Passing

I don’t think this blog is complete without accounting for Ma’s last few days with us. It is necessary for me to write about it because there is little else that preoccupies me, apart from the plethora of memories that waft through my mind at any given point. This is from my perspective. 

To be honest, it has gotten better. Instead of being consumed by little else, I am now able to focus on other things such as being more present at work, more present with my family. The gaping hollowness is receding to the background on some days and I’m feeling more in control of when I can sink back in it, at times when I am alone - in the car or on a flight or snatching a few moments while in the office. It is command-able by will and I’m able to sit in my grief and come out of it more at will than I was before.  

A big part of what consumes me is the last few days. When I left Mumbai in October it was with a heavy heart. I was dejected that the improvement we had observed was fleeting and her lung infection was no better.   I was distraught and cried a lot when I left the hospital that night. She said, “kandishna, kandishna”, don’t cry. She didn’t weep, but her voice was tender and full of love. She was steeling for something that I was buckling at the thought of. 

I came back and spoke with my medical friends in the US. None of them had a good prognosis from a holistic perspective. I knew I had to go back soon. The week I spent back home was difficult. I went to work and barely worked. I was absent at home and I cried a lot.  I also felt like I needed to be back to help my sister and father navigate the decisions. At the time we were discussing lung surgery and I read up all about the options and risks. 

But that Diwali week meant nothing happened. I went to a few Diwali parties and could barely focus on the chit chat. My heart and mind were back home with my parents. Then one morning Didi called and said they were taking her back into icu. The kidneys were malfunctioning. I immediately booked my tickets to leave in two days. In between I wondered if I had rushed the decision and could attend a few work meetings. Even debated delaying for a week. And then decided no, it’s best I go now. I shudder at the thought of delaying. 

I got there on a Saturday night. October 28. I went that night to see Ma. She was dozing. I caressed her hair and she woke up. She gave me a bright smile. And asked me why I came back? Why did I leave my boy there alone? “Kano baccha ta ke koshto dicchis?” Even then her thoughts were with her babies. 

Baba, Didi and I woke up next day and began making plans. I wanted to talk to them about interventions. What would we do if they asked us to dialyse? At what point would we ask about options? But it was hard to talk about it then. Besides the doctors kept guaranteeing discharge within a few days. So I put away my fears. 

She was well that Sunday. She seemed breathless but denied any discomfort. We joked and laughed with her. We made plans to hire an attendant. We decided we needed to prepare the apartment for the help she will need. At all these points we did not plan for anything but taking her home. In fact I worried about how she would manage at home with her weak health. She could barely walk on her own. Tons of visitors came on Sunday night and she talked to everyone. 

Come Monday things seemed a lot worse. She was gasping for breath. Barely any urine. Rising creatinine. The doctor mentioned things didn’t look good. Then there were murmurs of dialysis. He explained this was all stemming from the liver disease. The lungs and the kidneys were secondary issues. It wasn’t clear then but the writing was always on the wall. That liver disease that she picked up 30 years ago that had no cure was destroying her organs, at first slowly, and then in one felling swoop. 

Monday night was unforgettable. We waiting for them to start dialysis but her BP was very low. By now she was gasping for breath and on oxygen. I asked her, Ma, they’re asking for dialysis. She shook her head vigorously, said no, I want to live. That was the last thing she said to me. “Ami bachte chai”. 

She had to be put on the ventilator shortly after. The dialysis never began. It was clear soon that whether we consented or not, the outcome was the same. Certain death is what the intensivist said. 

That night felt surreal. While we were so focused on the medical decisions, her stats, she slowly slipped away from us forever. The remaining three days to the actual passing was an unreal blur. People coming to pay respects, talking, sometimes we laughed at old memories, sometimes we cried. Uncles, aunts, friends and relatives I had barely seen in the last ten years who came to stand by as we struggled with the hardest decision of our lives. These are people I had known all my life and even though I hadn’t seen them in years, it felt oddly familiar and difficult at the same time. 

We signed on the dotted line that we understood what it meant to stop all treatment. I really broke down. Did we? All I knew was that she said she wanted to live. Why then was I signing this paper that documented my understand that I consented to her dying? I don’t regret that decision, no. I don’t think we had a choice. Like baba said, she may have wanted to live but the decision was not ours to make. All we could do was advocate for her to be comfortable and ready for the inevitable. 

She acquired a porcelain like quality in those days. She lay serene and calm. Her skin glowed and she seemed like she was in deep sleep. I don’t know what she felt but I cannot stop thinking about those last few days. I like to imagine her now, free of her worries, finally at peace and surrounded by all those who loved her deeply. I can see her telling me, “kandishna, kandishna”, don’t cry...