Our Sunshine Baby

There is something mesmerizing about the continuous beep of the monitors. They are in my head so much that when I step out, I can still hear them. Heartbeat, pulse, oxygen levels, IV fluids, ventilator on standby- isn’t it surprising how quickly we get used to using this medical terminology? So what if we had never thought of being in such a situation or having never heard of the term GBS, which changed the setting of our lives from normal to nightmare within seconds.

It had started out as any other day. Day XX of the lockdown. Same routine, same house, same kids. Looking back its hard to pinpoint when exactly things started spiralling out of control. Was it when Aarav first complained of what we thought was tummy pain? Or was it during the first or the second dash to Emergency? Was it the first time I discovered he was being unable to stand? Or was it finally at that dread moment when the doctors told me that he needed to be shifted immediately to the ICU because his condition was serious?

As I held his tiny body close to mine there were two parallel voices I could hear. One, telling me how they suspected he had GBS, a rare ailment of the nerves that was causing paralysis. Another voice, from not so long so, congratulating me on my healthy baby boy. How could they be talking about the same baby?

Sunshine baby is what we often call him at home; not just because he’s always had a sunny disposition but also because of the sheer delight he takes in everything. Life is one big exploration for him. There is no mischief he hasn’t got up to, no corner of the house he hasn’t explored, nothing he hasn’t picked up and said “Yeh kya hai?” There have been moments he’s driven me crazy, especially when he resisted sleep for hours on end and moments when he has filled all of us with overwhelming love- me, his father, his Ayanu didi, his Naanu and Maasi.

I have always believed that it doesn’t matter whether a child is born of you or whether you adopt. Once you let a child into your heart as your own, he becomes a part of you. His every agony is yours; his every joy is as well. As I sit by Aarav’s bed and watch his tiny chest moving, I wish I could take his place. I long to infuse feeling into his lifeless legs, I pray to be able to take his pain away. I visualize how he was formed inside me, bit by bit, each muscle, each nerve, each tendon being created over nine odd months. Those very nerves have let him down today and I wish I could turn back time and do something, anything to have ensured that they were created stronger.

I find myself making bargains with God. I’ll never scold him again. I’ll give up coffee for life. I’ll be more regular in my prayers. I’ll do this and I’ll do that. But I want my baby back. Strong and healthy, just like the first time we brought him home from the hospital.

There are more people praying for him than I can count. And I HAVE to believe that so many prayers can’t go unanswered. I have to hold onto the fact that he will be back home soon and we will navigate the challenges that lie ahead; everything is possible if he is okay.