Family Members

For a cancer patient, the fight is not only by the patient.
If not more, but equally, the fight is also of the patient family and the support group around him/her.
When we congratulate someone who has fought cancer, I personally think we ought to also congratulate his/her family members or whoever was their support.

Today I went to the Playroom after college.
One of the kids had just woken up and had come to the Playroom.
He was still rubbing his eyes, yawning and pulling up his pyjamas as he sat to play games on the Computer.

I was sitting with another kid playing a board game.
Suddenly I heard screaming and shouting from the side where the Computer was kept.

The little kid who was at the Computer had been handed over a glass of some milk to drink by his mother.
He refused.
She screamed.
He screamed back.
She slightly hit him on the head.
He cried.
She scolded again.
He wailed.
She screamed louder and threatened to slap him.

Thats when I turned and asked the mother to lower her voice. Told her not to hit her son.
The little kid was wailing and I realized he was having trouble breathing with his loud sobs.

The mother complained.
How this was a regular affair.
How she wanted to slap him for his misbehaviour.
How the kid was just doing "nyakami".
About how fed up she was.

I sighed.
Its not easy for a mother too.

Yes. The little kid is the one who is unwell.
He is the one who has absolutely no appetite.
He is the one who is fighting.
He is the one who should be pampered.

But. Then agin. Should he?

In reality, its an everyday war for the family members as well.
Its not easy standing by the bedside watching your loved one writhing in pain under the Chemotherapy drugs.
Along with the patient, the family member needs to be equally strong and positive minded.
Sometimes requiring more patience and will power than the patient.
For every time the patient fails, it is the family member who becomes the strength.
His/her words and a warm hug is what keeps the patient going.
If the family member collapses, the patient automatically collapses.

In this regard, it is the responsibility of the family member then to keep the atmosphere around the patient pleasant.
To have patience with the patient.

And from personal experience, I know this is Not easy.

I wanted to scream back at the Mother.
But I realized she was also tired. She was also having her bouts of weakness.
She too cried in the middle of the night when her son wasn't looking.
Screamed in pain from inside everytime she watched her son crying.
She too was human.
Helpless and yet carrying on the fight along with her son.
If the son was the soldier in the battle, she was his armour.

Therefore I didn't scold her.
I went up to her, took the glass of milk from her hand and tried to feed the kid myself.
I told her to take a break and go out for a walk.

The fight against Cancer is all about having patience.

Such Contradictions

Someone in the flat downstairs just passed away.
Around 3.5 hours back.
And here I am, writing a blog.

Insensitive of me?
Yes. Very. 
Was I close to him?
No. 
Does that give me reason not to sympathize?
No.
Should I be mourning already and sit quietly in a corner and think about Life?
I dont think so.
Would I be able to say/do the same if it had been my family member?
I am not in a position to answer that. But. No. 

However.
I have become a bit more reslient to Death in general.
Passive. Thats the word.

I heard the news of this Uncle's death and immediately I was reminded of this girl from the Playroom. (The same girl who is mentioned in the post 'Going Home')
When I went to the Playroom today I heard that she had not made it.
Exactly a week back, she had passed away.
I think of her and "Sunshine" and become resilient to everything around me.

He was old.
80+ years old.
Frail. Weak. Not keeping well. Eyesight failing. Body pain. Unable to walk properly.
He had lived his life. He had done well.

But the kids.
3.5 years old. 12 years old.
Young. Energetic. Sparkle in their eyes. A future. A Ray of Hope.
They had not even lived their life. They had not seen the change of seasons over the years.

I think of the cruelty of Nature.
The disbalance.
And somehow I turn cold to Deaths.

Would I be able to say/do the same if it had been my family member?
No.

Such contradictions in our minds.
And yet, Death is inevitable.
The only Truth in our lives.

And yet so Cruel.
Cruel for a kid.
Okay for an old man.

*Such* contradictions. 

Yellow Car

I got a call last night at 10:00pm.

"Tomorrow is Tuesday. You promised you would come," the little voice squealed from the other end.
"Yes, I remember." I smiled and assured the young boy.
"When will you come then?" he inquired.
"I'll come dear. I promised, didn't I?"
"No! Tell me when you'll come! You have to stay with me for a long time!" He screamed.
"Okay. Okay. I'll come in the morning as usual. Okay?"
"Okay. Now talk to Ma."

I spoke to his mother for a while and disconnected the call.
I smiled and my parents inquired who the call was from.
"The Playroom," I told them.

Next morning, I went to the Hospital and saw him at the end of the corridor.
His face lit up and he screamed, "MA! Didi is here!!" and came running into my arms.
Oh. The smile on his face. I hugged him tight and gave him a light kiss on his cheek.
They had shaved off his head because he was losing his hair very fast anyway. And now small spurts of hair could be seen on his scalp.

He dragged me to his bed. His mother held me and inquired if I was doing well.
He smiled meekly and signalled his mother about something She turned around and took out something from their bedside shelf and handed him over a card.
He took the card and with a broad grin handed it over to me.

The picture on top is the top of the card. As always, the wheels of this yellow car is made with Chemotherapy bottle caps. Inside it reads:

"I love to play with you Prianjali Didi. - I. Ghosh."

Though he made an error with the spelling of my name (its Priyanjali), I cannot express in words what receiving the card meant to me.
Just the thought behind it.
It was enough to brighten my spirits for the whole day.
And to think that I am actually able to bring him enough joy and happee-ness, even if for half a day - to be able to give him the company he craves sitting in the Hospital just makes my visits to the Playroom worthwhile.

Its a mutual feeling I believe.
To give and get.
I can't give him much.
Apart from providing him momentary joy and a playmate, I also try to lend his mother a shoulder to vent her frustrations out.
In return however, he gives me A Lot.
He teaches me to be compassionate, caring and understanding.
To believe that things will all eventually fall into place.
To think of him in dire situations and tell myself that, 'if he can be so strong in such adversity, so can I'.

To be Strong.
To Believe.

Phone Call

Yesterday I got a call.
I was on my way back home from college. It was around 8:15pm.

A familiar voice of a young boy screamed "HellooOoo!!" from the other end.
I recognized it as the voice of one of the kids from the Playroom.
A smile spread across my face.

"How are you doing today?" I inquired.
He screamed back, "When are you coming again?"

My college had reopened after the vacations.
I thus had not been going regularly to the Hospital anymore. As a matter of fact, I had only gone once in the past week. Naturally, that was not acceptable to any one of the kids.

"I have college. So I'll try coming soon enough."
"No. I dont want to know" He paused and stressed on each of the next four words and asked again, "When. Are. You. Coming?"
"I'll try coming maybe in the weekend?"
"No! That won't do! Come tomorrow," he pleaded.
"Okay. Okay. I'll try," I replied, trying to pacify this young boy.

"Promise?" he whispered into the phone.
I mumbled.
"Didi. Please. Promise me you'll come tomorrow?"
I was left with no choice.
"Promise," I repeated after him.

Without pausing for a second, he handed the phone to his mother. I heard him squeal in delight as he passed the phone over - telling his mother excitedly that I'll be going to visit him. I spoke to his mother for a bit, inquiring about his health in general and ended the call after a while.

I looked out of the window. The cold wind blowing in my face. And I was overwhelmed by the simplicity of the emotions as felt by both the kid and myself.
I could under no circumstance deny that kid the simple joy of having a friend over to spend some time with.

I am in my last Semester in college. A part of me wants to make the most of each day.
To spend as much time as I can with my friends in college.
I wanted to do that today also.
But.
I couldnt.
I simply could Not imagine the look on the kid's face and the disappointment I would cause him.
So. Inspite of a part of me wanting to stay back, I left the college gates and took a bus to go to the Hospital.

And then.
The Smile.
That innocent-toothed-wide-grinned smile on the kid's face when he saw me.
No words can express the simplicity and a paradoxical complexity of that smile.

He wants me to go tomorrow also. After college.
I know how happee it made him and all the other kids when I went today.

A part of me feels obliged to go and another part understands that its only a child's demand. 

And that. Its not possible to do it everyday.
But then again, I'm talking about a kid who is sick. Really sick.
I'm left debating with my own self.
Wanting to stay back in college seems selfish on my part and yet indulging in a his demand is not always right.
I'm torn between myself.

Bravo!

I had to go do a blood test two days back.

Initially, due to Chemotherapy, it was very difficult to draw blood for tests.
Not only was I thin and therefore had very thin veins, but this really crude medicine has a habit of damaging veins for a while. Therefore it becomes difficult for most Phlebotomists to draw blood from patients undergoing Chemotherapy and by default thus, patients are continuously pierced in various places on their arm.

Even though its been nearly 4 years now, Phlebotomists still find it difficult to draw blood from my arm. My veins may not be damaged anymore, but I am still thin with thin veins. They therefore use something called the 'Butterfly Needle' to draw my blood and weirdly enough, I enjoy watching this exercise.
That is however not true about my parents. They worry that because of my vein issue, I'll be pierced multiple times and thus will be hurt. Over the years, I have become resilient to needle pricks and therefore don't mind as much. Rather I rate the Phlebotomist who is drawing my blood out of 10 - marking him on how efficiently he did it; how much pain it caused and how many times he pricked me and how comfortable he made me feel.

I remember an instance about 5 years back.
I has just started to fall sick and was advised by my Doctor to do a regular blood test.

My brother decided to take me for the test.

We were waiting in a room with other patients.
My brother looked at me and asked, "Scared?" I smiled back and shrugged my shoulders.

While we were talking, the Phlebotomist was attending to a middle aged lady.
She was wearing a salwar kameez and had extremely curly hair. She was holding a vanity bag that she handed over to her husband as she sat down.
As she faced the Phlebotomist, it seemed as if she was looking at Satan himself.
She was scared out of her wits and told her husband, "I can't do this."

My brother and I looked at each other and smiled.

The husband came forward and reassured her, "Don't behave like a child."
The Phlebotomist didn't seem to have time to entertain such childish behavior.
He looked at the lady at said, "It won't hurt a bit. Just close your eyes and breathe."

She did as she was told. She clenched her teeth together, closed her eyes tightly and looked the other way. With her spare hand, she squeezed the end of her kameez. Before she realized, the Phlebotomist had drawn blood and was putting the name tag on the tube.
The lady never realized that her ordeal was over. Even when her blood had been drawn, she still had her eyes closed.
She only opened her eyes when he screamed, "Next."
Finally, she opened her eyes and exclaimed, "Wow! That did not hurt!"

Since I was the next patient, and far younger than the lady, the Phlebotomist looked at me and started to explain in a monotonous voice, "This wont hurt, just - "
I cut him short and said, "Don't worry. Just do it."

I looked at my brother who was staring at me intently. I smiled at him and looked back at my arm. It was the old system of drawing blood with a needle and not venipuncture. He inserted the needle and the slight prick hardly hurt.

It was over in seconds.
But what I remember the most is when I got up to leave, my brother smiling at me and saying, "Bravo!"

Henceforth, each time I have to be pricked by a needle, I think of that day and my brother feeling proud that his baby sister was not afraid and I happeely let the Phlebotomist do his job without creating a fuss. :)

Bottle Caps

Thats my cover of my Birthday Card the kids at the Playroom at the Hospital made for me. 

Its made up of cardboard folded in half - a red chart paper on top; golden cellotape at the sides and papers cut outs. Inside, all the kids being treated at the Paediatric Ward have signed for me. 

What I want to bring to notice however, is not only the thought that they put in to make this card for me, but also the use of materials to make this card.

They are all reused materials. 

Apart from the cardboard, chart paper and marble paper, the most interesting reused element in the card are the colourful caps. 

The green round caps making the tree, the blue, black, yellow and white caps making the other components of the landscape are actually reused caps from the Chemotherapy glass bottles.

Instead of throwing away these caps from the bottles, the kids at the Playroom reuse them to make cards and other works of art. These bottle caps, which are ironically so colorful, help to brighten up their artworks and bring a smile on the receiver's face. Its a wonderful method of letting go of the reminder of pain and using it for beautification purposes.

I was overwhelmed when I was handed over this card.

It was a sharp reminder of my days at the Hospital when I used to notice the nurses opening these similar looking bottle caps and also a sense of relief to have overcome that and be presented with the bottle caps in a manner such as on the card.

For me, these caps are simply a metaphor for situations in life.

Either we cringe in fear or we make the best of all situations. 

Life is what we make of it.