Sleeping on a couch that was barely as wide as me, and which only allowed for me to lie on it if I assumed the shape of a poorly drawn comma, I realized that I smelled strongly of hospital-fumigant, coffee and a latent fatigue that begins to display itself beyond a certain stage.
On a bed next to my sofa lay Mother, exhausted after a surgery that took much longer than the textbooks would have had us believe, sedated with motley drugs and all that surgical intrusion. I suppose I must tell you right away that fortunately, the operation went well, and she was now firmly standing on that bridge that would lead her to good health in the coming months.
I looked at her supine form in that semi-dark room, and she looked so fragile to me. I was afraid to allow even the nurses to get too close to her or poke needles into those prominent veins on her arms. I wondered how long it would be until she would be back to her normal self, making lame jokes or telling me off for being a spoilt brat. I had lived the past few months with that looming shroud of worry and fear over my head that didn't allow me to look too far into the future.
We realize in times such as these how dependent we are on love and on those who love us, because suddenly, the rug under your feet seems to have been pulled away by forces greater than what you had predicted, and you are devoid of all guarantees and assurances. You are stripped bare and exposed for the person you could possibly become if you had to exist without having love in your life. The crankiness, the perpetual heavy-headed feeling, the desire to gobble down a sharp long breath of air every two minutes, the insomnia-- they can really get to you.
I know for a fact that I have been rather insufferable off late and snapped at people for reasons as random as breathing too loudly next to me.
Today, there is a sense of relief, and waves of gratitude that are washing over my tired self periodically with what feels like a secret sedative. Mother is now back home and sleeping on her own bed, wearing her own clothes. The shroud of worry and fear hasn't dissolved completely, but it merely behaves like a light tint now, not being able to harass me half as much.
But I will never forget that night when she had just been brought in from the OR-- pale as a woman who's possibly never been in the sun, cold as an ice-sculpture, wearing light blue scrubs, barely conscious, and yet when she saw me, she smiled that beautiful warm smile of hers and extended her hand to me. I took her hand in mine and kissed it.
Things would be okay; I would need to be patient and she would have to be strong, but we would be okay.
On a bed next to my sofa lay Mother, exhausted after a surgery that took much longer than the textbooks would have had us believe, sedated with motley drugs and all that surgical intrusion. I suppose I must tell you right away that fortunately, the operation went well, and she was now firmly standing on that bridge that would lead her to good health in the coming months.
I looked at her supine form in that semi-dark room, and she looked so fragile to me. I was afraid to allow even the nurses to get too close to her or poke needles into those prominent veins on her arms. I wondered how long it would be until she would be back to her normal self, making lame jokes or telling me off for being a spoilt brat. I had lived the past few months with that looming shroud of worry and fear over my head that didn't allow me to look too far into the future.
We realize in times such as these how dependent we are on love and on those who love us, because suddenly, the rug under your feet seems to have been pulled away by forces greater than what you had predicted, and you are devoid of all guarantees and assurances. You are stripped bare and exposed for the person you could possibly become if you had to exist without having love in your life. The crankiness, the perpetual heavy-headed feeling, the desire to gobble down a sharp long breath of air every two minutes, the insomnia-- they can really get to you.
I know for a fact that I have been rather insufferable off late and snapped at people for reasons as random as breathing too loudly next to me.
Today, there is a sense of relief, and waves of gratitude that are washing over my tired self periodically with what feels like a secret sedative. Mother is now back home and sleeping on her own bed, wearing her own clothes. The shroud of worry and fear hasn't dissolved completely, but it merely behaves like a light tint now, not being able to harass me half as much.
But I will never forget that night when she had just been brought in from the OR-- pale as a woman who's possibly never been in the sun, cold as an ice-sculpture, wearing light blue scrubs, barely conscious, and yet when she saw me, she smiled that beautiful warm smile of hers and extended her hand to me. I took her hand in mine and kissed it.
Things would be okay; I would need to be patient and she would have to be strong, but we would be okay.
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