Yesterday, I happened to read something on Jeff Foster's page - a story of a home carer. And I was reminded of a time in my life, about eight years ago, when I was in a similar situation, with my father. As I read every word that he had shared, my eyes welled up. I felt a great wave of emotion rise inside and crash against the insides of my body. It was as if every cell was asking me to speak and break the silent wall that held so much within. So here I am as I tear open myself and make room for that wave to find another shore to crash on....to set it free into the ever expanding folds of the cosmos...
It was July 2006, and Raghav, had just turned one, when my father got seriously ill and was rushed to the hospital. When we admitted him, all he was complaining of was breathlessness. I still remember that day vividly. My mother and their driver took him in their car, and on the way, they stopped by at my place to say bye. I couldn't do much with a baby who was demanding and wouldn't stay with my in-laws, or for that matter, anyone else except me. Actually, none of us thought there was something seriously wrong with my father....until they reached the hospital. My father then slipped into unconsciousness and was admitted into the ICCU with septicemia and multiple organ failure. We were all shocked beyond words and feelings. I rushed to the hospital with baby and his paraphernalia in tow- toys to keep him busy, his very own potty (he would not go anywhere else), some snacks and fruits (thank God I was still breast-feeding him and did not have to take his food too) and his clothes and cloth diapers (he would not use any other, even in emergency). That was to be our home for the next three months or so. Every morning, we would be there and stay until late at night, when my husband would come and pick us up, only to do a one hour drive back home. Every single day. Day after day.
My father slipped in and out of consciousness, got better and came out of the ICU twice, only to get back in there again, after an intestinal haemorrhage and other serious problems in his spine. He almost died a few times. I remember how when I went into the ICU one day to see him, he was talking to himself loudly. He was in a small isolated room inside the ICU. I listened to him scared and confused. To us, it seemed like he was hallucinating, but to him it was real. He spoke in a loud, gutteral voice, quite unlike his usual self. He was giving a speech of sorts to someone. I held his hand and just listened till he finished, and then, without a word, came away. I really thought I was losing him. It was much later, when he was back home, that he was able to recollect that near-death experience and tell us what he had felt and experienced. He told us how he had seen a beautiful field of flowers and grass and how he was talking to God. I realised then how easy it was for us as spectators to make assumptions and pass judgements on what we were seeing with our eyes, and not our hearts.
When he was in the ICU, one night, I remember we all stayed there, as he was very critical. My mother waited outside the ICU, her face pale and still, her hands tightly clasped in prayer. She was stoic. My husband was with her, while I was with Raghav in the room, sobbing and praying. The doctors had come out to tell my mother that they had to put my father on the ventilator. She didn't want that. Nor did he I think. For when the doctors tried to put him on the ventilator, he started breathing on his own again! Everyone at the hospital felt that it was a miracle that he had survived all that. Well, he recovered from his illness and many setbacks, after a few months in hospital. Raghav around him everyday at the hospital, playing with him or just simply being there, was enough to revive his spirit and get him onto the road to recovery.
He was completely bed-ridden though, when he came back home, after three months at the hospital. He could barely move himself. He could not sit up. He could not speak much and for long. He was exhausted and his spirit seemed crushed. For the first time, I saw my father break down. He could not imagine himself lying like a vegetable in bed, unable to do very much. He had to use a urine bottle and a bed pan to ease himself. He had to be sponged down every day. He had to be lifted up physically every time he slid down the bed, or had to eat or drink something. He had to be fed every single meal.
He could not accept that he had to be dependent on someone physically. He could not see himself like that. He refused to have a nurse. He was angry and devastated at the same time. But he managed to get himself back up from that rat hole. We could not have done that for him. Only he could have, and he did. All that we did was to shower him with unconditional love.
I remember how my mother took care of him through all that, and with love and devotion. Not once did she flinch. And when she had done her bit and left for work, I took over from her. Every single day, Raghav and I would go to be with him through the day. I cannot imagine how I coped with a man who needed to be mothered and completely taken care of, and a demanding baby who needed me at an instant. But we managed. There was so much that I learned about myself and my limits. When I felt stretched, Life seemed to want me to stretch some more, every single time!
I too, like the man in the story, found myself washing faeces off an old man’s bottom and testicles, with cotton wool dipped in warm water. And every single time, I told myself that I had to do it with love. Because that was the only way I could and wanted to do it. That was the only way he would start loving himself again. Soon, he got out of his feeling useless and helpless. I could see it in his body language. His body was no longer taut and writhing with embarrassment or shame of being cleaned by his daughter. He came back to the now. There was no self-pity. He had somehow found a way to deeply accept what Life had doled out to him once again.
It took a long time and a lot of energy to hoist him up, clean him and change his sheet each time he eased himself. I needed help to hoist him up, and had to call our house help's husband each time. I remember how all this got to him at some point and he yelled back at me and my father once saying, " What do you think? Am I here to do all this for you?" Those words hit me like a bullet, tearing through my skin and leaving a gaping hole somewhere inside. I was angry and pained. But I also understood how he must feel. My father was miserable and sobbed. But we managed to move on.
After that day, I somehow mustered up strength to hoist my father up on my own. I don't know where that strength came from.
But I am grateful to Life for having shown me how there is always a way to make space within and without for more. Just a little more. Always.
It was July 2006, and Raghav, had just turned one, when my father got seriously ill and was rushed to the hospital. When we admitted him, all he was complaining of was breathlessness. I still remember that day vividly. My mother and their driver took him in their car, and on the way, they stopped by at my place to say bye. I couldn't do much with a baby who was demanding and wouldn't stay with my in-laws, or for that matter, anyone else except me. Actually, none of us thought there was something seriously wrong with my father....until they reached the hospital. My father then slipped into unconsciousness and was admitted into the ICCU with septicemia and multiple organ failure. We were all shocked beyond words and feelings. I rushed to the hospital with baby and his paraphernalia in tow- toys to keep him busy, his very own potty (he would not go anywhere else), some snacks and fruits (thank God I was still breast-feeding him and did not have to take his food too) and his clothes and cloth diapers (he would not use any other, even in emergency). That was to be our home for the next three months or so. Every morning, we would be there and stay until late at night, when my husband would come and pick us up, only to do a one hour drive back home. Every single day. Day after day.
My father slipped in and out of consciousness, got better and came out of the ICU twice, only to get back in there again, after an intestinal haemorrhage and other serious problems in his spine. He almost died a few times. I remember how when I went into the ICU one day to see him, he was talking to himself loudly. He was in a small isolated room inside the ICU. I listened to him scared and confused. To us, it seemed like he was hallucinating, but to him it was real. He spoke in a loud, gutteral voice, quite unlike his usual self. He was giving a speech of sorts to someone. I held his hand and just listened till he finished, and then, without a word, came away. I really thought I was losing him. It was much later, when he was back home, that he was able to recollect that near-death experience and tell us what he had felt and experienced. He told us how he had seen a beautiful field of flowers and grass and how he was talking to God. I realised then how easy it was for us as spectators to make assumptions and pass judgements on what we were seeing with our eyes, and not our hearts.
When he was in the ICU, one night, I remember we all stayed there, as he was very critical. My mother waited outside the ICU, her face pale and still, her hands tightly clasped in prayer. She was stoic. My husband was with her, while I was with Raghav in the room, sobbing and praying. The doctors had come out to tell my mother that they had to put my father on the ventilator. She didn't want that. Nor did he I think. For when the doctors tried to put him on the ventilator, he started breathing on his own again! Everyone at the hospital felt that it was a miracle that he had survived all that. Well, he recovered from his illness and many setbacks, after a few months in hospital. Raghav around him everyday at the hospital, playing with him or just simply being there, was enough to revive his spirit and get him onto the road to recovery.
He was completely bed-ridden though, when he came back home, after three months at the hospital. He could barely move himself. He could not sit up. He could not speak much and for long. He was exhausted and his spirit seemed crushed. For the first time, I saw my father break down. He could not imagine himself lying like a vegetable in bed, unable to do very much. He had to use a urine bottle and a bed pan to ease himself. He had to be sponged down every day. He had to be lifted up physically every time he slid down the bed, or had to eat or drink something. He had to be fed every single meal.
He could not accept that he had to be dependent on someone physically. He could not see himself like that. He refused to have a nurse. He was angry and devastated at the same time. But he managed to get himself back up from that rat hole. We could not have done that for him. Only he could have, and he did. All that we did was to shower him with unconditional love.
I remember how my mother took care of him through all that, and with love and devotion. Not once did she flinch. And when she had done her bit and left for work, I took over from her. Every single day, Raghav and I would go to be with him through the day. I cannot imagine how I coped with a man who needed to be mothered and completely taken care of, and a demanding baby who needed me at an instant. But we managed. There was so much that I learned about myself and my limits. When I felt stretched, Life seemed to want me to stretch some more, every single time!
I too, like the man in the story, found myself washing faeces off an old man’s bottom and testicles, with cotton wool dipped in warm water. And every single time, I told myself that I had to do it with love. Because that was the only way I could and wanted to do it. That was the only way he would start loving himself again. Soon, he got out of his feeling useless and helpless. I could see it in his body language. His body was no longer taut and writhing with embarrassment or shame of being cleaned by his daughter. He came back to the now. There was no self-pity. He had somehow found a way to deeply accept what Life had doled out to him once again.
It took a long time and a lot of energy to hoist him up, clean him and change his sheet each time he eased himself. I needed help to hoist him up, and had to call our house help's husband each time. I remember how all this got to him at some point and he yelled back at me and my father once saying, " What do you think? Am I here to do all this for you?" Those words hit me like a bullet, tearing through my skin and leaving a gaping hole somewhere inside. I was angry and pained. But I also understood how he must feel. My father was miserable and sobbed. But we managed to move on.
After that day, I somehow mustered up strength to hoist my father up on my own. I don't know where that strength came from.
But I am grateful to Life for having shown me how there is always a way to make space within and without for more. Just a little more. Always.
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