Nanu's illness

My Grandpa (Nanu) had a stroke yesterday. Fortunately we caught it really early and rushed him to hospital immediately (despite his objections that he was really ok and didn't need help! Nanu!), and so the damage seems to have been minimal. As of now, it's mostly that he cannot raise his right hand, and the docs are still hopeful that this, too, could heal. Although given his age and other medical complications, it will probably be a very long time.

I stayed with him in the ER for most of the day, having sent my grandma home to rest because she was exhausted, physically and emotionally, from the last few years' battles against illness. And at some point there, i had a weird realization: this is the first time I have stayed alone with a relative in hospital. In fact, it is the first time in my (somewhat) adult life that i have been to hospital because someone in the family was ill: roles have usually been reversed, or like last year, I have usually been out of town.

Now, have I mentioned that I hate hospitals? That smell... youknow how they say that smell is the sense most closely connected to memory? Well, I have a LOT of not so great memories that I associate with the smells of hospitals... even the ones that try to look all sparkly clean, they only nauseate me further because, really, what are they trying to hide? And who are they kidding? As we were wheeling nanu from the ER towards the ICU, I had a faint sense of deja vu, remembering a time 3 1/2 years ago, in another hospital in another country, where I was the patient. That hospital corridor had been dimly lit. Someone was pushing the wheelchair, and I was dizzy from all the drugs. I remember the distinct feeling of being alone in an enormous maze, with just one person pushing me along, but I wasn’t scared. Just curious, in a dazed sort of way. Just wondering at how large the place was and whether the corridors ever ended.

They did end. The strong smell of antiseptic made me gag, woke me up a little. And then, for the first time that day, the fear set in. Not for long, though, in only a moment, I was in the operation theater. I had a moment to wonder at how tiny the place looked. I felt that operation theaters—places where, every day, people walk that thin line between life and death—ought to be grander. Shouldn’t there be a little more ceremony to the place from which many people walk out with entirely changed lives and some people walk out of life itself? The drab white and blue walls didn’t do it.

I thought the same yesterday as I stood by Nanu's bed in the ICU. The room was a mess, gowns scattered here and there. Noises, all kinds of noises, noises i don't often hear and didn't want to know more about. His sheets were clean white, but other than that, nothing in the room made it seem like the kind of place where so many people's lives are saved, so many lives are altered, and some lives are lost, probably every day. Is it only in movies and books that the scene is supposed to match, somewhat, with everything going on in it? 'Cos these rooms sure don't.

It was weird, seeing nanu there. I know it was weird for him too. He coudn't understand being the one taken care of, me being the person taking care. You see, I'm still his little girl (he still never calls me Aditi but prefers "TM," which is short for "Teenie Meenie" or "Toofan Mail," depending on his mood! And, even through my teenage years, even at 23, I've never minded that particular nickname... I think that's a pretty good summary of our relationship!). He kept apologizing for the "trouble" he was causing, but how could I explain that he, of all people, could never be troublesome?

We are talking of the man who gladly woke up at 2 or 3 AM to peel pomegrantes for his troublesome little grandchildren (my brother and me!) when we were a few years old. This is the one man who I always knew was on my side; if my brother bullied me, he was the first to scold him; if my grandmother turned down a treat I wanted, he was the first to grant me it anyway; when my grandmother's desperation to marry me off starts getting on my nerves, he's the first to change the subject.When I was little, he would often sit me on his knee and tell guests that i was his favorite granddaughter, and i would reply, "how many granddaughters do you have?". "Just one," he'd admit, "but you're still my favorite." One day, he said "grandchild" instead of "granddaughter," but I automatically responded "How many do you have?". "Three" he said, looking at me with an earnestness that I haven't forgotten, some 13 or 14 years after the fact. And yesterday, this man was apologizing for the fact that i spent an afternoon reading at his bedside? How could I even respond to that?

And yet, when he said those words, I knew suddenly that yes, I am his granddaughter. Those would be, often are, my exact thoughts (and, sometimes, words) when the situation is reversed, when I am the one lying helpless in bed. Not to him in particular, but to my caregivers in general. I don't think it's a good or even a healthy frame of mind at that time, but it is mine, and his too apparently. I don't know why, but that sameness was comforting... that sense that despite everything, in some ways we are exactly the same.

The talk of caregivers brings me back again to the operation theater i started writing about earlier. When I awoke from the anesthesia a few hours later, I was shivering and I kept asking for more blankets. I asked the nurse why I felt so cold, and she replied, “Well its not like you have several layers of clothing on in the operation theater, you know.” Not a very comforting answer, but oh well, it would have to do. I slipped back into sleep.

The nurse came back: “Who is accompanying you?”

“A friend.”

“Is she a good friend?”

I thought for a while but was still too fuzzy to analyse the merits of this friend. But she did drive me to the hospital, so I figured she must be good. I said, “Yes, I think so.”

“You think so? Is she or is she not a really close friend?”

This was getting exhausting. I mumbled that she was, although I wasn’t sure yet.

“Okay!” the nurse sounded relieved. Next thing I knew, she asked my friend to come into the room and dress me. Oh, close enough, I supposed.

Interesting the way relationships and definitions change when someone is sick, huh?