A Sunday

I closed my mouth and spoke to you in a hundred silent ways.
— Rumi

Of all the nights I spent crying and talking to the ceiling above me, this night is special. Special because after howling for nearly an hour, I suddenly get up, switch on my laptop and start writing. And I have no clue why I am writing this, what I am going to share, or more importantly, where this post will eventually draw the line. Because I am too full tonight – completely shattered for the umpteenth time, disastrously shedding tears and definitely, out of my mind. And not too sure whether I can actually pen something worth reading at such moments of emotional saturation. But I must write. Don’t ask me why. I do not know. All I know is right now, I must write ‘something’.

My last interaction with my husband happened two days before he crossed over. It was his last Sunday on planet earth, and he was in the ICU monitored by an army of machines. Eyes wide open, staring at me like a child, he looked completely lost. He had stopped normal verbal communication, just a couple of words in the last few hours. I asked him whether he wants to see Guria, and he shook his head firmly, frowned and implied ‘no’. I could see him picking on the sheet that covered him, there was too much unrest within, yet he had no energy left to express how he felt. He was going. The closure had begun. I, tried being the rock, and though I could see my world falling like a pack of cards, I continued talking to him. What else could I do? I just wanted him to hold on, and told him so. And he nodded. He wanted to hold on so badly, I know. Remember telling him, ‘how will I live without you. Do you think that I can?’ To this, came his last conscious response. Tilting his head to the right, he blinked his tired eyes and assured me, ‘yes, you will, you can'. 

I stood there like a stone. I should have cried because I realized he was so sure he was leaving, or maybe I should have smiled and told him ‘shut up, you are not going anywhere’. But I couldn’t do any of these. I simply hugged him and said nothing. I couldn’t. I was not thinking anymore. His answer paralyzed all my questions.

In a few hours, he was in deep coma.

But how could I forget that face? Helpless. Those eyes that could not even take the stress of a blink. Those fingers, purple and shriveled. That tilt to his right to confirm he knew, he will never ever go home. He knew, we will never talk again. He knew what ‘never’ meant.

That particular Sunday is, and will remain etched in my soul, as long as I live here. Without him. There is no escape for me. None. For I have seen his body closing, cell by cell, with each passing hour. I have seen his pulse reach as low as ten per minute. I have witnessed his final closure when the flat ECG declared I have lost him. I will have to live with these images. That’s where it hurts. Too much.

At times, I ask the skies, where is he now. Is it all over for him? Or, is he somewhere? Around us, or at some other level of consciousness? When I cry, does he see me? I don’t want him to. Or maybe, a part of me, does. Is he aware of all the letters that Guria writes to him, and hopes he will come when she sleeps and find them under her pillow? Is he watching his girl grow into this amazingly sensitive daughter who pens her mind and believes he is reading? Where is he? Is he listening? All questions of a wounded bosom.

I think we all have some quota of pain assigned to us, which we must bear in this life. So, the next question that stabs my mind often on weaker days is, is this all that was kept for me? I hope my share of pain is over. You know why? Not because I hope to spend the rest of my life in merriment. I do not dare to hope for something so rosy and smooth anymore. But because, I feel any other misery or pain will make me forget what I am going through right at this moment. 

For me, forgetting all his struggle for a normal healthy life means, forgetting him. And I do not trust myself on surviving a moment without remembering how he fought. How he nodded on his last Sunday each time I pleaded, ‘please hold on’.

This is the seventh month of my new ‘life’. A life where I stumble too often… walk, rarely… run, wish I could. Nearly seven months into an existence that is as new to me as life is to a newborn. And just like it needs weeks, months, years to learn new things one by one, I am hoping I will too. Learn to live this new life gradually. Maybe start walking in a few months, and then perhaps someday, as I grow up, I will learn to laugh with all the dormant muscles of my heart contributing to that laughter. Yes, one night, I shall have the best sleep. One day, I will spend hours by the sea and not shed a tear. One day, I will smile at the birds as they fly over me. To new shores. One fine Sunday, I will find him, amidst polite strangers in a park, greeting me with a warm ‘hello’.  

One day, I will live. Rather, start living.

If you have read this far, I must thank you. For being so patient with me and my tears that never stop drizzling these days. Incessant, they shower on rooftops on cloudy, lonely nights. Take shape as words and compel me to pen them before you, baring it all, endlessly, again and again. If you have read this far, I am indebted to you for life. For being one of those very few who will pause for a while, and think of the man who continues to live through my pen.

Thank you. For being one of those very few who, on having reached the end of my post, would wish, I had written some more.

Stay well. Always.