“Come back to me”, said Life.

Three months later….

While on a very special journey of motherhood with my second born, I am also on a very special journey with myself, a journey of trusting life again. It’s perhaps a chapter of my life that others can read but not understand, not even those who are closest to me. There are thoughts that I cannot pen down, scars that I cannot show. For when one sees death, so close, so tangible, so real, it alters the meaning of life.

During my pregnancy, I was suffering from a bad case of Placenta Accreta, though it was asymptomatic throughout and went undetected in the ultrasounds. When my baby was delivered, my uterus hemorrhaged severely, making me fight hard for my life.  My family went through the most testing time, finding 11 donors of A-negative blood group to save me, praying that I make it, and hiding it from my elder daughter through the agonizing hours of my surgery. At the end of this battle, I lost my uterus. But mentally, I lost much more.

My time in the ICU is like a haze. I cannot place events neatly into exact days. Probably, the pieces of this puzzle will always remain in disarray. While my vitals mostly remained stable, my mind played games. I remember my gynecologist conversing with me, helping me heal mentally, while sitting next to a window, with lots of sunshine penetrating through. There was no actual window in that room. I remember a nurse telling me to read to take a break from the pain, with a lamp on my bed side table shining with warm, yellow light. There was no actual side table or a lamp. It was perhaps the comfort I drew from these conversations that made my surroundings seem well lit. I remember the nights, dark and black, the sound of the footsteps of nurses keeping me up, their whispers and the occasional beeps on their phones telling me that I am alive. I remember the pain of those nights. When I was made to walk to keep my wounds from getting sore, one nurse carried my urine bag and another the drain in my stomach. I remember the anxiety. My slip disc made my back hurt, since I had to lay down straight for days. Due to sleep deprivation, I ended up with auditory hallucinations and heard songs that didn’t exist. An aunty in a pink sari and a Sikh rapper, creations of my imagination, entertained me endlessly with their lousy lyrics.

I remember the day I was released from the ICU, getting on a wheelchair to go to a ‘normal’ hospital room and bursting into tears as I exited. I thought I will never make it out of there. Feeling the cool air as the lift doors opened to another floor, seeing flowers in my new room and a window with sunlight coming through was overwhelming. I thought I will never see sunlight again. I remember each of the medical ‘extras’ being removed from my body turn by turn, marking progress in recovery – the nasal cannula, the stomach drain, the pipe that pieced through my neck, going directly to my heart, the urine catheter, which was as painful as the prick of a needle every time I moved; the last branula to come out of my veins, the doctor saying “no more injections”. I remember it all like a nightmare.

I remember leaving the hospital – staring at the sky, witnessing the usual traffic, people going about their daily business. I remember crying again. Unbelievable, it was, that there was a high chance I’d never see Lahore again. I remember looking back to see my newborn in the car seat. It was possible she came home without me. I remember meeting my elder daughter, who welcomed me with ribbons and balloons. It was possible I’d never see her smile again. And she, mine. It is all so real. Yet, so elusive.

Once I was home, I could see my family’s stress slowly drifting away. My elder daughter started eating again and speaking like herself. But, for me, coming back to life was not easy. Every time I laughed, it felt unnecessary. For days, I found comfort in my own pain. I felt the urge to stare at the picture from the hospital with all those tubes and machines attached to me. For days I was certain I will not survive. The usual bleeding after having a child made my heart pound. Every time I went out for a drive, I returned home tired and demotivated. I didn’t have an appetite, the hospital smells lingered on my tongue. I used to wake up in the night, drenched in sweat, with nightmares of me being eaten up by insects in my grave. It was claustrophobic. I mourned my own death for my husband, my children and my parents. I wasn’t sure if I needed a psychiatrist, medication or a religious aalim to make me feel better. I did not know where to find my peace. Apart from my immediate family and the closest of my friends, the world did not interest me.

However, despite of what I felt, people came. Soon after was Eid and I dressed up, despite the physical toll it took on me. Dressing up felt good. Slowly, I started bonding with my newborn; I started reading to my eldest again. Over time, I realized doing normal things makes me feel normal. Texts about trip itineraries of my friends rather than those saying ‘get well soon’ eased the nerves in my body.  As the physical pain lessened, the mental stress reduced. Self counseling and conversations with my mum and husband helped painful memories slowly occupy lesser and lesser of my day.

One day when I cried incessantly in the ICU, a nurse said to me “Allah ne aapko zindagi apki bacchion ke liye di hai” and today, that statement rings the loudest in my head and in my heart. When I calm my new born down during her crying fits and comfort my older daughter after a nightmare, I understand why I got to live. I thank God that my girls are getting to grow up with their mother. I now pay less attention to worries that used to seem very big before. I realize that I am only to find my peace with the passage of time. That peace lies within me and I have to dig it out through positivity.

About two months after that dreadful day, I moved to Switzerland temporarily for my husband’s job assignment and perhaps that’s the change the four of us needed. What I lost during my surgery will perhaps pinch me forever but I need to concentrate on what I have rather than on what I might have wanted at a later stage in life. Navigating through unknown territories makes me realize that zindagi itni rangeen aur haseen hai ke dard aur beyakeeni ki dhalaanon se bhi waapis kehynch laati hai. You need to open your heart to those colours.

Today, while trying to cook without adrak and dhania and rejoicing over the discovery of desi grocery stores, somehow, I find myself leaving it all behind. My girls and I walk home from school chasing butterflies, feeding pigeons and dropping ice cream on our clothes. And somewhere, behind their smiles, I am beginning to see life again. I am beginning to trust life again.

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