Day 470

Today I was an anaesthetist.

I helped sixteen patients get through their minor surgeries. I am grateful to have a job I enjoy, to have colleagues who are friends, to be able to laugh and sometimes make other people laugh and to have the strength to get through a busy day calmly and artfully. Here’s a lovely poem written by my friend and colleague:

I, Anaesthetist

I don’t want you to feel trepidation
similarly, any anxiety
Relax, I’ve come to explain
How with profound sedation
I’ll drain your synapses of electricity,
To create a state of dissociation
Yes it’s true, it’s what we do
Temporarily abolish your sentience,
Take over your physiology
Until there’s not much left of you

And when you are where I need you to be
I’ll stay with you, diligently
through Alpine fluctuations
of muscle tone and circulation
below raging tempests of nociception
of which you’ll have no recollection
As I said, you will be fine
I’m out of sight, you’re out of mind

And when the filleting is done
and suturing, and cautery
I’ll bring you’re back up from the abyss
but you’ll have no idea of this
and you’ll open eyes, without pain
and ask have you had your surgery?
as recovery nurses say your name
and offer you a cup of tea
Dr Michael Duncan

Day 451

450 days sound like a lot of days.
15 months.
One and a quarter year.

It’s a myth.
Time does not heal.

At the blues concert this evening, I looked at the drummer and intensely missed Saagar. I could just picture him sitting there playing the drums, as I had seen him do many a times. What would he have thought of this music, this drummer, this band, this venue, these people, this atmosphere? I just wanted to have him next to me. It is still not fathomable that he is not here. How can that be?

Will I ever be able to enjoy anything anymore without these thoughts? Will anything ever be whole and complete in itself?

Si stretched out his hands and held mine. He looked at me and smiled. We had a lovely evening. He gets me. He has patience with me. He talks to me. He helps me put one foot in front of the other everyday in many different ways – by making me lots of tea, by making me go to the gym, by making sure we eat well and get enough rest, by making me laugh, by letting me cry as much and as often as I like, by walking with me every step of the way with love and understanding.

What we call ‘support’ is in fact love. It has come to me in the shape of friends (virtual and real), family, SOBS(Support group for survivors of bereavement by suicide), hugs, e-mails, messages, letters and cards. I have never needed as much support as I have done over the past 15 months. I don’t think I would have survived without all this love. Thank you very much!

Love heals.

Day 449

Walking around the streets of London this crispy cold afternoon, all I could see were bobble hats. They were everywhere! A variety of bobbles sat on hats with stripy, plain and cabled knits. Some were clearly lovingly hand-knitted. There was a bright pink one with a sharply contrasting black pom-pom on top and jet black silky straight hair pouring out of both sides of a pretty little face underneath it. Some had lovely curls flowing out of them and some surely provided cover to bare scalps. The bobble hat has obviously made a place on the heads and in the hearts of men, women and kids this winter. Ears snugly tucked inside the hats must feel warm and deeply comforting. Some bobbles smoothly went past me on bicycles, some walked in pairs and others moved around in families! They were everywhere! The more I thought I was imagining it, the more real it became. After about half an hour of this, it got quite entertaining and became a kind of game – ‘Spot the Bobble’.

This evening as I browsed through some of Saagar’s pictures, I found one of him as a toddler wearing one. The bobble is only partially visible but I remember my mum made it for him.

S Bobble hat

He looked so cute wearing a tonne of clothes, standing in the snow. This is the day he saw snow for the first time. To my amazement, years later he remembered that I had stopped him from eating the snow that day.

“To love. To be loved.
To never forget your own insignificance.
To never get used to the unspeakable violence and the vulgar disparity of life around you.
To seek joy in the saddest places.
To pursue beauty to its lair.
To never simplify what is complicated or complicate what is simple.
To respect strength, never power.
Above all, to watch. To try and understand.
To never look away.
And never, never to forget.”
― Arundhati Roy, The Cost of Living

Day 446

This Crippling Cruel Cursed Common cold has completely flattened me.

Is it a co-incidence that it has come near the end of this lovely 2 and a half week holiday? Or is it most natural at this time when I feel a deep resistance to leaving home? I am now leaving one home for another, writing this blog on the plane while topped up with paracetamol, slipping in and out of sleep, in between bouts of sneezing and cups of tea, keeping a wad of tissues handy and intermittently smelling my mother’s white cotton handkerchief dabbed  with eucalyptus oil.

The fever and body ache somehow bring emotions closer to the surface. They make me feel fragile. Bidding farewell to my family has been harder than usual. But I am grateful to have had the chance to hug them as I bid goodbye.

With Saagar that didn’t happen.
No hugs. No kisses. No tears.
No ‘Bye darling’.
No ‘See you later’.
Nothing.

That rude severance, sudden departure, quiet exit has left me utterly and desperately incomplete … as if in suspended animation, hanging in mid-air, like an unfinished sentence…
Is there any way to completion now?
Is there any such thing as a complete story, a complete life?

Each journey is individual and unique. People come and go as and when they please. I suppose it is wonderful that they choose to walk with me for as long as they do. Sometimes we only realise how much we love someone after they leave us. Too late! If only we could show our love and appreciation for our dear ones while they are still here with us…

Day 444

 

A sari is an untailored rectangular piece of cloth, 6 yards long. Once draped around a female figure, it is one of the most elegant and versatile outfits for all shapes, sizes and occasions.

me and my mum

Saagar used to love it when I wore a sari. Si loves it too. They can probably see that it makes me feel beautiful not just on the outside but also deep inside. It makes me feel connected with who I really am.It is strange that a piece of clothing can do that. Here in India I see women of all social strata in saris and they all look grounded and solid in the most delicate and feminine way possible. When I lived here I often wore a sari but then I moved abroad and most of them went into a box, only to appear occasionally.

The other things that went into storage in that box with my saris were parts of my identity, my pride, my strength, my femininity and my connection with myself, only to appear in their entirety occasionally. I do wish I could adorn a sari everyday. Maybe I can. Maybe the only thing that stops me is myself.

[“This way of leaving your family for work had condemned many over several generations to have their hearts always in other places, their minds thinking about people elsewhere; they could never be in a single existence at one time.”
The Inheritance of Loss by Kiran Desia. (Man Booker Prize 2006).]

 On New Year’s Eve I wore an aquamarine Di Chine silk sari with a thin golden border. Couldn’t remember the last time I’d bothered to wear one. Had almost forgotten how wonderful it felt. I missed him so much. Missing someone isn’t about how long it’s been since you’ve seen them or talked to them. It’s about that very moment when you find yourself doing something and wishing they were right there by your side. Maybe he was there all along. Maybe I can’t see him but he can see me.