We stood beside her in a single bed, my brother on her left, me on the right. We stare at her small chest, praying for it to rise. There’s one breath, we say — but then nothing for two seconds, five seconds, seven seconds — there, another breath.. Every second, her heart beats slower than it used to be, while ours are racing. “Is she in pain?” I whisper. “I don’t know,” the doctor says with a blank glare. Breathe, I say silently. She had lost over thirty pounds since being diagnosed, fifteen in the last week. she weighed as much as she had in eighth grade, though her hair had considerably thinned since those days, mostly in the past month. she was awake again, alert to the world, but withered. I could see her bones against her skin, a living X-ray. At home, simply holding her head up was tiring. Lifting a glass of water required both hands and still she couldn’t lift. Suddenly, She makes a small noise, like the squeal of a deflating balloon. “Are you sure she’s not in pain?” I again ask. “She is not in pain, In the final minutes, these are the sounds people sometimes make.” Says the doctor. For me this statement seemed so clinical, like we are observing a stereotyped machine, not a 58-year-old. I glanced at my brother. His eyes are dripping tears.
Six years earlier I had a tough choice “to choose a life filled with my own dreams of living in a country & working on the most advanced technology of my choice” OR “to take the responsibility of my parents who were having touch times with deteriorating health conditions and so were unable to travel with me to overseas”. And I choose the risk of owning the responsibility. Well, that was before the long journey here. Now it’s all about the operations, the catheters in her head, our worldwide search to cure the incurable, and the endless decisions we were forced to make — Which doctor? Which drug? Which country? — all funneled into this.
I saw my brother rub her narrow shoulders. Running fingers over her soft cheeks. We look again at the gentle face that rests between us, her large eyes mostly closed now, like someone fighting sleep. It is a face that touched many of our lives. A face that for sure changed the doctors’ thinking. A face that taught me the meaning of responsibility “practically”. “It’s all right, amma,” we whisper. “We’re right here, amma …” What followed seems monumental compared to that simple conversation, but then, simple things often turn monumental especially after certain non-curable neuro diseases. My brother and I both felt that life wasn’t about avoiding suffering … It struck me that I had traversed the five stages of grief—the “Denial → Anger → Bargaining → Depression → Acceptance” , however maybe in backward. I leaned back in my home and closed my eyes. As the darkness of delirium descended again, I finally relaxed and was wondering about the risk or choice I took six years ago. Had I not taken that decision to be of use to my mother, this poor lady would not have even survived this. I was fortunate enough to change my role from son of her to father of her and take care of her in the same way she did to me when I was a kid. And in the context of her diagnosis, I became aware of not just her mortality but my own. She left in my own hands, ironically I came through her and now she went through me, which was her last wish
And for all the harsh emptiness i feel today, for all our restless nights and morning tears, we can only be grateful the time we had. It was 30 years of an incomparable journey, endless memories, and limitless love. I am glad I took the risk and be of use to her which taught be the meaning of responsibility.
With Immense Gratitude,
Aditya Telidevara
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