Day 8: Operation Mom: The Outcast

Since the discovery of Mom's big C, I and dad have adapted to the lives of nomads. Our bags are always packed with a set of spare clothes. We are constantly on the move. It has been days since we have properly lived at our own house. No, do not mistake me. I would not blame mom for this. I just want to let you know that life as a nomad is hard. 

Surprisingly, I always thought I wanted to be a traveler. A wanderer with no place to call home. Actually, I can still do that. I am more comfortable at dropping in at a cousin's place and staying there till they actually get a restriction order. Dad is a chip off the old block. His home is his castle. A place where he can do as he pleases. That small, shabby one room kitchen with plaster peeling off the ceiling is a place he bought with his sweat and tears. For him, his home is more than just a rest place. It is his sense of independence, pride and self respect. This life, as a nomad, has robbed him off these very things. Or that is what he feels these days. 

A result of that is he is always on the edge. A friction, a word, a random sentence can make him blow his fuse. And boy! Does he blow it! Just yesterday, he lost it on an uncle, who just happened to say 'You are a guest. You will go back home in a couple of days. What do you know about it?' Dad launched into an angry rant about how he does not want to overstay his welcome. And when Dad goes on a rant, he does not watch his mouth. Often, he ends up saying stuff he will regret later. His guilt lasts longer than the effects of the rant. Yet, when it hurts, it hurts. 

Meanwhile, I keep Mom happy and somehow, manage to appease the people my Dad pisses off. The easiest explanation is that he is under a lot of stress. They do buy it. Most times. But, when it is all done, and the dust over the rumble quiets down, I sit here and think about his slow degradation. Here was a man who taught me all I know about resilience, patience and kindness. Here is a man who did not raise his voice when the company he worked for 25 years, fired him without pay. He is getting angry. Is there even a point to life? 

Day 7: Operation Mom: Interregnum

The days pass in wait. I wake up every morning, hoping that she gets an operation date. I go to sleep every morning carrying that hope to morrow. It is exhausting. Hope never was this heavy a burden before.

Her cancer is spreading. She wakes up in more pain, and lives through it. There is no chemo to control the spread of the cancer. She has to have the operation. Yet, there are no beds. Doctors ask us to come again, tomorrow. and tomorrow. and tomorrow. Like a Macbeth monologue, it goes on.

There are times when I feel helpless, impotent and completely despondent. I look at dad and he is down to his knees. Metaphorically. His only courage is that I have courage. Or he thinks I have. The facade I have put up has now become the dam that is holding this lee together. A crack, a chink, a tiny little seepage somewhere and the whole thing would come crashing down.

I look at her. Tiny, old and very much in pain. She still wakes up every morning and makes her own cup of tea. She goes through the entire wait at the hospital with the patience of a nun. She does not complain when the doctor asks her to come back tomorrow. I know she is in pain. I see her sitting up at 2 am, coughing. Muffling her cough, trying not to wake me up. When I do wake up, she says ' I am sorry. Could you give me some hot water? Are you too tired?'

Am I too tired? Can I be? When she can sit up in stoic silence ,suffering that pain and not complain. Can I answer, 'yes, I am tired.'? No. I will be damned before I answer in the affirmative. I will not be tired. I will not lean down to catch a breath. Not till she does. I owe it to her.

Even in the interregnum between her treatments, there is a battle raging. The fight for her life does not stop. I cannot stop. 

Day 4: Operation Mom: Uncertainties

Slowly, we are, each one of us, encircled by fear. Every passing minute makes us more conscious of the coming day. Mom is fidgety. Regardless of the brave, smiling facade she puts up for us, she thinks more about whether the operation is the right decision or not. Dad is crumbling within. He keeps asking me if I am ready for tomorrow. I understand that question is rhetorical, but whether he has the answer or not is something I don't know.

While we are dawdling in such uncertainty, time keeps ticking on. The day has almost dawned upon us. 12 hours from now, I will be at Parel paying up and signing the formalities for mom. It will still be a couple of days before the operation, but then we would have crossed the half way line.

Relatives have been calling incessantly since the morning. Some assure. Some cry. Others pretend that they will be there. The only people who will be there, have no words to say other than saying 'Eat right. You need to be strong'.

Strength. Another thing that I am losing. Fast. I have had a headache for the last 12 hours. My brain is addled. My hands feel weak. I tried working out a little, but my mind could no longer push my body to the limit.

I don't know what happens tomorrow. I just hope it is for our better. I just hope. 

Day 3: Operation Mom: My Daddy Strongest

You know how they say that your fiercest enemy is often your closest friend. My dad and I share a similar relationship. When we received the confirmation for mom's mastectomy operation on Friday, we looked at each other and knew exactly what the other was thinking 'This is going to be the last time we see the fun mom'

Everything will change from now. Everything in my life is being sucked up by a giant cancerous vaccum cleaner, and will have to be built again. I broke down yesterday. I did not have the strength to imagine what the world would be like, if she did not make it out of the operation. I desperately texted a friend for some consolation. But the one person who comforted me was my fiercest opponent, bete noire, my dad.

My dad would fit into a Charles Dickens novel with ease. He is that wise old character that takes the hero under his wings. A man defeated by life, surrounded by the signs of his own failures. A man who was talented, educated and knowledgeable, but lacked the incision and the cold brutality necessary to succeed in the world. A man who knows that the world has passed him by, but still smiles and hides his sadness behind silly jokes and amusing ticks. My dad is an archetype that everyone adores, yet no one admires.

Yet, this is the man who has shown unquestionable strength in this difficult time. He has been patiently doing the rounds, 12 hours and more at the TATA hospital. He goes around with the file, waits with mom for her tests, ensures that she eats well. Even when he is dog tired, he wakes up sharp at 5 to make her a cup of protein shakes - because she gets hungry. He has stood like a rock by her. A small man, 5 ft in height, skinny, bald with a tired, wrinkled face. I never knew he had such strength. I never knew he had such character.

Then, there's me. Lost. Wayward. I do my duty to mom. Sometimes, I seek an escape. Shamelessly, I try and convince people I am working the hard hours for her. How much hard work can I do to make it up to her? Would my life be enough? Yet, here I am grumbling. Cursing fate that has bestowed upon me such luck. How far has the apple fallen from the tree?

I never admired my father. I thought he was a relic from the past. A lost bourgeois, educated man who does not belong in the world of today. Yet, there is no man I admire more right now. He worked years in far tougher conditions than I can imagine to provide for me. He never complained. He never cursed for his troubles. He cursed me for squandering my talents. He fought because I was wrong. Not for himself. He will wake up early in the morning. He will prepare the files. He will stand in line. Quietly. Dignified. Never complaining.

I wish I had tried to be more like him. I wish I can be.

 

November 20th: Operation Mom begins

It is 12 o clock in the night and she just woke up coughing. I gave her the medicine and sent her back to sleep. She will wake up again in an hour. I know. It has been this way for a week. The doctors say that the cough should be gone before tomorrow. We have an operation date set for next Wednesday. Today is Friday.

My mom has cancer. The disease that is so similar to life that doctors are still struggling to identify it before it becomes a part of us. Sadly, for her it is a part of her. We discovered it too late. It was our fault. Me and dad were to self absorbed to notice the things that were wrong with her. Her lethargy, weakness and anger were not symptoms of boredom, but the malaise that was eating her from within. It was 6 months ago.

Everyone is asleep now. Dad won't wake up if I played 'Stairway to Heaven'. He is tired too. Running with a file from one window to another at the Tata Hospital can do that. If there ever was a purgatory where the dead wait forever, it was at Tata hospital in Parel. We usually turn up at 8 in the morning, mom in tow. Then our file begins its seemingly neverending journey through the corridors. From ECG to Chest Xray to  PAC to OPD. The abbreviations are misleading, for the lines are often long enough to make cancer patients wish for a faster death. In the midst of all this, there is the family. Hoping, struggling, balancing work, home and trips to the hospital in the false hope of lengthening the days of their loved ones. It's a bitch!

Yet, here I am writing. Doing it so that some day when she is gone, and she will be gone, I will have a record of what I felt when she was around. Maybe the days to come will teach me something I will only learn later. Maybe these are my letters to the future.