Skunk days

I read somewhere that aging is not the issue, it’s side effects are. One of the side effects of aging is losing vibrancy (at least for me). The edges that were sharp become somewhat blunt and lines that were prominent become blurry – like the jawline. As my face becomes invisible each day, I turn to kajol to accentuate my eyes and lipstick to color my lips and fight a losing battle against fading. Why? Because I like to look at my kohl lined eyes and dark lips in the mirror when I get ready for work.

This poses a problem for me in the month of May. T.S Eliot picked on the month of April and reviled it as being the cruelest month. I disagree, sir. May is the cruelest month. It turned my world upside down and left me changed forever. As the month of May approaches, I find a tightness in my heart and brace for intense hurt. Ma died on May 9th, 2021 and baba followed her 10 days later. After 3 years, I have come to accept the deaths, but the trauma of Covid, helplessness, not being there, imagining their fear still keep me up some nights. All those traumatizing moments come back at odd times causing skunk days. What is that you ask? When the tears flow freely as I drive to work and I have to hastily clean up my kajol before I enter the library, when a simple word brings forth tears that I furiously blink away, when I often take deep breaths and gulp down the hurt and show a face which says, ‘nothing to see here. Just another usual day, folks.’

In the month of May, I am hyper aware of black streaks that threaten to run down my face (or blue streaks since I am in love with my blue eyeliner that matches with my blue frame) and I have my skunk days. May 9th was a skunk day, May 19th, most likely will be another skunk day with semi skunk days in between.

Why did I write this blog? Not to garner sympathy. I am in a better place – a place of acceptance and living my life to the best of my ability. But I wrote this blog because I know there are millions of you out there who lost your loved ones to Covid or to sickness or accident. I know we will continue to have these days when the tightness in our hearts will make it difficult to breathe sometimes, when well meaning folks around us will not be able to comprehend the depth of our pain because grieving is a solitary act, but we will breathe, and smile, and get through till the tightness eases and our sounds of laughter rings true again.

Baba

Baba liked to get things done. He was an organizer. He liked to take care of banking, paying bills, buying the freshest fish, the best vegetable. Once he organized everything and made sure all under his care were comfortable, he looked around with a beaming, satisfied smile. He was a fixer of things. If something needed to get fixed, he would get it fixed. And he loved animals. He loved them with all his heart. He made sure the stray dogs in his neighborhood had food and vet care when they needed it. Going out with him was a challenge as he was the pied piper of Kolkata. His brood of four legged friends surrounded us trying to give hugs and kisses, while demanding biscuits of course. Baba would always go to the local pan shop, buy packets of biscuits, distribute them evenly before going on his way. The same protocol was followed when he came back home.

Baba died a few hours ago. He put up a valiant fight against Covid 19, but Covid won. After ma’s death 9 days ago, I dreaded breaking the news to baba. His own health was so fragile that I decided not to give him the news. I hoped he would recover from this disease and I will break the news gently when he could handle it.

Well I don’t have to any more. He went away to join her and continue the constant bickering that was left incomplete in this life. I heard that the day they were going to the hospital, ma was scared. He was sick himself, but he sat by her and stroked her arms saying not to be afraid, he will be there with her.

I wonder if she was afraid on her own, and he knew she needed him to be with her. I want to believe they are together, fighting, bickering but still comfortable in each other’s company.

And just like that, within a span of 9 days, I am an orphan who could not be there to hold their hands for the last time.

Be strong

Amidst the beautiful condolence messages on ma’s death, the recurring one is a wish for me to ‘be strong’.

As I see more and more of ‘be strong’ I wonder if I am being strong? I seem to make phone calls to arrange for care for my dad who is not doing well. I am exchanging wsapp messages, text messages, Facebook messages with friends in Kolkata and here to make decisions regarding baba’s care, trying to figure out how to procure ma’s death certificate (seems strange to write that), communicating with Gouri who lives in our house in Kolkata and is crying her heart out, informing friends and family about regular health updates. When all this is done, when Kolkata falls asleep and I am even more numb from pain, I sit quietly, catatonic. Is this being strong or this numbness is extreme shock and extreme vulnerability? What does strength mean in this situation? Does it mean holding it together and getting the job done? If it is that, then I am being strong. But then when do I grieve? When can I just let all this go and scream and beat my chest and just cry my heart out?

I have this undescribable pain in my chest that is simply lodged there. I feel if I have a good, loud cry, the pain may just dislodge but would that seem weak? Also, tears are coming in spurts when a sudden memory rises up in my mind. When her whole life with me plays out in front of my eyes. All those years when we were apart seem such wasted time.

Saying I am in a lot of pain – is that strength or weakness?

This grief is an interesting process.

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, researched footwear for plantar fasciitis, bought 3 pairs with highest ratings, 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. Nothing has helped so far.

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. I hardly sat down till bed time.

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 stop being a martyr.

The world, my world included, will continue to revolve if I put my feet up for a while.