My mum had breast cancer and she passed on a year ago. She was cured of cancer but there were other health complications. We speak a lot about diversity and inclusion. From my experience, attending to a loved one who is dying a little bit in front of your eyes every day and how the various members of the family cope with this is a HUGE lesson in this topic. My brother and father were arranging for funds for the treatment. I have very little faith in Big Pharma so I was arranging for sound healing and in a rather desperate moment, even sourced marijuana. It helped my mom sleep through at least one night in peace. As time passed, my brother panicked more, trying to get anything or anyone to prolong her life. My father would sit with her every day (they had been together for 50 odd years.)
I started praying hard but the more I saw her, I prayed that if she felt better right, then she move on. My brother had no patience for my 'Tibetan book of living and dyibg' kind of talk. I was aghast at this slavish stupidity to keep pumping meds into someone who just wanted to be left alone in peace. My father was aghast that his kids were so selfish about holding on to their own points of view.
We still cobbled to hold it together. Then one day, early morning, we got a call. THE call from my father who spent every night in the hospital outside the ICU. He called me. I went to the room to wake up my brother. He woke up with a shock.
We sat in the car. I was sobbing. My brother looked at me and tried to ask me why I was crying. He couldn't because he was choked.
We reached the hospital. They didn't ask us for the visitors pass or anything. As we entered the room, the doctor said that they tried to save her. She was a young doctor and was wearing a bright blue and white salwar kameez. I don't know why that is important to write. But anyway, here it is.
My mom, my sweet, beautiful baby, was asleep. She always had great skin and that time, her skin was soft. Like butter. I saw a pigeon outside. I saw rain outside. I heard my brother crying and my father asking the doctor for the formalities.
Each of us miss Ma in different ways. My father loved her and knew her in a way that my mom understood. This is not a small thing. To have a partner who loves you in a way that you understand is like capturing lighting in a bottle. My brother still thinks of her the way a child was. My mother loved my brother to bits...loved and protected him, sometimes from himself.
What my mother was to me...what she IS to me is my life's work to find out. She is the little prism inside my head that sees through details and facts and catches a story. What I was to her...one day, she told me that I was her coconut tree. Strong. Not outwardly wild. But untamed.
Ma was very popular. And popular people have lots of admirers. And when they pass away, as their family member, you feel that these other people, these outsiders...have colonized your grief. I felt this way when my cousin made a compilation of Ma's photographs and sent it to me. I was very angry. I felt it was uncouth. I was angry at a friend who had made a list of recipes of my mom's favourite foods. I thought that was just uncultured behaviour of not minding your space. But my brother was happy and delighted that Ma's memories were being kept alive. Even though he felt so sad that he couldn't sit through the compilation or flip through the recipes. I saw it and understood that love and grief really belong to no-one. My father kept repeating the compilation 5-6 times with a quiet smile.
Ma used to tell me that I should write stories about her because she was so absolutely fabulous. I used to ask her to please be a little humble. "But why?! It's the truth." It is, of course.
It's been one year and I am alive. I mean I am blogging about this, after all. But I really don't understand the logistics of living without a mother. How does it actually happen?
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