It started off just like any other Sunday, but ended up being far from it. This is the story of how I lost my grandmother. 19th June, 2016. A poignant day in my calendar.
My grandmother had not been keeping well for a week. She was suffering from a respiratory problem and was having issues with her breathing — which seemed to grow worse with each passing day. Of course, the prescribed medications were in operation, but they seemed futile. However, the concerned doctor assured us that it wasn’t something to worry about. He said my Amma’s lungs were clogged with mucus — which was the root cause of her ailments — and a hospitalization of a couple of days, aided with the nebulizer treatment would fix the issue. Wasting little to no time, we opted for Apollo Gleneagles Hospital, apparently, one of the very best in the region.
She was doing fine, talking and smiling, assuring us she’d be back better than ever. After all, it wasn’t anything serious. A couple of days. At least, that’s what we were promised. It was the afternoon of that Sunday when she was admitted to the hospital, an event which nobody likes to be a part of. She was taken straight to the ICU, which was a shock to us in many ways. But of course, the doctors knew better. We trusted them. She was given the prescribed nebulizer, an instrument which clears the air-passage and aids breathing — and just like that — we could already see the improvements. She started to regain her vibrancy, which was absent all this time, and was talking to us with renewed enthusiasm. It was only the afternoon of June 19th, and we could already see her getting better. Everything was fine.
We returned home happy.
We were already looking forward to her being discharged in two days time. We went to the hospital again in the evening, but something seemed odd. Little did we know that it was the beginning of the end. The same energy and vibrancy, which was so visible just a few hours ago, was absent. She seemed gloomy. She told us about how the hospital staff had been looking after her, and the fact that she was given a sandwich for her lunch. A sandwich? It seemed odd. And it was since then that she wasn’t feeling the same anymore. The little purple-patch she had in terms of her health had long dissipated. The nebulizer, which sparked her health upheaval few hours ago, was lying unattended on a tray next to her bed. However, she kept talking to us, but we could see she was struggling to. We decided not to disturb her anymore and trod across to the other side of the ICU cabin. And then, the unthinkable happened, right before my very eyes.
6:50pm. She was sitting upright on her bed, looking at the other patients, the college of doctors moving to and fro, and occasionally, at us. And just then, suddenly, I saw her clutching her oxygen mask, in an attempt to remove it. Her action had an air of helplessness. Before we could approach her and ask her anything, she gently started to succumb to the bed, almost as if in slow-motion. I saw her eyes closing, and hands dropping slowly to her sides, away from the oxygen mask on her face. I was shaken! We all were. In the nick of the moment, the doctors rushed in and made a beeline around her bed, and drew the curtains. We could overhear panicky murmurings from the other side of the curtains, but we were asked to leave the area and wait outside. We felt, that was it. As we waited, each minute seemed like an age, with the dreaded thought of losing my Amma tormenting my mind. After fifteen long and emotionally draining minutes, a doctor approached us and explained that she had a cardiac arrest, but assured us that she had been revived. However, she needed ventilation. The word — ventilation — made us shiver. We were still in a fit of shock – still trying to process the sudden turn of events. We still had hope though, just about.
It was 7:45pm when we were told that she has had another cardiac arrest — but again, she had been revived. We had no idea how to react to the events unfolding before us, with our minds being mystifyingly clogged with the dreaded thought of losing her. However, deep down, a part of me knew she was no more, but somehow, I continued to cling on to that hope – a ray of hope that was fading with every passing second. We prayed for better news.
It was around 10:30pm when the third cardiac arrest kicked in. Of course, she was no more. But the doctors continued to keep us in the dark. They said, ‘expect the worst, hope for the best’. We could not take it anymore. It was 10:50pm and finally the news came — the news of her leaving us. I don’t remember how we reacted at that moment, or rather, I don’t want to recall that memory, but I believed she passed away the second I saw her eyes giving in. A sight still fresh in my memory, despite the test of time.
My sister and I tried our best to accept the fact that our Amma was no more. It was difficult. The most difficult part of the entire episode was the sheer pace at which the things unfolded. Perhaps, she would have still been with us if it wasn’t for the hospitalization. Perhaps, she wouldn’t. I guess we’ll never know — but for some reason — it felt like we pushed her towards the gateway of heaven. Everything happened so quickly. It was so abrupt. Everything over in the space of a few hours. One Sunday. That’s it. From smiling and talking to us, to leaving us for her heavenly abode. This wasn’t meant to happen.
We returned home in the dead of the night, when our complex was in a trance of peaceful midnight sleep. But it was my Amma’s never-ending sleep that kept us awake that night. I failed to take my English exam at school the next day. From Monday, 20th June, 2016, while it was the beginning of another week for many, it was the beginning of a new phase of life for me — life without my Amma.
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