My mom is like a Scotch-Brite dish washing scrub pad. She is all spongy and soft on one side but if she flips she possesses this thin layer of strong, abrasive stuff that is remarkably strong and resilient. So when yours truly, packed her bags and along with the husband, traipsed into the hospital to get treated for the ‘rona leaving behind two COVID positive teenagers with mom, no one had any idea, that a long arduous journey was ahead of her, and that she would traverse it with love and grit. Yes, I spent a whole lunar cycle (or a menstrual one) being treated for the virus, whilst she took care of the house and two ailing children. Her love for me was undeniable.
As friends came to know that I was positive, or was hospitalized, a lot of them responded with versions of ‘you’re strong and you’ll overcome it’. I was livid, my response was visceral. I didn’t want to hear those words. My brain knew that my well wishers were willing me strength but I didn’t want to hear it. I hate the strong woman trope, despise it. We women are weak, soft, vulnerable, sick and miserable just like men. And my strength wasn’t going to cure me. Conversely, I didn’t get COVID because I was weak.
The ordeal ended in May and it’s my birthday now in August. My birthday is followed by Diana’s death anniversary. Each year I’m reminded I’ve outlived her and many other women, men too. Not to mention children. It bothers me a bit. How people who're better, smarter, kinder, definitely wayyy cooler than I can ever aspire to be, died. They always do, COVID or not. Now me, I’m a poster child for the imposter syndrome. In a good week, I’m anxious, in a not so good one, the Dunning - Kruger effect is on complete display and on bad days my EQ hits rock bottom.
That’s what happened during my hospital stay. I couldn’t imagine why people were praying for me and they were. They were doing it in groups. Family members gave up meals for my recovery, friends sent me Reiki, whilst others checked on my mom and kids regularly. Friends on other continents wanted to ensure my treatment was effective and even offered to take care of hospital bills. It was mind boggling. I could not make sense of any of it. Why? Why were my colleagues checking up on me? When they couldn’t reach me, they called the husband. Why were my erstwhile colleagues reaching out to me? So much love, so much of it was just not something I could make sense of. Why me? Then there were my students and their lovely parents. Little kiddos sending me video messages for my recovery and their parents wishing me well.
I kept myself shielded from most of this display of love. Hardly spoke to anyone. Could not speak to anyone. My kids were good kids. Recovering from COVID in isolation themselves, not bothering their grandmother and going with the flow. The boy worked at his homework and the girl at her exams. Between headaches and fatigue, they managed life without complaints and were always cheerful when I spoke to them. Such unconditional love. The husband of course was the reason, I lived. I continue to live. From busing me to the hospital in time, caring for me each day in the hospital, day in and day out for a month, to learning soup and food recipes that make me stronger is all just the tip of the iceberg. All whilst he himself was infected and then recovering from COVID. There is so much more that he did and continues to do everyday, but I don’t want to share it all. It’s all my personal little love story.
I’d be remiss if I don’t speak about the doctors and nurses and hospital staff who worked tirelessly in the COVID wards. I can talk about how restricting it was for me to not move out of a room and not see anyone because they were all in PPE kits. But if I change perspectives, then I can’t imagine working in PPE kits either. Docs and nurses walking around with sweaty brows. No way to wipe off that drop of sweat that threatens to get into their eyes. They would just tilt their head backwards and tap on their glasses or shake their heads to dislodge the pool of liquid. How do you focus on little needles and whatnots with your face being in sweat all the time? You can’t snack whilst on duty nor access the toilets whenever you feel like it. And then comes the sickness and death. So much of it. All the time. Without a reprieve, day after day, with each patient being VERY sick, and trying to save every one of them. The numbers increasing, the helplessness of seeing patients collapse because there were no beds and no Oxygen. The worst was seeing these doctors work relentlessly, only to be undermined by idiots ( religious or medical) who gave out misinformation for their 15 minutes of fame. Where did my doctors and nurses have the time to claim fame. They were the ones who kept the cogs rolling in the second wave. Or any wave. Young people who were giving it their best in the worst of times. Isn’t that the country we dream of? We have it. We don’t value it.
I wanted to value everything. My hospital stay was peaceful and calm. I didn’t have to worry about work, the children were safe and in competent hands, the husband was beside me and I felt super healthy all the time, thanks to the docs. At one point of time, I told my doctor about my medical history and how that was probably hindering my recovery. He just laughed it all off calling me ‘very strong’. I AM NOT STRONG. I didn’t say that. Just rolled my eyes inside my head and went back to my day dreaming. I knew how I was going to live my life. Happily. I am going to create pockets of happiness in my life. Somewhere between work and chores I had forgotten to focus on things that made me happy. All my family and friends that I loved, I have had most of them on ignore, I’ll make sure I spend time with them. I’ll make a little happiness corner in my home, and go sit in for 10-15 minutes each day. I’ll meet more people. I’ll give more, and more willingly. I’ll be happier.
There it is, thank you for your love and for wishing me strength! Willing it onto me - so I could be happy!
