From the vortex of grief: The sounds of terror

For three weeks now, I have found no words to express what I'm going through. I've sat in stony silence with a gamut of my emotions- shock, denial, grief, rage and despair. Several times I thought of writing, but couldn't do it. Why paint a picture of this horror for others to read? Is it not enough that my family and I are suffering through this perpetual agony? But I lay my soul bare and bleed out these words here for the same reasons that I have always turned to writing. Words are my communion with this world, and my best coping mechanism. During this devastating period, I felt utterly alone. I have family and friends, people who try their best to support and help me, but intense grief is extremely isolating. Well meant platitudes grate on my wounded ear. Even when people call or visit, it reminds me of the fact that their lives are normal, and that mine is shattered beyond repair. It was as though I was walled up in a sound proofed house of transparent glass, and though people could see me, they just couldn't understand what I was screaming out. I've had to remind myself over a hundred times that almost everyone I know would have dealt with sickness, death and grief or will deal with it during the course of their lives. God forbid any of my readers go through this. But if you do, I hope that these words, chronicling the darkest days of my life, give you some succor and make you feel less alone. 

Three weeks ago, on a night that seemed as normal as any other, I was finishing up with my day. A friend who I'd not spoken to in ages called, and I was speaking to her happily. At around 10pm, my Mom called me. I saw the notification, but no alarm bells went off in my head. This was the time she usually finished work, and she'd several times call me afterwards. I disconnected the call, making a note to call back in 10 minutes. Five minutes later, my husband who was in the middle of a work call, rushed out and told me: Your mom called. She said your dad fell down and isn't able to get up. She's called an ambulance. Let's go, hurry up.

I was alarmed, but assumed that this meant a fracture. I was ready to leave in a minute, and called my mom to check on the ambulance. What happened?

I just came back from work, and saw him fall down onto the floor. He's fully conscious, but unable to move his left arm and leg. I tried lifting him up, but I'm not able to. I've called the ambulance, but I don't know when they're coming.

My heart turned cold with dread. Left arm and leg not moving meant only one thing. A stroke. I instantly called up another ambulance, hoping that someone would get there in time. Suddenly, 9kms away in the same city seemed too far away. It would be at least half hour before we reached their place. But we still drove, because even a slight chance that we could help was enough. Bangalore traffic and road construction greeted us that night, and I felt helpless. Finally, half an hour after he fell, one of the ambulances reached, and we turned back towards the hospital. I felt awful as I listened to my mom. 

There was no one to lift him as the driver had come alone. We had to call a stranger from the street.

Why had I not gone home that night? I should have been there, I could have helped. I cursed myself.

She had started to cry by now. He was fully conscious for that half hour. He kept stretching out his right hand and asking me and your grandpa to lift him. I just couldn't, and he lay on that cold floor, looking puzzled as to why he couldn't get up. It killed me to see him like this.

Logically, there was no way she or my grandpa could have lifted him up, especially when paralyzed on one side. My mom was 65, and my grandpa was 92. Neither of them could have managed it, and my mom and I both realized this. Yet, I could understand and echo her agony. To watch a loved one ask you for help and not be able to do anything is utterly horrible. All the logic in this world will not help you make your peace with it.

We waited at the hospital for the ambulance. Every time I heard the siren of one, I shivered in dread. The very sound brought back horrible memories for me. My grandma's stroke, the repeat seizures following that, my aunt's cancer, my grandpa's countless hospitalizations, memories I had repressed and never wanted to confront. And on that night, I waited impatiently for this very sound that terrorized me, because it carried the hope that he would get medical care in time. Finally, the ambulance reached, and I looked at the stretcher. My Dad lay there, barely conscious, looking so frail that it shocked me. That was when it hit me. Even though he had aged over the years, in my head, he was still the strong cheerful healthy man who had taken care of me all these years. Despite his trinity of illnesses- diabetes, hypertension and heart disease- I'd been sure that he had many good years in store. I had never feared for his life, or inhabited the heart-wrenching black hole of uncertainty. Would he see the next morning? Would he ever be able to walk again? Would I have a few more days with him? I had no answers to any of these questions, and it made me look at life so differently.

That night, I did not sleep a wink. Slowly, the adrenaline faded away, and the horror of this incident sunk in. I came back home at 6am, and the bucket of hot water I'd let out the previous night to have a relaxing bath greeted me, as cold as the despair in my heart. 

Since then, I have not been able to hear the phone ring without feeling intensely anxious. Every time it rings, I feel like fresh disaster awaits me on the other end. Yet, I cannot put in on silent for fear that I'll miss out something critical. I live with the terror of its ring, just like I've done with the wail of the ambulance all these years.