The Vigil

It's been 15 days. Or is it 16? I don't even remember anymore. Time is no longer measured in days and weeks. It's measured in minutes and hours. How long did Aarav sleep? How many minutes was his physiotherapy? How many seconds have passed since he last gagged on the ventilator tube?

That tube is my enemy. Yes, it's keeping my baby breathing but that innocent looking blue and white tube represents everything that is wrong right now. I sit for hours by his bedside, staring at it and wondering what past life debts this child owes. To this hospital which seems to have become as familiar as home. To the ventilator which silently keeps him going. To the nurses who are so fond of him and try to cheer him up all day.

Sameer and I take turns by his side. Sameer is the indulgent parent, letting him watching nursery rhymes endlessly, while holding his tiny hand. He can't bear to see Aarav cry, his normally practical self is overcome with emotion at seeing tears in Aarav's eyes. When I sit, the innate mother in me takes over and permits restricted screen time. I prefer talking to him, letting him know that life is not just going on without him. I tell him how much his Naanu and Ayanu didi miss him. I describe to him the tricks Bruno is upto in our absence. I sing to him and chant prayers till he's lulled to sleep. The other day I put mom on speaker. His heart rate shot up! Then Ayana came on the line and told him she loved him and missed him. A tiny tear rolled down his face. It broke my heart. My two precious babies; separated by circumstances which are beyond anyone's control or comprehension.

When we become parents, we dream of bringing up children who are kind and loving. We are somewhere mentally prepared that in the natural order of things we shall grow old and ailing. And at that time we hope that our parenting stands us in good stead, that if ever required our children shall be at our bedside not out of duty but choice. No parent ever envisages sitting by the hospital bed of their sick child. There is something disturbing about it; it's unnatural and not how nature meant things to be.

A few days ago when he was critical, Sameer and I took turns to talk to him. We told him that no matter what happened, he's not to let go of my hand. That irrespective of how much it hurt, he's to keep holding on tight. We told him that he just needs to hold onto my hand and we shall pull him through. Two days ago he came out of sedation and was angry with me. He refused to look at me, would snatch his hand away everytime I tried holding it. Finally, I just kept my hand on his bed and talked to him. After sometime I felt something. He had used all his strength to lift his hand and put it in mine. I took it as a sign that he had decided not to let go. That he would fight and he would overcome. And someday, hopefully soon, these endless days, hours and minutes shall just be a terrible memory.

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