Starting over, Fresh Starts — Sometimes They Work
And sometimes they don’t
I’ve had many fresh starts in life. We moved so often during my childhood that I went through five schools until grade 10. Then three colleges before I graduated. I took it in my stride. Maybe it is why I chose a career that would keep me moving. I loved to pack and unpack. Change was a constant I truly cherished in life.
But not all fresh starts are easy. My most difficult one was when my mom passed away, twelve years ago. Just saying that chokes me up.
January, which we always associated with a new year, grand plans, and fun resolutions has become tough for me, and February, when we celebrate our wedding anniversary, is even tougher — at least since 2010. It brings back painful memories. It was the year I lost my mother.
I had the privilege of being born as her daughter, but her passing away was no less than starting over because of the vacuum she left behind. A vacuum I never thought I would get over. Well, I haven’t.
And yet I’ve carried on with life, readjusting, grappling with my emotions and feelings. It has not been easy. Even today, when I talk about my mother, there’s a big lump in my throat and my eyes start to stream involuntarily. There’s a part of me that wonders how I’ll manage . . . and I hear her voice inside my head, encouraging me and assuring me I’ll do just fine.
I guess that’s how it is when one is best friends with their mom and secretly dreads the day when she will no longer be around. I just didn’t expect mine to pass away at 63.
Even today, after so many years, I feel disoriented, thinking she’s gone somewhere and will be back.
There are days when, while making the tea at 4.30 pm, I automatically put her favorite mug next to mine to mix her protein drink.
I almost buy the orange wafers she liked so much.
While sorting through the clothes in my closet, I come across a red top that I think would look better on her.
When looking for something, I come across a book of hers in which she’s stashed money.
And oh, don’t even ask about Dove and sandalwood soap — she loved them so much. Their fragrance reduces me to tears.
Muscle memory is a weird thing.
My mom was a single parent. Not by choice, because my biological father left for the US to pursue higher studies just three months before I was born and never came back. For curious minds — he married an American soon after and we later learned that he has a daughter who is just a year younger than I am.
I’ve written about how my mom found her cup of peace from her marriage from hell. Read it, if so inclined, to get an idea of where this was coming from. As if that wasn’t enough, I almost got lost when I was two, but fortunately didn’t.
Anyway, we were survivors, and life more or less worked out. To flog a cliché, the harder we worked, the luckier we got. Mom, who had been married off at 13 and had me at 18, was back at her mother’s place with me, continued her education, and qualified to become a teacher.
There are nights when I go to bed, mind awash with memories because some tough experiences never leave our subconscious minds. Something or other triggers them. There was a phase in our lives when everything went to shit. Mom had to quit a job she was well-settled in because her mom, my grandma wanted to go live with her eldest son in a city we did not want to move to.
However, we had no say in it and what followed was a miserable time, job-hunting for mom and college admissions for me. Unkind relatives who had nothing but discouraging words, who called us useless — I shudder to think back to those times.
When I think of those days, I have this crazy recurring dream where I am sitting in the waiting area of a school in our neighborhood that is looking for a Head. The lady running the school calls me into her office and I hand over my mom’s resume. She opens the document, gives me a weird look and says this is her death certificate. I wake up crying, scared.
You’d think I would have come to terms, what with the passing of time. But I struggle with it still. When she passed away, I felt so alone that I couldn’t bring myself to talk to my friends. I found solace in writing and started a new blog as a tribute to my memories with my mom to help me start over — to reconcile with life without her.
Following a lung fibrosis diagnosis in 1998, mom’s health had begun to deteriorate and the doctor gave her at most six months, to live. I still remember her giving him the stern eye and challenging his prognosis — telling him she had plans to live for at least 10 more years. Sheer willpower and a fantastic attitude kept her alive for 12 years.
In 2009, she was diagnosed with pulmonary TB. A weak immune system, thanks to steroids, can open the door to a whole saga of health issues. And yet she bore everything cheerfully. This segued into spinal TB a few months later. When her doctor suggested surgery, we decided to get a second opinion from a specialist who advised complete bed rest for three months, in the hope that she would heal.
She did, much to our joy. As her physiotherapist began the process of mobilizing her after her bed rest, she joked about starting over in life — it was January after all. A fresh start for new beginnings.
Little did we know as we rejoiced over how things were working out finally, that we would be the ones who would be stumbling to do that.
It all began with mild breathing trouble on 3 Feb 2010. In spite of her protests, I called the doctor home. One look at her and he advised us to rush her to the hospital as she was turning cyanotic (blue). She wasn’t getting enough oxygen. Her lung had collapsed.
Even on the way to the hospital, she kept feeling bad about the siren wailing because it would inconvenience others. The doctors told us we had brought her in just in time and that another fifteen minutes would have made all the difference.
They hooked her to a ventilator right away, something she was not happy about. Still, we just assumed she’d be okay in a week. She had been in and out of the hospital so many times that we didn’t even imagine that she wouldn’t come back home. As I held her hand, she reminded me to bring her favorite red kurta to wear when she was discharged. I had no idea that would be the last time we would hear her beloved voice.
How does one ever recover from that?
What followed over the next five days . . . was excruciating. Her lungs could not be inflated because of her fibrosis. Her body began to shut down because of internal sepsis.
On 8 Feb 2010, she passed away from a massive heart attack. And while Time, the great healer has been doing her job I suppose — because life goes on — I wonder if we’ll ever get over the loss.
In spite of her chronic ailments that developed later in life, my mom was one of the kindest and most cheerful persons one could ever meet. Although when I say later in life, I am talking about when she was in her 50s.
She was/is a role model to me, exemplifying strength and the supreme ability to forgive everyone. She did not believe in bearing grudges. And since moms are always right — she was also right about so many things. Things that she mentioned when she was alive, things I had laughed off. I am humbled that she knew me so much better than I knew myself. She was generous in life and generous in death, insisting that we donate her body to the medical college.
Back in 2000, when I was struggling to start over after a break in my career, she was the one who made me believe I could do it.
I took a work sabbatical after my son was born, intending to return to the corporate grind when my son started school and in fact, my ex-employers assured me there would always be a place for me in the company.
However, it was not to be as my own priorities changed and I had to rethink the course of my career. I literally started over — from being a corporate hotshot-ish to becoming my own boss. Which sounds a lot better than “struggling freelancer scared to death over whether she can make it”. And yet, thanks to my mom and my husband constantly cheering me on, I did get a fresh start and I am now living my dream — as a writer.
Career-wise, I overcame my mountain of fear and turned it into a motivating molehill. I saw it as my second innings.
But coping with losing my mom . . . is something I’ll probably struggle with all my life. It is just not easy to get over some losses. I am trying hard, by remembering her wise words and sharing them through my writing. Some days, I smile through the tears, remembering our conversations. Other days, it is just tears.
9 Feb is our 25th wedding anniversary. 8 Feb will be 12 years of life without mom. As usual, we will reminisce about her. Sury will sing her favorite songs. Some of my close friends who knew her well will message or call.
I will be especially grateful that she is my mom and hope that she is proud of me.
Thanks for reading.
Please check out the other entries in the Starting over contest listed in KiKi Walter’s post here:
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