strength, courage to fight disappointment and forbearance to see the larger plan.
****
One of the most beautiful and unexpected outcomes of Preeti’s hospitalization has been the reaction of people – family, friends, colleagues, neighbours, acquaintances, even perfect strangers. An announcement was made at our church two weeks ago to pray for her. And the prayers haven’t stopped ever since. Scores of people, some of who barely know us, have offered prayers to their favourite saint or at the holy place they have utmost faith in. Prayer groups across the country, even the world, have been mobilized to intercede for Preeti. Emails have been flying furiously (now I know how the chain mails start) and each day we come across mails from distant family, friends of family, friends of friends of family…
The phone has been ringing off the hook at all times of day and night. The steady stream of visitors has only one refrain on their lips, ‘We’re praying for her’. A woman who came to the hospital last week said to us, ‘Can I please see her? I’ve been praying for her all week. I want to know who she is.’ I was extremely surprised to receive a call from a neighbour of ours who we knew was also very unwell. It turned out she was calling from Hinduja Hospital and was due for a bone-graft surgery the next day. “I’m praying for Preeti,” she said.
Early last week, Preeti required almost 22 units of blood. An email went around Preeti’s workplace, ICICI Bank. Three days later I got a frantic call from the blood bank. “Does Preeti need any more blood? If not, please stop the donors. We’ve got 17 bottles extra and there are five more people waiting to donate. We’re running out of storage space.”
We’ve been truly humbled by the deluge of prayers, hope, optimism and simple, unswerving faith. We, who see Preeti every day, who listen to the doctors, who hear all kinds of ‘expert’ advice, are far more pragmatic. But we also believe that all that positive energy has to produce SOME result. Medical science may have its limitation but the human spirit has none.
So here’s my entreaty to all my friends in blog world, even passers by. If you believe in prayer, please say a prayer for my sister, Preeti. Even if you don’t pray, please send positive thoughts her way. She needs it. We all need it.
(If you have heard of similar cases and have something to share, leave a comment or write to me - dotdotdot@gmail.com)
I’m back in Bombay. I’ve been here for exactly two weeks. When I boarded the flight from Dubai on April 1, I hoped against hope that the call from home had been an April Fool’s joke. How could my beloved sister, Preeti, be in the ICU? How could a simple case of Rheumatoid Arthritis result in the doctors pronouncing her as being at death’s door? For god’s sake, she’s just 32. Her little girl, my ‘best friend’, Alison, is not even five years old.
I had to bow and scrape with the medics to be allowed to see her on the 1st evening. “I will only look at her for 30 seconds,” I beseeched. I stood by her bed in shock, totally unprepared for what I was to see. She was gasping for breath; her eyes were turned upwards, half-closed, revealing cloudy white eyeballs. Even as I stood there, her eyes flew open and focussed on me. Her wide, beautiful eyes were unnaturally large and there was that characteristic, pearly smile, which even the tubes sticking out of her face did little to diminish.
“You’ve come?” she asked half-astonished, “You’ve come on holiday?”.
I told her I had.
“For how long?” she inquired. The tube in her throat made it difficult to talk.
“My boss said I could take a holiday for as long as I wanted,” I lied.
I told her that she must be strong and fight. She beamed and nodded.
“Don’t make her talk”, scolded the nurses, and I was just so thankful to them. I could not stand there for a moment longer without openly sobbing.
I was the last person she spoke to. Preeti was put on the ventilator that night. She slipped into a coma the next morning, and continues to be in a coma until this moment, almost 15 days later.
****
Preeti has had Rheumatoid Arthritis for the last 6 years. How a 26 year old could contract a sickness typically associated with old-age is another fateful story. She was walking on the road near our home when a monkey – part of a street entertainer’s troupe – bit her. She took the three prescribed anti-rabies injections. Exactly a day after the last injection she developed debilitating pains in her joints. The doctors diagnosed it as Rheumatoid Arthritis.
In the last six years, not a single remedy, therapy or exercise has been spared, not a single prayer remained unsaid. But never did Preeti ever complain or be less than cheery. Her joint stiffness became apparent in the way she walked, but she never talked about it even with friends. In fact, her replies used to be a standing joke at home.
“How are you Preeti?”…. “Better”
“Have the pains started again?”….. “Only a little”
With her limited mobility – sitting cross legged on the floor, a gesture we take for granted, is something she hasn’t attempted for many years – she continued to lead as normal a life as possible, going to work, bringing up Alison, even occasionally, and very cautiously, shaking a leg. At the small farewell party before I left for Dubai, it was she who insisted on the dance music.
A warning bell should have sounded when she took sick leave for the first time ever in mid-March. A little knee pain, she said. When one week of sick leave turned into two, and when the steroids prescribed by the family physician didn’t offer any relief, the alarm bells should have woken up the neighbourhood. But sadly, Preeti’s tendency to downplay her illness, along with neglect and mis-diagnosis led to unfortunate delays. In the two weeks that she’d been at home, the inflamed knees had developed an infection, leading to pus, which invaded her blood stream, throwing her kidneys off gear. Advanced septicaemia, they wrote, on admission. Doctors roared at my parents when they discovered that her blood pressure was only 40. “What were you’ll doing for so long?” they asked. A question we’re still coming to terms with.
*******
The last two weeks have been plagued by what-ifs. Each morning we steel ourselves to hear the worst.
“Her kidneys have failed”
“Her blood pressure isn’t stable”
“She’s in total coma”
“She’s slowly sinking”
“Now her blood sugar has shot up”
“Call your relatives…”
The MRI report six days ago, confirmed the doctors worst fears - extensive and possibly irreparable brain damage.
On Monday, 11 April, Preeti was entirely on life support – dialysis took care of the kidney functions, breathing was with the help of the ventilator and powerful drugs regulated the the blood pressure and heart rate. A decision was to be made. We waited for the doctor to tell us our options.
He came in half hour late. “I’ve disconnected Preeti from the ventilator for the last 15 minutes. She’s breathing on her own.”
It was the first sign that Preeti wasn’t ready to give up. Preeti breathed on her own for the first time in 11 days. She was put back on the ventilator an hour later so as not to tire her or to let the oxygen saturation drop. Since that day, she’s been breathing on her own intermittently. Her kidneys which had completely failed produced a small amount of urine yesterday, in what doctors admit is the very early sign of kidney recovery.
But these tiny rays of hope signs are clouded by an unbeatable knowledge – that her brain might never recover. What’s more, most of the doctors on the panel, save the chief doctor and the orthopaedic surgeon, have subtly or unequivocally told us to give up. And here’s where logic and faith, optimism and pragmatism, love and self-interest have locked horns.
Until Monday morning, we were ready to let Preeti pass on. All the signs pointed to the fact that she wanted to. She has suffered enough, we told ourselves. We whispered in her ear that we would take care of her unfinished business.
But her grasp on life has surprised us all. Each day there are tiny signs – her eyes twitch, she sometimes responds to pain stimuli, on occasion when people pray over her, teardrops roll down her eyes.
Straws, scoffs the neurologist. But he also admits that the dilemma is tricky. One the one we could be “killing off the patient”, while on the other hand we could rack up huge bills, face months or even years of uncertainty, medical complications and even with best efforts, a patient with diminished capacities (I absolutely DETEST the word ‘vegetable’. I will never use it to describe a human being, whatever the condition.)
It’s a testing time for all of us who love Preeti. There are no easy answers. Each day brings new challenges and demands fresh thinking. I have followed the Terri Schiavo case intermittently. Living it, I can tell you, is a wholly different experience. As a family, we’ve discussed it extensively. And we’ve decided to take things one step at a time. Where there is life, even the small, negligible sign of it, there is hope, we believe. We have no desire to hold on to her for our sake, but if she is hanging in there, so are we. There are voices which oppose out of interests that are perhaps misguided. But we believe they too are there for a purpose. Each day we discover new reserves of strength, courage to fight disappointment and forbearance to see the larger plan.
****
One of the most beautiful and unexpected outcomes of Preeti’s hospitalization has been the reaction of people – family, friends, colleagues, neighbours, acquaintances, even perfect strangers. An announcement was made at our church two weeks ago to pray for her. And the prayers haven’t stopped ever since. Scores of people, some of who barely know us, have offered prayers to their favourite saint or at the holy place they have utmost faith in. Prayer groups across the country, even the world, have been mobilized to intercede for Preeti. Emails have been flying furiously (now I know how the chain mails start) and each day we come across mails from distant family, friends of family, friends of friends of family…
The phone has been ringing off the hook at all times of day and night. The steady stream of visitors has only one refrain on their lips, ‘We’re praying for her’. A woman who came to the hospital last week said to us, ‘Can I please see her? I’ve been praying for her all week. I want to know who she is.’ I was extremely surprised to receive a call from a neighbour of ours who we knew was also very unwell. It turned out she was calling from Hinduja Hospital and was due for a bone-graft surgery the next day. “I’m praying for Preeti,” she said.
Early last week, Preeti required almost 22 units of blood. An email went around Preeti’s workplace, ICICI Bank. Three days later I got a frantic call from the blood bank. “Does Preeti need any more blood? If not, please stop the donors. We’ve got 17 bottles extra and there are five more people waiting to donate. We’re running out of storage space.”
We’ve been truly humbled by the deluge of prayers, hope, optimism and simple, unswerving faith. We, who see Preeti every day, who listen to the doctors, who hear all kinds of ‘expert’ advice, are far more pragmatic. But we also believe that all that positive energy has to produce SOME result. Medical science may have its limitation but the human spirit has none.
So here’s my entreaty to all my friends in blog world, even passers by. If you believe in prayer, please say a prayer for my sister, Preeti. Even if you don’t pray, please send positive thoughts her way. She needs it. We all need it.
(If you have heard of similar cases and have something to share, leave a comment or write to me - dotdotdot@gmail.com)
Monday, November 15, 2004
Proof that anti-ageing creams work…
I was using a moisturiser on my face when Alison came up and asked me sternly, 'Leela, what are you doing?’
The question ended in a high-pitched squeak. I wondered exactly what I was being chastised for.
She wagged her inch-long index finger at me and in a tone dripping with authority, said, ‘That cream is for big people, not for you and me.’
Being mistaken for a 4-year old feels ridiculously good!
The question ended in a high-pitched squeak. I wondered exactly what I was being chastised for.
She wagged her inch-long index finger at me and in a tone dripping with authority, said, ‘That cream is for big people, not for you and me.’
Being mistaken for a 4-year old feels ridiculously good!
Sunday, November 23, 2003
Alison goes to the movies
Last week I decided to take Alison for her first movie. Alison is the precocious 3-year old niece who cutely lisps that I’m her ‘bess friend’. That kind of a compliment can be quite heady and enslaving. So when ‘Finding Nemo’ came to town, I offered to take her for it.
The excitement was unbelievable. The wait seemed interminable. The anticipation almost unbearable. And that was just her grandparents!
“Have you got the tickets?,” my mother asked on Monday. A full 5 days before the promised movie.
I’m an ardent movie lover, but I’ve always treated advance booking with disdain. The last-minute dash to the theatre, bagging the last two available seats, feeling one’s way into the darkened auditorium, reading the opening credits while stumbling into one’s seat – are to me a part of the complete movie experience. But when there are 4 excitable grandparents to contend with, advance booking is the lesser evil.
Wednesday onwards, a flurry of mails congested my inbox. Surprisingly, they were from my usually phlegmatic sister. “Should I tell Alison or will you?” “Are you booking tickets today?” “Let me know as soon as you get tickets. I have to tell them to prepare her at home…”
A fun outing was beginning to take on the solemnity of a ceremony. I was beginning to get nervous. Egged on by the excitement around, even Alison had begun asking, ‘When we are going for de movee?’ This even before she knew what a movie was.
Tickets were bought. All concerned parties were informed.
INTERMISSION
Then began the second part. “What time are you coming to pick her up?’ “Should I pack something for her?” “How long is the movie?” Movie, what movie?! This was a rite of passage.
Before I set out, I got the final instructions. “Carry her waterbottle and some biscuits.” “Bring her out during the interval for fresh air.” “If she starts crying take her home.”
Was Alison on pins, waiting for her introduction to the marquee? When I reached, she was sound asleep with her little bottom in the air. A quick change of clothes and a swig of milk later, we were off. “What we are going to do?,” she asked me naively. How wonderful to be blessed with short-term memory!
Armed with popcorn and chips and with me as interpreter, she serenely watched the movie. Occasionally asking loudly, the way only children can, “Why are the lights off?” and “Where’s the big TV?” The only time she got animated was when she saw the Happy Meal toy at McDonald’s. ‘Hee-mo, Hee-mo,’ she chirruped, ‘I want Hee-mo’.
That’s what it came down to for her. A stuffed toy. All that animation wizardry and cutesy story ultimately meant an addition to her toy collection.
‘So how was the movie,” everyone began asking her. And she spun off some fanciful tale while they listened enthralled.
Alison starts school next year. I can’t wait to watch the drama unfold then.
The excitement was unbelievable. The wait seemed interminable. The anticipation almost unbearable. And that was just her grandparents!
“Have you got the tickets?,” my mother asked on Monday. A full 5 days before the promised movie.
I’m an ardent movie lover, but I’ve always treated advance booking with disdain. The last-minute dash to the theatre, bagging the last two available seats, feeling one’s way into the darkened auditorium, reading the opening credits while stumbling into one’s seat – are to me a part of the complete movie experience. But when there are 4 excitable grandparents to contend with, advance booking is the lesser evil.
Wednesday onwards, a flurry of mails congested my inbox. Surprisingly, they were from my usually phlegmatic sister. “Should I tell Alison or will you?” “Are you booking tickets today?” “Let me know as soon as you get tickets. I have to tell them to prepare her at home…”
A fun outing was beginning to take on the solemnity of a ceremony. I was beginning to get nervous. Egged on by the excitement around, even Alison had begun asking, ‘When we are going for de movee?’ This even before she knew what a movie was.
Tickets were bought. All concerned parties were informed.
INTERMISSION
Then began the second part. “What time are you coming to pick her up?’ “Should I pack something for her?” “How long is the movie?” Movie, what movie?! This was a rite of passage.
Before I set out, I got the final instructions. “Carry her waterbottle and some biscuits.” “Bring her out during the interval for fresh air.” “If she starts crying take her home.”
Was Alison on pins, waiting for her introduction to the marquee? When I reached, she was sound asleep with her little bottom in the air. A quick change of clothes and a swig of milk later, we were off. “What we are going to do?,” she asked me naively. How wonderful to be blessed with short-term memory!
Armed with popcorn and chips and with me as interpreter, she serenely watched the movie. Occasionally asking loudly, the way only children can, “Why are the lights off?” and “Where’s the big TV?” The only time she got animated was when she saw the Happy Meal toy at McDonald’s. ‘Hee-mo, Hee-mo,’ she chirruped, ‘I want Hee-mo’.
That’s what it came down to for her. A stuffed toy. All that animation wizardry and cutesy story ultimately meant an addition to her toy collection.
‘So how was the movie,” everyone began asking her. And she spun off some fanciful tale while they listened enthralled.
Alison starts school next year. I can’t wait to watch the drama unfold then.
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