As we reopen..

How are you feeling as we take tentative steps towards reopening? I feel, not nervous, but all of a sudden, overwhelmed. We have been in isolation since March 13th, 2020. I write this blog today on June 24th at 9:12 am. I just read some work related documents that I need to remember to do my job effectively. I will go back in a couple of days for a few hours. Truth be told, I am really looking forward to going back. On the other hand, I am apprehensive if my brain, which processed the ramifications of the pandemic for all these months and dealt with the roller coaster of emotions that I was feeling, will be able to handle the myriad of work related and real life related information that now it needs to not only process but remember. I read my emails requiring me to remember information on various aspects of my job and I quickly gloss over. I have started compartmentalizing on what I need to know NOW. I have created folders and sub folders to save the emails, after glancing through them, and plan to go back to refer in a ‘need to know’ basis. I am being kind to myself and hope you are too. How are you dealing with the influx of information that is, all of a sudden, pouring in?

On the home front too, information has started rushing in. My daughter’s college finally gave us their decision that they will open classes for fall semester according to plan. We were in a limbo as to whether she should get ready to furnish the apartment that she leased near campus or consider staying at home if classes went online. Now she is scrambling to find out who has a spare bed, table, chair, dresser and all that a poor student needs to get by for a year. As we make lists for all that she will need, my mama heart worries a bit about her catching the virus far away from home. I hear myself repeatedly talking about hand hygiene and social distancing. She is a responsible person and I know she will try her best. But still….

My son decided to take an intensive Chemistry class over the summer but that conflicted with his swim training. Thanks to the coaches, his schedule got adjusted, which meant ensuring he gets to his practice at 6 am in the morning. I am grateful to have a partner who is still staying at home and silently doing all he can to ease our transition back into life outside the realm of our home. He chooses to get up at the wake of dawn to take Ryan to his morning swim practice so I don’t have to.

All these changes are positive. All these show cautious yet forward progression towards life as we knew it before Covid 19 ravaged the world. My sedentary and anxious brain needs a little transition time, I guess, to function at its full capacity. We are all in the same situation, we all have to take the time we need to get back to being as effective/functional/productive as we were before the pestilence knocked us out of our orbit. We need to be mindful of each other’s unique position in this transition and show as much kindness as we expect to be shown.

Love for animals.

Sniffles and congestion had become part of him. There was hardly a time that we found baba free of sniffles. It was infuriating not only for him but also for those who lived with him. He did not feel sick, just sniffly, always. Finally, he saw a physician who diagnosed that he was allergic – to the loves of his life, dogs and cats.

After hearing that, I suggested perhaps he should stop petting the 8 or 9 stray dogs that follow him and jump on him lovingly as soon as he gets out of our apartment complex. My suggestion was ignored and I did not persevere. I knew it was a lost cause.

Since I was very little, this love for animals was ingrained in me by my father. Or perhaps, I inherited his love and understanding for creatures big and small. We did not have a pet in our house while growing up but I was not deprived of puppy or kitty love. Thanks to my father, I had at least 4 or 5 dogs just outside our house, ready to be petted, fed and loved. Thanks to his silent support, I was allowed to not only save, but keep my first kitten, Pushi. She came meowing loudly, floating in waterlogged alley of our neighborhood during monsoon. I jumped in knee high water, grabbed the tiny kitten and brought her to our little verandah. Ma wanted me to give it milk and leave it in a shoe box outside. I, generally a compliant child, rebelled against this cruel decision and my faithful ally in the good fight was my father. We brought the kitten inside, loved her to bits and she returned the favor by not only bringing us dead mice but also gifting us with kittens every birthing season. And we kept them all. Pushi treated us as her personal babysitters, which we were, left her babies with us to do her rounds around her domain and intimidate the neighborhood dogs and cats. She was the indisputable queen of the neighborhood and no one could raise their head in her presence. She kept the stray dogs away from the neighborhood with her vicious hiss. She was indeed a force to be reckoned with. Believe me when I say this, I have seen her in action. At one point in my life, baba and I had seventeen cats coming to eat in our house. Baba made an arrangement with the local fish seller to sell the leftover of fish parts to us to feed our army of cats.

This is a father’s day post to celebrate and appreciate my father which morphed into a blog about his love for animals and this love that he has passed down to me as well as his grandson. There is an aura about both him and Ryan, a certain stillness around animals that exudes calmness. Animals know instinctively that they have found someone who cares. I write this as a tribute to my father because whenever I think of him, I see his faithful posse of four legged creatures following him with their tongue lolling and tail wagging.

On a day that is designated to tell one’s father what they mean to you, I choose to thank mine for giving me the gift of love for animals. Loving animals has taught me kindness and compassion and the love I have received in return has been invaluable.

Lastly, I have a feeling when I wish him Happy Father’s day, the response will be “Hmmm. thank you! Same to you!” Why, you ask? Because he is not used to being wished happy father’s day or happy birthday for that matter. He gets all flustered and does not know how to respond, eliciting a “Arre, thank you bolo! “(say thank you) from my mother!

🙂

“About” then and “about” now.

This is what I wrote “About” the blog when I tentatively ventured into blogging about 9 years ago. Ryan was about 5 and Sahana almost 11. This blog started as a parenting journal.

Hello, hello!

I am primarily a mommy. Staying at home, holding the fort. I am the cook, cleaner, chauffeur, educator, therapist, confidante, tutor….you get the picture. I like to read – a lot. But lately, haven’t had much time. The blogs here will mainly be about what mommy thinks. Many of you moms probably can relate. Some of the blogs may be about the books I have read, or some funny observations. It is not going to be profound or very thought provoking…sorry. These days, I feel like I am incapable of deep thoughts. My mind is constantly jumping to the next chore that I have to do before the day is done. But it sure is fun to have this space to come and pen down some thoughts whenever I have time.

And how has my “About” changed?

I am still primarily a mommy. Instructor and Research specialist at our county library. I cook sometimes, rarely clean, part time chauffeur only till Sahana comes home from college, not an educator, part time therapist, part time confidante and not a tutor. Do you get the picture? I still like to read .. a lot. However, lately I have not had time. Note, I replace ‘but’ with ‘however’ because a dear friend told me she was replacing the ‘buts’ from her life. I choose to do the same. Although, I still read a lot, I have not really written any blog about books (psst..that is hard work).The new blogs will still be about what mommy thinks because I thought real hard about who I am and I do believe I am first and foremost a mom. I also love the mommy aspect of myself the most. I don’t think moms with young children can relate to my blogs anymore because the busiest part of my mommy life is behind me. There is a possibility, though, that moms of older, almost grown up children may still nod their heads with what I write? Although as kids got older, I wrote about them less and less to give them their privacy. Their childhood, or at least a part of it, however, is documented in these blogs for them to peruse when they are older. I am still incapable of deep, thought provoking blogs because I have come to the realization that I lack the ability to pen down complex thoughts. Well, let’s be honest. I don’t think my mind can analyze complex thoughts. The blog are still simplistic and I like them that way. My mind still jumps from one thing to the next and constant worry about my parents living in the other part of the world is omnipresent in my conscience. Covid 19 has given me some time and opportunity to think what I would like to do as I carry on with my life. I realized I still enjoy writing. I find this a way to reach out to people. It still is fun to come to this space and continue to write down my thoughts. I even paid and upgraded my blog site, yet I do not know what purpose that will serve. I do not get much traffic to my blog. I figured, I will be motivated to write more if I made a financial commitment. If I write, I will stay away from all the unpleasantness that seems to have taken over our world.

I will say one thing before I end this blog though. There has been a significant change in my life since I started this blog. I was almost friendless 9 years ago since I was a relatively new transplant in a new country and on top of that I am an introvert. In the span of these 9 years, I have found friends who have become my adopted family in my adopted land. You know who you are. Thank you!

“Take care of your husband.”

My extended family, neighbors and some friends did not quite see what Sean saw in me. Many wondered, and not in their heads mind you, “What did this handsome man see in her?” when we started dating. Don’t get me wrong. I thought I was adorable. I was a late bloomer, yes, but when I finally bloomed, I was cute. However, I did not measure up to Bengali standard of beauty so although my extended family loved me dearly, they were surprised that Sean was taken by this tall, dark and very slender girl. One person, however, wondered whether Sean was good enough for ME! And that was my momma. She was independent, smart, sassy and a trend setter. When the norm among Bengali housewives of her time was to cook and clean for her families, she loudly declared she did not enjoy cooking and cleaning and would rather read a book. When the other women extolled the virtues of long, black tresses as a sign of beauty, she went and got a page cut. She was one of the first among her female cousins to wear sleeveless blouses and then later salwar kameez and even jeans and top when wearing anything other than saree was frowned upon. While other middle class Bengali moms told their daughters to learn to cook so they could satisfy their husbands and in-laws, my mom pooh poohed the idea saying my future husband should be learning to cook as well to satisfy me. And as far as I can remember, her skin care and beauty regime was more for her own satisfaction than to impress anyone. She taught me men and women should share equal responsibility when they run a household. She insisted that I always claim my half of the sky because that is my right.

Anyway, the point of the story is how this fashionista and trendsetter has changed since Sean came into our lives. It so happens that often when I talk to my parents, Sean is doing the dishes. He comes to the phone, holds up his sudsy hands and complains loudly, “Ma, look your daughter is making me wash the dishes again.” And she mock scolds me for making the poor ‘chele’ (boy) work so hard. I loudly protest that I cooked so he is cleaning. Neither acknowledges my protest. Over the years, Sean has continued to complain to her and she has continued to take his side. 🙂

I must have looked especially unkempt during one of our video conferences a few weeks ago. She gently chastised me for not making an effort to look more ‘put together’. Especially now that Sean is home. Shouldn’t I make myself more appealing?

I, of course, protested loudly. Talked about feminism. Did she realize we are in quarantine? I only dress for myself. I fought the good fight.

She said, “Be quiet. Take care of yourself. Sean is home.” Then she laughed. She knows how to push my buttons. Is it payback for my teenage years?

This morning we were talking about how we both are working from home. I was complaining how loud my office mate was and how I have to retreat to the bedroom from our shared office space to listen to zoom meetings. I also mentioned Sean is so busy that he missed lunch yesterday.

This is what she said to me, “What? He needs to eat to get energy. Why can’t you make sure that he is eating lunch? You can make something for him.”

“But I am working too, Ma.”

“No, still. You need to make sure he eats.”

Seriously? As I am about to start my tirade, she laughs again.

Thousands of miles away, not in the best of health, she still puts a smile on my face as I start my day and her’s ends.

Summer afternoons

I did not ever think, as I was growing up in hot and humid Kolkata, that I would look forward to summer. Due to strange twist of fate, life brought me to a land where many of us get through winter with the hope of sunny days in the horizon. In Kolkata, we looked forward to the winters because out of 12 months, 11 were hot and humid with some respite brought on by monsoons. Perhaps this is old age, perhaps this is because I am physically far away from the discomfort but I was reminiscing about my summer afternoons as a child. I hear from Khushi’s mom that it is more and more difficult to make Khushi take a nap during the hottest part of the day. Her mother, after working hard in the morning, lies down for a well deserved siesta but for a little girl, that is sheer waste of time. I know. I was that little girl once.

The norm was to take a nap in the afternoons when the sun was at its hottest. Only stray dogs roamed the streets, looking for shade along with an erstwhile beggar or vagabond. Peddlers still walked the streets with their ware, offering to refill our mattresses, selling fruits or pushing an ice cream cart. I lay down next to my mother against my will, fidgeted, got scolded, tried to lie still after and then invariably and stealthily tiptoed out of the dark and cool room to read a book. Those afternoons belonged to Noddy or The Secret Seven or Thakurma r Jhuli. The colorful pages of Amar Chitra Kathas took me back in the world of myths so I could watch Krishna kill the snake Kaliya or Ganesh defy his father, Shiva, to protect his mother’s privacy. Those afternoons were for time travels. Those were the times when a little girl living in the congested city of Kolkata went to country side of England and adventured with George, her dog Timothy, and her cousins, or in New England where Jo vowed never to marry and Beth played the piano as Marmee went out to help the community and share their Christmas dinner. Those summer afternoons were magical till mother woke up and chastised for not taking an afternoon nap. After siesta, it was teatime for grown ups, and dreaded glass of milk for me.

I hear Khushi tiptoes out from her mother’s side, after her mother falls asleep to find my father, her dadai (grandfather), and complain to him about the gross injustice of having to sleep in the afternoon when she is not sleepy at all. And my father totally agrees that grown ups are no fun whatsoever. With his approval she quietly loses herself in the imaginary world in her head. She sings and converses, she sometimes dances and smiles. She knows when her mother wakes up and scolds her for not napping, she will have an ally in her dadai, her adopted grandfather.

I smile as I hear this. History repeats itself.

Living through Covid 19

Our isolation is not over yet. I write this blog while we are in our 10th week of isolation. As I went to bed, woke up to a world that lost more people than the day before, perused the news about more information about the pandemic, logged in to work, ate lunch, went for walk, dinner, books and then bed again, life fell into a new monotonous rhythm yet the mind experienced myriad of emotions.

When our work closed, I remember, the first week was full of uncertainty, yes, but also some excitement. Due to school, work and travel, our little family did not have much of a chance to be together for the last few years. The oldest was away in college and then Spain, the youngest was boarding in school. Sean traveled at least 40% of the year. We thought we will be off work for a couple of weeks, we will practice physical distancing from the world, flatten the curve and life will be back to semi normal. In retrospect that idea seems so naive.

Sahana and I love to cook so, right away, we occupied the kitchen and cooked different types of food. We even thought of a cooking competition while we were in isolation and we were confident us girls would beat the boys hands down. When all this is over, I will look back on that time with a smile. We shared so much as she cooked and I cleaned the dishes. Our innermost thoughts, hopes, fears, desires – all came out in the familiar comfort of the kitchen, doing a task we both loved to do. Ryan, Sean and I started watching one episode of a tv show, Rome, everyday while snuggling together in bed after the day was done. Sean and I took long walks exploring the neighborhood, often accompanied by Sahana, when we talked about her future, our years together going forward. We brought all our board games out and played raucous rounds of Risk, Ludo, Apples to Apples. We smack talked, strategized, teased and laughed. We even bought badminton rackets and I showed the family who is the boss in badminton. Soon Ryan’s athletic prowess deemed my brilliance but that is not the point here. Gradually, though, the enthusiasm and excitement of the isolation starting fading away. Board games were forgotten, badminton rackets were rarely picked up, hours went by in companionable silence. Fifteen year old Ryan retreated to his room attending school and stayed there after school was over. Sahana still went for walks with us, baked a lot, watched shows on her phone and she talked. I got more involved with trying to figure out how to work remotely and Sean conducted all his work from home. He probably was most seamless in transitioning to remote working.

There were days, though, when sleep would elude me as I lay tossing and turning in bed in grips of anxiety. My parents were far away and I have no ways of getting to India if they need me. There were unexpected tears at this new normal. And with that came guilt. Are these tears justified compared to what so many others are going through? I have a home, my family is with me, I have a paycheck coming, my husband is getting paid so why these tears? Why such profound sadness?

Like thousands others, I figured I would document the ‘goods’ and ‘bads’ of this pandemic so future students, while writing papers on this historic pandemic, have plenty of primary sources right at their finger tips 🙂 .

So what was bad for me?

Fear. Fear of not being able to go to Kolkata if something happened to my parents. I had to mindfully remove that thought from my head before I could go to sleep each night. Every morning when I woke up, I checked my phone to see their activity on social media. Most days, I called. Fear was the worst.

Despair at the news.

Irrational anger at the universe for Sage’s death at this time. Now that I was home all the time, his memory haunted me more. I had a physical yearning to pet him, to have him back. Why did he decide to die all of a sudden? That was very bad planning on his part. I felt cheated. Circumstances will not allow me to have another pet right now. But I did not want another pet. I just wanted Sage. I told you. It is irrational.

Uncertainty about the future of my rising senior in college. Will she be able to finish her school year in person? What will happen to the lease of the apartment she signed if she has to take her fall classes online? Will I feel comfortable at work? I work with public. How bad will it all be in fall? Will I feel comfortable giving my friends a hug ever again? Will Sahana get a job? What will happen to college funds?

What was still good?

I really like my family on top of loving them.

I will remember this pandemic via the smell of fresh ginger garlic paste. Why? Because Sahana started a sourdough starter. And each day, instead of throwing away the excess starter before feeding the ‘mother’, she mixed some milk, chili flakes, fresh ginger/ garlic paste, some chopped scallion and made a delicious pancake. We ate the ‘waste product’ topped with fresh sliced tomatoes, home grown basil leaves, fresh mozzarella. You should have seen and tasted the deliciousness! That smell will always remain as a memory of comfort during pandemic.

Food that Sahana cooked, delicious and various. As an Indian mother, my proud moment arrived when my daughter made perfect samosas filled with potatoes and peas. My job here was done.

Ryan’s excited face as he explained one of his esoteric thoughts on aliens, historical facts and his interpretation of it, de extinction of extinct species. His constant playful bantering with his dad when it came to number of push ups and sit ups. Flexing of muscles and more working outs. His face, when flushed with the excitement of a new idea, made me smile inwardly. He was always a thoughtful child and while he tried his best to maintain aloofness as a 15 year old, the thoughts that came in his head needed to come out. His family members, at dinner time, were the best recipients.

Seeing Sean at work, listening to his meetings all over the world trying to mitigate hunger, poverty. And sometimes glaring at him for speaking so loudly that I had to leave the space to listen to my zoom meeting. Then laughing with the kids about it.

Sitting outside and looking at bunny rabbits play with each other.

Birds. So many birds. They were perhaps always there, I did not notice them with such focus. Waking up to their chirping and ending the day with their twits.

While riding this roller coaster of emotions, I learn to be patient, a trait I lack. And I learn to stay hopeful despite moments of despair. This will end. We will emerge. World will heal. Amen.

In the meantime…..deep breaths.

Frankly in Love

A book review I wrote for work.

CHAPTER CHATS

The book cover is yellow with the title, Frankly in Love, and the author's name, David Yoon, set on a diagonal, in a stylized, gradated green font with a visual illusion of falling into the cover.

Review by Piyali C.

FrankLiis a seniorin high school, growing up in Southern California. Heis a first generation Korean American,trying to find his identity in this world. Is he considered Korean,eventhough hedoes not speak the languageand has never visited that country? Is he fully American and does the world consider him so? He has grown up accompanying his immigrant parents to theirmonthlygatherings with other Korean families and hanging out with otherfirst-generationKoreanchildren,who, like Frank, are struggling to find where they belong. Theycallthemselves Limbo. Some of theKorean children have embraced the country where they were born, while others retain the culture and language of the country from which their parents emigrated.There is a big divide even between thefirst-generation Korean Americans. Frank is very aware of his parents’ blatant racism and knows he is doomed if he dates any girl outside his ethnicity. As luck would have it, he falls in love with…

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What grief taught me

Out of nowhere, a catastrophe struck. One Saturday, I took my Sage to the emergency vet’s office because he was slightly shivering. I was concerned but not worried. Maybe it was something he ate, maybe he just needed some medication to settle his stomach. He had not been eating his kibbles for a few weeks but ate everything else with relish – chicken, beef, treats, fallen cheese or tit bits while I cooked. So yes, I just wanted some medicine and go home. The vet came out to tell me that things did not look good. The news was devastating really. My beautiful boy had hemangiosarcoma and he did not have time. As she spoke, my brain did not quite process her words. The finality or the severity of what she said did not hit me till they took Sage in for some more conclusive tests. That is when I called Sean and asked him to come meet me at the emergency hospital.

Within a week we said goodbye to our companion for over 10 years. We wanted a week to love him and make sure the family was with him to say final goodbye. He did not seem to be in pain, just very tired. He went quickly and peacefully. It seemed he was ready. His decline in that short week was incredibley fast and heart breaking. On Friday morning, the day he was going to sleep forever, I took him to a park which he always loved since he was a puppy. He did not have any energy so we just sat on a bench and watched Canada geese in the water. He got up a few times to say hello to some humans walking by. He got a few pets and scratches behind his years. He also gave me the stink eye from time to time because he wanted to walk not sit. I sat there looking at him and allowed tears to stream down my face. His life from the day we got him passed by in my mind. So many memories, so much happiness, unconditional love. His love of snow, his frolic in leaves, his play bows and long hikes, his devotion and unconditional love for his humans. When we tried to go back to the car, he could hardly put one foot in front of the other, he was that weak. I knew right then it was time to let him go. We loved him too much to let him continue to lead a life that was no life at all.

The loss of Sage seemed unreal till the next week when I was all alone in the house. The grief of losing him taught me a thing or two about myself. I grieved and yet I was afraid for the world to know I grieved. I told a few friends how I was really feeling – I did not want to get up from bed, I saw him out of the corner of my eye, I anticipated the clickety click of his claws hitting the hardwood floor but when there was silence I was crushed anew. I looked up at his collar and broke down crying. I opened the door to emptiness when I came home from work. I sat on my reading chair and the space beside it remained empty. The empty space just put a dagger through my heart. My hand was restless to pet his furry head because that was our routine. It gave me a glimpse of what depression can feel like. I sat down on a chair and simply could not or did not have the will power to get up from it. When I forced myself to go for walks I felt I could peek out of a chasm of sorrow but coming back to the house drove me right back into a vortex of despair. I felt physically weak, unmotivated and very, very alone.

Yet when friends asked me how I was or whether I wanted company I was afraid to tell them the truth. I said I was doing ok and I knew it was a matter of time and I would be better. I was afraid to burden them with my overwhelming sorrow. I was afraid of being judged, “Wow, she is going overboard grieving a dog.” In the grand scheme of things, Sage’s life did not matter to others as much with all the sadness and devastating things happening in the world. I was comparing my sadness to the vast sorrow that others feel. So I kept it hidden, I put on a brave face and I laughed and carried on, till I came home to an empty house.

I did (and continue to do) my well wishers a disservice. I am projecting my fears of being judged on my friends who truly would sit with me and let me cry. And not only my friends, I was afraid to tell my husband and my children about my grief. I did not want them to feel bad for me or feel responsible for cheering me up.

Then a friend forwarded me an article. The article talked about not trivializing my loss because there are bigger losses out there in the world. It is not a competition. Only through grieving would I find peace.

I will not get over the loss ever. I know I will heal, I will find peace and I feel I am on my way there. But this loss will always be part of me as will the 10 years of unconditional love that the universe gifted me in the form of Sage. What a gift I was given!

Panta bhat and Sage

As I looked back before shutting the door, heading out to work, I got a glimpse of Sage sitting on cool kitchen floor, panting. The temperature is about to hit 90 degree Fahrenheit today and although I finally turned on the air, the poor, fluffy puppy is hot. I had this desire to feed Sage panta bhat. I know I should not but long time ago, when we, inhabitants of Kolkata panted like Sage in the dense, humid heat of Kolkata, panta bhat was like manna from heaven. You have probably googled panta bhat by now, but just in case you have not, I will tell you what it is. The real complicated recipe is this.

You take leftover cooked rice.

You soak it overnight in water.

You pour mustard oil on it (optional).

You put salt in it.

You squeeze ‘gondhoraj lebu’ (or just plain lime/lemon juice)

You eat it.

Panta bhat is a popular breakfast in rural Bangladesh and certain parts of Eastern India. Fortified with this carb heavy breakfast, farmers start their day of heavy toil, women start their days of tending family and children go to village schools (or work in fields with their father).

But for us, middle class Bengalis beaten down by intense heat in the summer months of Kolkata, panta bhat was respite and comfort. The poor could not afford anything but rice, water, salt and maybe green chillies to give the food some spice. We ate this as a treat. Our panta bhat was not simple though. Along with the soaked rice, we had to have gondhoraj lebu (special lemon, the smell of which is heavenly), pickles, green chillies, slices of raw onions. At the beginning of the month, when we were somewhat flush with money from newly acquired paycheck we would have fried pieces of hilsa fish with it. At the end of the month, when the money dried up and we had to budget, vegetable fritters accompanied our panta bhat.

No one paid any attention to the empty calories and unnecessary carbs. No one felt bad about eating fried fish or fried fritters. Panta bhat, in those doggone hot days, was ‘praaner aram, atmar shanti” (peace of soul).

Panta bhat was accompanied by an afternoon nap. In my memory, this lunch of panta bhat is closely associated with a decadent, luxurious nap.

Gone are those days when people cared nothing about what they partook. Food soothed our souls. I want those days back. I want ignorance from all the research that says white rice is empty calories that my aging body does not need.

Pain

As I write this I am propped up on the couch with my right foot elevated and ice pack underneath my heel on Monday morning at 8:18 am. A pair of extremely sad eyes are fixed on me as Sage wills me to get up and fetch the leash for his morning walk. It is hard to endure his disappointment at my immobility but I am hardening my heart and trying to ignore his silent plea.

About 8 months ago, I started running on the treadmill. I had never run in my life, I started something new. I felt amazingly alive after a run. I increased my distance gradually, bragged about it to my family and basked in their adulation. Slowly, imperceptibly, I started to feel a pain in my heel, especially, when I woke up. I ignored it because it was just a niggling pain. At work, a couple of friends and I were running up and down the stairs for cardio exercise between our shifts, with inappropriate footwear. The pain in the morning increased enough for me to take notice. But as I got on the treadmill, it went away so I continued running. The pain got to a point where I felt it at every step, not terrible but enough for me to notice and wonder. While describing it to a friend at work, I said I must have hurt myself while running. She mentioned planter fasciitis. Even though I could hardly pronounce it, I jumped on the internet to get more information and bingo….every symptom matched mine.

I mentioned it to my doctor. She prescribed Aleve and no exercise for a month. Of course I did not listen. But I did give up running. I walked instead, wincing at every step.

The pain worsened. I went to a podiatrist. He put me on steroids that sky rocketed my blood pressure. I bought different kinds of orthotics, started using a night sling, became regular with stretches, ice packs, rolling tennis ball under my feet but one thing I did not stop doing was being a martyr.

My work involves a fair amount of being on my feet but at home, I persisted through pain. Taking the dog for walks, albeit shorter, running up and down doing laundry, usual household chores, cooking, cleaning, chauffeuring. Every step is increasingly painful, and as I winced, I promised I will put my feet up after this chore. But after that chore, something else came up which needed my attention.

Now I have pain snaking up to my hip and although I try to maintain my smile, I feel very discouraged inside.

I have made a decision last night as my feet throbbed and I felt the familiar sense of hopelessness, I will stop being a martyr. It will be hard but I will stop my walks, stop making elaborate meals, stop worrying about neatness in the house and focus on eliminating the pain.

So here I am, propped up on my couch, venting in my blog because I hope one day when the pain is gone, I read this blog and remember to pay heed to the message that my body is trying to send. And also remember to stop being a martyr.