Reflections of a restless eccentric

It is my ritual to write a thanksgiving post every time I turn a year older. Last year, I had ten months of normal life and one really tragic month. I focused on the ten and all the happy moments they had. But this year, I've spent all 12 months under the dark umbrella of grief. There hasn't been a single day in this year where I've been untouched by sorrow, stress or worry. I've forgotten what it is to have a normal life. To have a few days of pure and unadulterated happiness and peace. What do I have to be thankful for then?  A lot, actually. It can be really surprising to learn this, but grief and gratitude can co-exist. In the initial days following my dad's stroke, I experienced a profound sense of gratitude even for the smallest things. I was living on the edge, and felt the uncertainty of life in every breath. That actually made it easy for me to be grateful, even for the all things I'd taken for granted in the past.  I remember ordering a few essentials

It has been a year since the day of my father's stroke. A year that feels like a lifetime. A lifetime of pain, worry and grief. As a habitual overthinker, I wonder, apart from being on this insane emotional roller-coaster, is there anything that I have learnt from all this? Anything I can say that might be remotely helpful to someone else navigating choppy waters? And that's how I ended up writing this. When something goes awry in a big way, it is natural to feel sad, worried or afraid. There is nothing wrong with this, and it is perfectly fine to feel these emotions.  But what I think is completely avoidable is the struggles that come out of our ideas of fairness and how our lives should play out. For a long time, I have known that life is not fair. Consciously, I'd never even expected life to be fair to me. But I've spent many a day in misery because somehow, I still felt angry and betrayed and upset. For instance, I'd feel very triggered when I met relatives or f

For 3 months now, I have found no words to describe what is happening. Some horrors are best left undescribed, I think, and endure in silence. When people ask me How is your father doing? I struggle to find the words. For how do I tell them that the person I've always loved and looked up to has turned into a monster I barely recognize? How do I tell them that the person who was brave and strong all his life has become an emotional wreck? How do I tell them that I struggle to stay in his presence even for 5 minutes, that it feels like nothing short of torture to listen to his endless screams? How do I tell them any of this, all of this, while still respecting and honoring my father? I felt guilty and hesitant even when I think about it, and so I have labeled these thoughts unspeakable, and never given voice to them. But this is my reality now, a sordid and gruesome one that I must wake up to and confront, even if it makes me want to have never existed. Till yesterday, when a strang

 I have not written for a while now, because I have been upset at my reality and the dissonance between that and what I wanted. I had expected my father's recovery to be slow and arduous, but I was completely unprepared for the emotional state it left him in. I have seen my father as a strong and resilient individual, and he has overcome many setbacks in his life. And so, I expected this setback to be temporary too. That within no time, he would go back to an optimistic state of mind and take on his old roles in the family. Maybe not physically, but at least emotionally.  But what has happened is the opposite. He has been extremely depressed; his emotions are very fragile. In the middle of a normal conversation, he would start sobbing. At first, I didn't even know how to react to this. I was just frozen, trying to take in this new identity of the man I had known all along as my father. Gradually, it worsened. He slept very poorly, restless all night, crying out in pain. He frea

 It was a Tuesday night just like any other. Actually, it was better than many others. It was around 9.30pm, and I'd gotten through all my tasks early, and was feeling quite relaxed. I sought happiness in small things that night. All I wanted was to take a long hot bath before turning in, and I was greedy about how much water I wanted. The geyser gave me one full bucket of hot water, and I wanted two. So I went about this silly and elaborate procedure- turned on the geyser, let out a full bucket of steaming hot water, and turned it back on again, while I sat and waited. Feeling utterly serene and relaxed, I called up an old friend. We spoke, laughed, and reminisced. Then, at 10pm came the call that shattered my world and turned everything topsy-turvy. My father was battling for his life. After an entire night spent in the corridor of the ICU, I came back home to that bucket of water. Cold and lifeless, just like the way I felt. If you're a regular reader of my blog, by now, you

Four months have passed since that dreadful day in November.  At times, I feel that I've fully accepted this "new normal". But my grasp on reality is fragile. Like hanging on to a cliff's edge by holding on to a few bushes. The leaves snap, and I go careening down, not knowing if I'll survive or be smashed to smithereens. Then, I find another handhold or foothold, and feel secure for a while, till I go tumbling yet again. And so it goes. Today is one of the falling days. As was yesterday and the day before. Sometimes, the trigger is merely seeing someone else's reality. A friend said to me "When I go home, my parents take care of everything. I love that carefree feeling." I struggled not to break down then and there, and suppressed the howls of anguish that threatened to erupt. Here I was discussing diapers and bedpans with my Mom, and planning out all the things I had to do over the weekend and coming. Would I ever have that carefree feeling again?

 It has been more than a 100 days at the hospital. Other than my dad, undoubtedly, the two people most affected by this are my Mom and me. She has lost her career, the comfort of her home and the security and strength of an able spouse. I am flailing in my personal life and career, having lost the strong physical, mental and emotional support I used to get from my parents. Both of us are seeing someone we love being reduced to a pitiful state. And it has broken us completely. All of this is understandable and quite expected. But the difficult part was this- I thought we'd be broken together. That we'd be there to support each other and help each other heal. My mom thought the same. After all, we love each other so deeply. And we are both strong and independent women. Yet, we both have been disappointed on this, and we feel more alone than before. Ever since this incident happened, our differences are even more marked. We end up arguing and hurl hurtful words at each other, addi

 My dad's hospitalization has now hit the three month mark. His mind and body are out of sync. His mind has recovered, and he craves conversation, discussion and knowledge. But his body is still weak, paralysed, tired. He also realizes with a shock that society now treats him differently from before- he has gone from a respected professional to the dreaded "invalid". He feels trapped in his existence, and is morose and sad most of the time. Understandably so. In our times of sickness, we expect people to be there for us. To comfort us, and hold our hands through it. And our first circle of connections did do that, for the first couple of weeks. But beyond that, everyone had their own lives to get back to. Even me. I spent more than a month at the hospital, and then I too had to get back. By now, even the calls from relatives, friends and ex-colleagues have dwindled down. Knowing my work commitments, I did not make any unreasonable promises. I promised to visit the hospita

 It has been two months since my father's stroke. He is still in the hospital, and his road to recovery has been full of setbacks. He tried eating a mouthful of food daily for a couple of days, but that only worsened his chest congestion and breathing. He had to be put on suction for three days after that, to just go back to where was a week before--tube feeding. Similarly, he was started on physiotherapy. The very first day, he was made to sit on a wheelchair, and his pulse and BP plummeted frighteningly. He had to be kept on oxygen and several other medications for days just for his vitals to come back to where they were before. Anytime we tried to push towards recovery, we immediately encountered a hurdle. All of us, myself included, were feeling the strain and pain of these two months. So much effort, time and money, and it felt like everything was in vain. My dad, a staunch South Indian, missed his idlis and dosas . After having tasted those spoonfuls of food after more than