From the vortex of grief: Words are all I have
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 hospital every weekend and spend time with my parents. But even this proved to be daunting, once the work rigor set in. Commute included, the weekend visit was three hours, an amount of time that on some weekends I just couldn't find. I felt very guilty, because I know my Dad lives for these visits. This was perhaps the only thing he looked forward to the entire week, and I couldn't even give that to him. What kind of daughter was I?
Every time I thought about this emotionally, I felt like I could never forgive myself. I felt like pushing myself harder to do it all. To just slog through it endlessly. But every time I thought logically, I knew I couldn't do it all. Not without breaking down. After a week of sleeping at midnight and waking up at 3.45am, I felt like a wreck. Both emotionally and physically. Every tiny incident would trigger me and make me cry, and yet I couldn't stop feeling guilty.
If I couldn't give him my time, maybe I could give him something else, I thought. As a creature from the digital generation, my first attempt was to give him a tablet. We bought a stand that would help my dad use the device easily with his one functional hand, and a dongle that they could use for WiFi. I sent my husband one weekend to teach my parents how to use all of this, and he came back and told me they'd understood. I sighed, and hoped the device would distract my dad from his sadness.
The next week, in the bag we brought back from the hospital every week, buried deep under my Mom's laundry, I found all of the gadgets, returned back. I was annoyed. I called her and asked, Why did you give it back? She said He is not interested. I was perplexed.
Next, I tried phone calls and video calls with my Dad. That was easier, because it cut down on the commute time, and I could do it at my convenience. But beyond the initial couple of minutes, my Dad and I had nothing to say to each other. Both our lives were full of the mundane, and had nothing worth narrating. In all our lives, we had bonded over doing things together. Never over talking. It is hard to change those habits of a lifetime. I again hit a dead end.
The next time I went to the hospital, I was at my wits' end. My dad looked sadder than ever, and it broke me to see him like this. I tried taking him his favorite foods, but he could eat barely a spoon. After a couple of weeks, he stopped asking for food too. Finally, in desperation, I told him to do the thing that has always helped me in difficult times.
Write.
What about? He asks me.
Anything. Whatever you feel like. Maybe about your day. Maybe about something else.
My day has nothing worth writing about. It is full of prods and pains.
Just try. 5 minutes everyday.
I don't feel like it.
I left it at that, thinking of it as yet another failed attempt. But the next week, when I went to the hospital, my Mom thrust a book into my hand. He has written everyday this whole week. I was amazed. I opened it, and each entry was a letter addressed to me. This was his way of adopting my idea. By making it a letter to me, it motivated him to write. It gave him the answer to Why am I doing this? And the answer was simply For my daughter.
He wrote about his day. His tone was not positive, and he mostly wrote about his pain and his struggles. He wrote about how his life wasn't worth living. Yet, I was happy. Writing was like this magic gateway, and he had now found it. I was sure that it would do wonders for him.
Week after week, immediately after reaching the hospital, I would read that journal. Slowly, his writing broadened to include other people. He wrote about a few relatives, and how he felt happy for their support through this difficult time. He wrote an entry wishing my sister-in-law for her wedding. He wished my husband and me for our anniversary. He still spoke about his struggles, but there was so much more now. In that progression of entries, I see fresh shoots of hope. I see the possibility of so much more to come. I have now started writing back to him, something that comes very naturally and easily to me. It is not time bound, and I can do it at whatever time of day.
I am unable to give my father my time, presence or physical support. Words are all I have, but of those I will freely give. I hope they work the same magic for him that they always have for me.
Ending this post with two of my favorite passages on words.
“I had lines inside me, a string of guiding lights. I had language. Fiction and poetry are doses, medicines. What they heal is the rupture reality makes on the imagination. I had been damaged, and a very important part of me had been destroyed - that was my reality, the facts of my life. But on the other side of the facts was who I could be, how I could feel. And as long as I had words for that, images for that, stories for that, then I wasn't lost.”
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