The Dark Side of Grief

I am angry. I want to lash out, to rage against the universe, to scream till I am hoarse.

Adversity does not bring out the best in me. I look at people around me and am consumed with jealousy. How can they go about their lives unaffected while ours have come to a standstill? There have been three children admitted to the ICU after Aarav who have now been discharged. And if I allow myself to ponder over it, I shall be overcome with the unfairness of it all. If they have recovered, why can't my child?

The world no longer makes sense. There has to be something fundamentally wrong with a world where two year olds are on ventilators. Where a tiny being has to suffer so much without even comprehending why. Where veins fall short of blood and limbs fall short of veins. Where the sun rises and sets as though it's any other day. But it's not. It hasn't been any other day since 13 days.

Oh yes, I am so angry. At the doctors who have no answers. At the nurses who tell me to be strong. At strangers who mouth empty reassurances. What do they know? What does anyone know except someone who has gone through the exact same thing? Do any of them know what it feels like, to hold your baby's hand and feel it limp in yours. To see tiny tears rolling down his face because he's in pain and scared and doesn't know what's happening. To see him try and cough and watch his saturation levels fall. To see him struggle to take a breath, not understanding why his own tiny body seems to have turned against him. To watch him watch you stroke his leg and see him wondering why he can't feel your touch. To see him want to speak, then realise he can't because of the tube breathing for him. No one knows. No one can know. And I hope no one EVER has to know.

A week ago when he was briefly weaned off the ventilator, he saw me crying and said "mama royi royi nai". I promised myself I wouldn't cry in front of him. So I talk to him and I sing his favorite songs, I tell him how much we are all waiting for him to be okay and how much we miss him. I hold his hand and chant prayers so that he can hear them. Then I step out of the ICU and break into a million pieces. Each time, every time. I allow myself that luxury of breaking down for a few minutes then I pull myself back together. I have broken and rejoined so many times by now, I almost don't recognize myself. And I will continue doing it. Because it's these tiny breakdowns that keep me from losing it completely.

Mom has always said am blessed in my friendships. She's right. I cannot even begin to count the number of friends who are standing by me. I will be indebted to them forever. And in my deary moments I hang onto their presence.

But the one person I can bare my soul out to is G. Maybe because we became friends when we were just discovering who we were as people. Maybe because she knows my darkest fears. Maybe because I know, without a doubt, that she will not judge me if I tell her I am jealous of other mothers. Maybe because I know that after mom, she understands the most what am going through. She has been a pillar since the day my world turned upside down. She has heard me out,

snapped at me to pull myself together and given me solace when I needed it. Among the many images I visualize, one of them is Aarav meeting his G maasi.

The nurse comes to call me. Aarav has woken up and his eyes are silently searching for me. The weight of the responsibility of being the sole focus of this precious soul frightens me. But I get up to continue my vigil at his bedside. I am a mom. And moms have to be fearless.