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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