One day at a time

 

I did good today. I woke up before noon, ate within an hour of waking up instead of guzzling down coffee, finished some decent amount of work, and cooked an entire meal. 

So every woman does it, right? Balancing office tasks and domestic chores. Raising children, looking after husbands, attending to the needs of the inlaws...

But sometimes, even getting out of bed seems like an impossible thing to do when you have depression numbness. You are trapped in a neverending cycle of sleepless nights and tired mornings. You can't sleep at night because your world comes crashing down every night as the world pauses for reset, and then you can't function during the day because of lack of sleep and because the normal functioning daytime world is too much for your exhausted brain to handle. 

I have been in depression for a long time. And I pushed through it for years, because we don't pay attention to mental-health crisis until we are neck-deep in that, do we? 

You don't really need to have experienced major trauma to be depressed, you know. It could be years of living in a very ordinary family who just lives from paycheck to paycheck. It could be years of logging in and logging out from Monday to Friday. It could be years of just waiting for the weekend and then wasting it by doing nothing because you are exhausted after a tiring week. 

Depression hits different to different people. For me, it began years ago when I lost my grandfather in 1997-98. Until I was in school and college with friends, it didn't matter much. I managed because I was with people who made me feel safe and complete. Even when I started working, it seemed manageable. But when I got married, I drifted away from my friends. There were inlaws that needed to be pleased, bills and debts that needed to be paid, relations that needed to be maintained.  

You keep giving away pieces of yourself to people and places without even checking if there's enough left for you. More often than not, those who give themselves to others, are rarely reciprocated. You keep going at the same speed when it all started. And when you realise you can't do it anymore, you realise you are all alone, mentally exhausted, and emotionally numb.

I have had, and still have days where sleep comes at dawn. Nights are spent on overthinking and missing my father, whom I lost recently. There are days when I feel too overwhelmed to do something as simple as getting out of my bed. I can't find even the simplest motivation to eat or do the chores. The unclean kitchen upsets me and the mental exhaustion makes it impossible for me to even do the dishes. 

I did good today. I woke up before noon, ate within an hour of waking up instead of guzzling down coffee, finished some decent amount of work, and cooked an entire meal. Not only that, I cleaned the kitchen as I was cooking, had a bath, and even sat down to write about it. 

And now, as I am trying to conclude this post, I am repeatedly deleting words because there are tears in my eyes. Because after days, I did good today. 

Don't ask her what makes her happy

Don't ask her what makes her happy.

Wander after her soulful eyes and feel what she longs for instead. 

You'll find her watching butterflies flutter by, and you'll feel her wanting to let go off her duty-bound feet. You'll see her hands linger over old photos, and you might feel her need to go back to girlhood again. 

When you see her lost in thoughts as the curry simmers in the melancholic kitchen, know for sure that she has time-travelled to her Grandma's kitchen where both food and memories were made. 

When you notice her taking longer to fold the little ones' clothes, take a moment to watch her feel the fabric and remember herself as daddy's little girl. 

When she walks past the golawala in the market, you should know how she loved the kala khatta with extra masala, and how the aroma of fresh herbs made her happy. 

If you happen to find your woman peeping out every now and then through the windows of your EMIed home, let her become the girl she misses terribly. 

Because monthly instalments suck the life out of the Adult You. 

But once in a while, your childhood peeps in through the doors you didn't know were still open. 

This, is life. Everything else is monthly payments🙂. Easy come. Easy go. 

Live. Love. Laugh. 

The one where I lost my dad and couldn’t grieve

Today, when I was in Shirshashana after my workout, the image of my father lying lifeless on the bed on the day he died began flashing in my mind. This is not the first time I’ve lived the moment. But experiencing the exact thing that you want to move on from during your dedicated hour makes all the effort to heal kind of pointless, doesn’t it? 

My father was a perfectly healthy man until he got cancer in late 2019 at the age of 78. Bummer. He was a very cooperative patient during the chemo and radiation treatments. He kicked cancer’s ass the first time around. He stood strong when a PEG tube was inserted surgically to help him with nutrition. He was okay with not being able to even drink a drop of water because of oesophageal carcinoma. He waited patiently for the cancer to go away. And it did. 31 days of radiation treatment, 5 chemos, and a surgery to introduce an alternate feeding method later, my father ate his first solid meal in mid-April 2020, after almost six months of tube feeding. Then again in June 2020, he almost choked on lunch on his birthday. We got an endoscopy done fearing that the cancer was back. But there was no cancer, but a lot of fibrosis because of radiation resulting in the narrowing of the tract. We were going to get the oesophageal tract dilated as suggested by the gastroenterologist, but papa’s cataract needed urgent surgery. Between August-October 2020, I got both cataracts removed. But he looked weaker and said he had pain in the abdominal area combined with feeling sleepy and tired. Covid was wreaking havoc, so taking him to the hospital was not suggested by the oncologist. But at the end of October, we rushed him to the hospital because he was writhing in pain, and urgent scans and ultrasounds told us that the cancer was back. This time, metastatic, in the liver, brain, and oesophageal tract. I was standing there, alone in front of his doctor, a very kind human being, not knowing what to do. The doctor said chemo could buy him 2 years but not cure him because the disease was metastatic. I understood. Considering his age, it was a blessing. I told him what the reports said. He asked me what to do. We immediately started brain radiation because there were chances he would be paralysed. He got weaker and disoriented because of the brain mets. We started chemo for the liver mets. Had to admit him frequently because of fever. But just after 2 chemo sessions, his liver mets had drastically shrunk. However, the brain radiation failed. The stupid brain mets didn’t budge even a bit. The doctor suggested supportive care and that he wouldn’t live beyond 6 weeks. My father breathed his last late January 2021, 3 days after telling  me that he felt well and that the abdominal pain was gone. He said he felt the treatment is working. Two days before deteriorating, when we made him get up and sit on the bed, he supported his own upper body all by himself, a major step after being affected by brain radiation. He also talked to me and my husband and cracked some jokes. We both knew he was going to die, but I wanted at least those 6 weeks with him. But he died within a week of the doctor’s prognosis. 

On the day he died, I was the one who checked his pulse on the oximeter. I was the one who placed my hand on his chest and felt nothing. I was the one who saw him motionless on his bed, perhaps finally at peace, and pain-free. I was the one who walked to the neighbour to ask for a doctor’s visit to declare him dead. I was the one who made arrangements with my husband to get a GP home on a Sunday. I was the one who held my brother and mother tightly as they cried. I was the one who talked to the neighbours about how to do the funeral. I was the one who went back and forth to my place next door to get Papa’s clothes. I was the one who consoled my mother in law when she broke down looking at my dad’s lifeless body. I was the one who sat beside him alone, holding his clammy, lifeless hand, one last time, in the middle of messing the arrangements. 

I was the one who was not consoled by my mother on losing a father. I was the one who was not hugged by my brother on losing our Papa. I was the one who hugged my husband tightly when he broke down while picking papa’s final attire from our cupboard. I was the one who was not asked by many of my loved ones about how I was doing. 

I was the one who lost my dad, but didn’t get to grieve.