From the vortex of grief: On mountains and molehills
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