the now

Day 493

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Last time I saw this patient was in August 2014, when Saagar was alive.
Last week I saw him again. I looked at my notes and read through them. I had written them when Saagar was ill but alive. There was my handwriting and my signature. The patient was the same one. The hospital setting was the same. But, was I the same?

Who was I then and who am I now? Am I any more human than before? Any wiser, any kinder, any better or worse? Any more compassionate? Could my patient and others tell the difference if any? Do I feel any different within myself? Is it different being with other people? I haven’t analysed any of this as it is too subtle for words.

Music occupied most of the space in my head then. Now it is Saagar, his suffering, mental illness and the wrath it unleashes on families. Working took up most of my time then and now it is meeting with people and finding ways to reduce this suffering. I didn’t pay too much attention to my feelings and those of others but now I do. I used to be so critical of my writing that I never sent out ‘global’ e-mails to my colleagues. I kept a personal journal into which I made entries maybe once a month or so. Now I write everyday for myself and for anyone in the world who might want to read.

While there is something within us that never changes, we change all the time. Change is the only constant.

Day 492

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image

She is 40. Fit, healthy and smiling anxiously. She is in the hospital because she needs help with being able to be a mother. The doctors have given her some medicines to increase the number of mature eggs in her ovaries to help her with in-vitro fertilisation. She is on the operating table. Her husband waits outside. She is deeply sedated for harvesting of the eggs. The surgeon can see 2 follicles and he drains them both. He makes doubly sure that he has done everything he can to get the eggs out of those follicles for her.

My assistant sits in the corner, praying with her eyes closed and all of us have our fingers crossed. The embryologist from nextdoor comes back – ‘No eggs.’ There is a stunned silence in the room. Unbelievable! Everyone stops. The energy in the room drops to the floor.

We keep her asleep for a bit longer and take a few moments to mourn the loss of hope. The loss of a possibility, a future. The loss of what could have been. The loss of something that didn’t actually exist in that moment.

While feeling this way, I was utterly grateful for having experienced motherhood with all its joys and trials.

‘Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.’ – Alfred Lord Tennyson.

Day 490

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Time to Talk – A service for people affected by suicide.
This year it will be held at St Martin-in-the-Fields, Trafalgar square. London on the 27th of February from 10.30-11.30 am.
It is a non-religious service and all are welcome.

“Gentleness is an old-fashioned word. I want to describe what it means and why it is so important.

To be affected by suicide is to be surrounded by enemies: sometimes memories, fears, isolation, shame, guilt, regret: the enemy of loss, failure, doubt – the unknown. It’s not hard to feel powerless and out of control when it feels like there are so many enemies.

One of the most paradoxical of all the sayings in the Bible is, ‘My strength is made perfect in weakness’. The way to address our vulnerability, our fear and our self-destructiveness is not with some great show of strength. It’s through making friends with our weakness. And the name for that is gentleness.

It’s all very well to say, ’Be gentle with yourself.’ But what does that mean? Possibly 3 things :

The first is silence. It can feel like a great enemy, because if you stop moving or talking or tuning into some kind of gadget, then your mind can go into overdrive. But silence can become a friend if it turns from a place of absence to a theatre of presence. Silence is for listening to the abundance of what’s out there, birds that sing and tweet, breezes that stir and swing, a tiny, busy world of insects and creatures. Silence is for watching, paying attention to texture, depth, hidden beauty and delicate detail, wispy cloud, distant blue sky and intricate snowflakes. Time, instead of being a threat or a diminishing commodity, becomes irrelevant. Silence stops being the interval between distractions and starts being the place of exhilarating, infinite discovery. It’s a fruit of gentleness.

The second thing gentleness means is touch. Many of the feelings associated with suicide are violent, sudden ones. Gentleness embraces those feelings but issues in tender touch. Holding a person’s hand says, ’I’m here. This is good. You can trust me. I am not going to run away. I’m not in a hurry. Your body, your life, your presence, your hand – it’s good. I’m not going to grab it. I am going to cherish it. Holding your hand I can feel the mystery of your flesh, the blood coruscating in your veins, the warmth and softness and creativity of your fingers. These are mysterious and wondrous things. We were made for solidarity. We were made to stand by each other in times of sorrow and distress. No one is an island. Together we are a continent. Those are the tender things touch teaches. They are the fruit of gentleness.

And then, when we have made a foundation of silence and touch, then you can begin to try words. In the absence of silence and touch, words can seem disembodied, arbitrary, meaningless. But if you have made friends with silence and trusted yourself to find good ways to touch, words don’t have to be too much work. Actions have already spoken. Understanding is already there. Words are faltering attempts to give feelings, images and ideas a name. If they are surrounded by silence and touch, those words usually come out very gently. Harsh words hurt. Gentle words heal.

Sometimes it may seem that happiness is way out of reach. But the truth is that happiness seldom comes to those who go looking for it. It’s only discovered on the way by people who are seeking something more important. Silence, touch and words are that something more important. They’re the way to show solidarity to one another.They’re the way to dismantle the enemies that sometimes seem to surround us. They’re the way to be gentle with ourselves. They’re the way, slowly, carefully, cautiously, to learn to live again.”

-An excerpt from Revd. Dr Sam Wells’ address from Time to Talk service held on 28th Feb 2015.

Day 484

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There is no grave.
I remember him everywhere, especially the places where he lived, where he was happy and sad, where he enjoyed friendships and competition, winning and loosing, music and sport, playing and learning, solitude and company.

Our house has been renovated over the past few months. He would have loved how it looks and feels now. I hope he can see it from wherever he is. I can picture him sprawled on the sofa in the lounge with his cat Milkshake, cooking in the new kitchen and really enjoying entertaining his friends here.

I used to jokingly say to him, “Don’t believe everything you hear. There is nothing wrong with men who live with their Mums till they are 30 or 40. You can stay here for as long as you like.”

While he was physically here, I used to sometimes forget about him and go about my life. But now he is always with me. Not for a moment does his absence leave me. In a special way he is always present.

Will I ever be able to assign him completely to the past?
Will I ever be able to assign myself fully to the present?
Can the 2 states peacefully co-exist?

“If neurotic is wanting two mutually exclusive things at one and the same time, then I’m neurotic as hell. I’ll be flying back and forth between one mutually exclusive thing and another for the rest of my days.”

― Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

Day 481

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Not just today but everyday is a series of pretenses, not just to others but mainly to myself.

All deaths need to be registered and a Death Certificate issued. I go to the Registry Office and pay 24 pounds to collect 2 copies. While waiting, I am surrounded by young parents with their newly born children, registering their births. I pretend that it’s ok. I am ok. I should have brought someone with me but I didn’t think it would be required. After all, it’s only a piece of paper.

From there I go to his school to see how his (memorial) bench is coming along and meet up with the team creating it. I see it semi-made in the Design and Technology lab. The effort and thought being put into it is visible. It is going to look fab and funky, I think. I take Saagar’s memory book to share with the young man making the bench. He can now see how fab and funky it needs to be. He gets it I think. But at the end of the day, it’s not Saagar, it’s just a bench.

After months I am ready to give up his school blazer. I take it into the second hand shop at the school. I check the pockets to find a pink fountain pen, an ink cartridge and a sheet of typed French notes with corrections in his handwriting. I put these things in my bag and place the blazer on the counter, saying I wish to return this. The lady across smiles and asks me if I would like a refund. I smile, decline and say, ”It’s yours.” I caress it lovingly and walk away with tears in my eyes. It’s only a blazer.