My flight to Chennai was at 22:40. Joe, my husband was driving fast towards JFK. I sat with my daughter, Nimmi at the back as she was fast asleep in her seat.
Joe whispered, “Helen, you must be prepared for the worst. Mom is after all 81.”
“Yes, I know,” I said.
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Five days ago we received a call from Frank, my eldest brother. He informed us that mom had been having persistent cough for a couple of months and now there were traces of blood when she spit. That rang a warning bell. Mom had expressed her wish to see me. On Tuesday morning, we got the shocking news that she had had a fall and fractured her hip bone and had been admitted in the hospital. This was a second blow to me. The surgery was scheduled to take place on Wednesday afternoon when I would be in Abu Dhabi.
We were almost at the airport. Fortunately, there was absolutely no traffic jam.
“Sandy has offered to take care of Nimmi in the evenings. Do keep in touch with her if you are held up at work, Joe,” I reminded him.
I must have sounded awfully worried. Nimmi was only eight years old, but surprisingly, quite mature for her age.
“You can talk to Nimmi every day on Skype. Don’t worry darling.”
“Here, we are at Terminal 4, Etihad Airways.” Joe got our luggage out and Nimmi woke up. I stood holding her hand. She was still quite groggy.
“I want to come with you. I want to see granny too,” she whined. “During Spring break, you can come with dad,” I pacified her.
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The minute my luggage was booked, I urged Joe to take Nimmi home as I didn’t want any emotional scene. Joe’s parting words were, “You are a strong woman. I know how much you love mom but you must learn to…”
“Accept things,” I ended the sentence lamely.
I watched father and daughter go hand in hand. I am so blessed to have a husband like Joe. He is a thorough gentleman.
His first words to my Dad were, “I ask for no terms. I only ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage.”
After hearing the announcement that the boarding had started, I made my way to gate 13 and boarded the plane. Once I settled in my seat, I fished out mom’s photo from my hand bag and looked at her beaming, happy face at dad’s 60th birthday celebration, surrounded by my three brothers and their wives. I was a teenager and was kneeling behind mom with my face resting on her shoulder and her hand caressing my cheek. Many thoughts raced through my mind. Mom made sure my childhood was rosy and secure; my education excellent. All my three older brothers, Frank, John and Robert were jealous of mom’s love for me. They were all graduates but I did Electronics at Cornell and worked for Micro Devices Corporation. My self
confidence, my place in this shifting world, my sense of who I am and what I can accomplish—all of these are the results of mom’s love and constant encouragement. She guided me throughout my life and watched over me. She shaped my vision.
The flight to Abu Dhabi was tiring. I tried to doze off. I had the opportunity to stretch my legs at the airport. The next lap of flight to Chennai was comparatively short and sweet. Frank, my eldest brother came to the airport to pick me up and dropped me at mom’s bungalow. He gave me the good news that the surgery was a success. The hip surgery was done with a pacemaker as she was a heart patient. I could see her in the evening during visiting hours.
Frank picked me up and took me to the hospital. He was in charge of signing papers, issuing cheques, paying bills and operating mom’s bank accounts. We referred to him as “Mr. Know-All.” He was the apple of mom’s eyes, I was not too sure whether mom loved him more than me, or loved me more than him!
When I entered the dimly-lit room in the hospital, I saw mom lying on her back with her eyes closed. I stood petrified. She looked so frail, helpless and emaciated. Sensing someone’s presence, she opened her eyes. The minute she saw me, she held out her arms. I rushed to her bedside. Tears were threatening to spill. Why am I crying? I am supposed to be a strong woman. Mom held up her thumb and smiled weakly.
“Surgery, OK,” she whispered.
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When I stepped outside the room, Frank broke the news that he had got a call from the oncologist that mom’s X-rays revealed that she had lung cancer and was in the 4th stage. I felt I was sinking. My resilience was tested. Cancer, the dreaded word sent shivers down my spine. How could it have crept up so quickly without any symptoms? It was already terminal. Frank added that the oncologist has made it clear that the chances of survival were very slim. He had ruled out radiation, chemotherapy and surgery at her age and condition. All my three brothers decided not to break the news to mom then. They would wait till she was home.
A fortnight passed in the hospital, before we could take her home. The doctors said the caregivers should be patient, compassionate and help the patient maintain a sense of dignity. The loved one’s emotional health is as important as her physical condition, we were told. When mom returned to her own home and settled in her bed she gestured to me to sit by her side.
“Helen, do I have TB?”
“No,” I shook my head vigorously.
“I feel so exhausted, my back and shoulders hurt and this persistent cough bothers me.”
I gently massaged her back
and shoulders. She was just skin and bone.
“Is it cancer? Tell me the truth. The nurses were talking…” She held my hand and looked into my eyes.
I nodded my head dumbly. My brothers were supposed to break the news. Where were they?
Her eyes filled with tears. She had been an incredibly strong and independent woman all these years. Even after dad’s death, she stayed alone in the big bungalow by herself, managed her finances, held her painting exhibitions and gave the proceeds to an orphanage much to her sons’ annoyance.
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Cancer, I learnt is a family disease that does not just affect the patient but the entire family. Many caregivers struggle with having to balance their own lives in conjunction with the new responsibilities of caring for their loved one. I spent all my waking hours with mom. I bathed her, dressed her, combed her silver grey hair, made dishes like almond soup, custard, puddings, and vegetable stew, coaxed her to eat, talked to her about happier days, saw BBC films with her, played music and read out short stories. She talked about her childhood, marriage and her sons and how happy she was to have me, a daughter at last. My brothers dropped in once a day at odd times to see mom. My sisters-in-law came occasionally as if to mark attendance and left giving me some advice about care giving!
I awoke each morning to start a new day with hope. But the prospect of losing mom never went away. The urge in me was to be able to be by her side attending to her needs as she had spent her whole life attending to ours. The challenge was to make her more comfortable. I tried to calm her nerves with positive talk, but I could see the effect of the drugs she was taking—loss of appetite, nausea, and mouth sores. I had no idea how much time she had left. Mom was given morphine injections as the focus now was on pain management. I will never forget when mother turned towards me with difficulty and said, “I’m not going to make it Helen, am I?”
She came to the realisation of her impending death. So there was pressure to say everything before it was too late.
“I won’t be going to Paris and I won’t be having another painting exhibition,” she said sadly. She caressed my hands gently and said, ” You work too hard, Helen. Joe is a wonderful man. You are blessed with a child like Nimmi. Relax
and enjoy life…” Both of us shed tears silently.
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I talked to Joe and Nimmi every night on Skype. Joe hesitantly told me that Nimmi was ill with viral fever and she was fretting and was asking for me. I was in a fix. Joe was deputed to go to South Korea for four weeks. Why would fate conspire in such a way to separate me from mom? When I broke the news to mom hesitantly, she ordered me to return to New York and bring Nimmi back with me as she wanted to see her one last time. It was an emotional blackmail. She assured me that she would move into the home of one of her sons, temporarily. I promised mom that I would be back in a week’s time. It would be no problem as I would be taking sabbatical leave.
It was the biggest shock to mom when all her three sons refused to take her in giving some excuse or the other. To add insult to injury a few days earlier, Frank asked mom to transfer most of her money from her account to his as he explained he had to pay the bills. I remembered the counselor saying that when patients are faced with losing control over their finances, they experience emotions ranging from fear to anger. Mom was very angry. I spoke to her every day from New York.
I returned to Chennai after a week with Nimmi. We took a cab and reached home around 7 AM. I was devastated. Mom was in a deep coma-like state. The nurse informed me that Frank had brought a new doctor, an expert in palliative care. Mom was given a morphine injection. Her oncologist was not consulted. I was in a state of shock. I sat by her side the whole day. Mom never opened her eyes. She remained unconscious. When I knelt to pray at 7 PM, mom breathed her last.
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Her skin was cold as I gave her one last kiss. I informed my three brothers. Tears blinded my eyes. Everything turned grey. She will never know how much she has taught me and how deep the lessons went. Grief is so relentless and unforgiving. On one hand, I wanted to talk about mom to my siblings but on the other hand I couldn’t bring myself to talk about her to bridge the gap that had grown between us.
Just then the nurse picked up a torn cheque from the waste paper basket and handed over the pieces to me. It was for #20 lakh with the words Pay to Helen—my name blurred because of my tears. Who had destroyed it?
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She adopted me as a seven-month-old baby from ‘Karunalaya’, an orphanage. I know nothing about my biological mother or my past. Mom was my world.
As I bid goodbye to my brothers, a subtle barrier rose between us. I felt bitter when I thought of their treatment of mom in her last days. Their greed had blinded them. They forgot their filial duty.
“You can take mom’s sketch books, paints, brushes…all that stuff,” said John.
“Won’t you attend the funeral?” asked Robert.
“Yes, I will.” I picked up mom’s painting kit and walked out of the house with Nimmi. The nurse stood crying at the door.
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I was not bone of her bones or flesh of her flesh, but what kept me going all these years was my connection with mom, her abundant love and above all the lessons she taught me. For all the remaining years of my life on this earth, I will miss my mom’s laughter and her lust for life. I will never forget the lessons of kindness and care she taught me. She helped me to see the good and be positive—and that will sustain me throughout my life.
