Baby Blues

Today, IVF, IVI, donors, surrogates, etc. all have been developed to the fertility challenged, at a cost.

Malati has been married for 3 and half years now. She hasn't conceived to date. She works as a housemaid/cook/governess rolled in one. The children she took care of, whom she spoiled with treats, bathed, dressed, disciplined into doing their homework, kissed their hurts away, wiped tears are grown, on their way to college and beyond. Less indulgent, they resent her shortened temper.

She started young, yet now is reaching an age defined by doctors as less than ideal for childbearing. Her spouse's sperm count is on a lower end – not quite infertile, but not enough motile sperm. All tests show that she has patent tubes, is producing eggs, and the uterus is fine.

The question remains – how can she get a child of her own? Certainly, she cannot afford the expensive IVF treatments available to the rich. Will she accept a sperm donor, will her husband accept one?  Even if they do who will do the procedures, to make it happen?

The plight of many like Malati is tragic on several levels. She is barely literate –though she can read three languages – Hindi, Oriya and English. She studied in a village school to the eighth class and then chose to come to Delhi, looking for work to help out her family. Her education, for what it was, ended then and there. She then lived with various families, working full days and a half, earning a living to take care of her family that included parents, a brother and a sisters’ illegitimate daughter. She supported them, saving nothing for herself; each trip to the village was made laden with gifts for everyone which, to my mind, were ill afforded.

She has no idea of how the body works, how she can increase her chances of conceiving. She cannot afford private treatment from specialists who would take time to patiently explain to their paying patients the workings and mechanics of the reproductive organs. She is dependent on government hospitals and much overworked doctors who have little time and energy required to educate as they treat.

She has to travel to the hospital, taking time off for her treatment. It has to be workdays, has to be a peak hours when traffic is horrendous, the weather often inclement. Will her employers give her that time off especially when it will mean, should the treatment succeed, that they will have to choose between giving time off to a very efficient maid, or look towards replacing her? Should they replace her, she will be left in the unenviable position of having to look after an extra mouth with a lower family income. If they keep her on, they will have to support some form of child care plan – either she would come to work with her child, or would need to hire someone to look after her child. Given our propensity to forget our trials, it seems unlikely, though her employers would have gone through the hell themselves.

Before that situation ever arises, she must surmount the challenges in following instructions that the doctors treating her give. They would write it out in English, in the medical shorthand that few outside comprehend. She must afford the cyclical medication to increase egg production. She must afford the trips to the hospital for follicular monitoring. Her husband has to take time off to provide sperm samples for IVI treatment.  She must afford nutritious food to have a healthy baby.

And there are many who would say that she should not enjoy motherhood as she can ill afford it. Really? Is that how we will define who has and who does not have children? 

Driving Memories

Sorting through the whole pile of photos collected over the years, one comes accross so many memories, hidden away deep.
That mad cap trip through Nainital to Bhimtal and Naukuchiyatal in the middle of the rainy season on the borrowed bullet. Sheltering in the shops just short of Nainital, wondering if we should spend the night right there or carry on to Nainital, to shelter, to hot food. Slipsliding though drizzle and fog, barely able to see the next bend and huddling over the handle bars.
And then the lovely hot bath, fireplace and a nice hot rum toddy. Waking up to the lake smooth as glass, the sun shining and a veritable cascade of Fuschias hanging with their tongues out.
On to Bhimtal, with a lake side room at the KMVN hostelry. Dripping ferns everywhere. Collecting fresh, fresh lichen for that secret recipe of Shammi kebabs handed through the generations.
AAH then, that was something else again!
Will Scotland compare?

The big robbery

Sitting up with my dearest friend, holding her hand, wiping her tears and generally making tea and small talk, being supportive leaves no time to analyse and reach a conclusion of the reason for this pain.

At this time my only responsibility lies in being there for her… in every which way I can and in every way she needs. So, I follow her instructions and don’t trash the person responsible for it all. All I can say is – I understand – which is what I do and don’t – together and at the same time.

I understand that she hurts. I understand that she needs reassurance that she is beautiful, is smart, is absolutely the bestest person in the world, the one and only who makes me wish I was male. I don’t understand how she did not see the frame. Perhaps the picture was so pretty that the frame wasn’t visible. Or was the frame so pretty that she could not see the picture???

What I am shaken with is the enormity of what she has been robbed of – something she hasn’t even considered. The price she has paid and will continue to pay can never be repaid to her. I hope she will find someone to spend the twilight years with. I hope she finds a better person to be with – someone who truly cares for her. For whatever its worth, my home is her home but it will never be the equivalent of the person to herself!

For the person she is, the world has lost much in her children that she has not had and now unlikely to have. She has lost out in the love and emotion of having ones own children – something which cannot be replaced and cannot be had second-hand. She is bereft of home and hearth – not that she doesn’t have her own house – but never the same as a home built with love of two people. The fear in her eyes of a lonely old age… her loss is so insidious that it leaves my shaking with fury. I am likely to hit the man over his head – or maybe at other more appropriate places, should I ever meet him.

The Padma Laxmi’s of the world will come and keep ripping through lives with gay abandon. Today her name may be Padma, next year Rekha, Salma… whatever. But the person remains the same all young somethings who believe they are above common decency, their greed is their need. Who gets hurt is just a casualty of the circumstances.

Then again, why must I blame the other woman? Who brought her in? He did. It is he who needed the thrills of bedding a woman less than half his age. A romp in the hay, to end with the semester.

Anger Management

Anger Management

Given to an obsessive compulsion to read, one ends up with a variety of books that the more discerning might avoid. It also leaves one with half remembered stories and maybe an inkling of what it was all about. All I remember about the book was that it was a whodunit, set in urban America, with a Rabbi trying to solve the murder of a female Rabbi who shares a radio programme with him.

The one extraordinary teaching from this book - read over 20 years ago – is focussing on the essentials. The Rabbi asks an old couple to forgive their daughter(I don’t remember what she had done or even who the murderer was, let alone the motive). They say – what she had done was unforgivable. He then asks them if they would go to their daughters’ funeral. Of course, she is our daughter, pat comes the reply. So, are you waiting for your daughter to die to forgive her? This last sentence has stayed with me since then.

Are we waiting for our dear ones to die before we forgive them? When you are very, very angry with someone, ask yourself the basic question – will you attend the persons’ funeral? Would you expect that person to attend yours? Are you waiting for death to melt the ice? Should you?

In the answer to these questions lies the very basic answer – should you forgive. When someone passes on – there is no way you can communicate any more – you can’t show your love, your caring. You can attain a semblance of peace by atoning in a myriad of different ways, but you cannot communicate your feelings to the person concerned. Don’t wait to express your love. Don’t wait to pour away the hurt and anguish. Live today as if it is the last day of your life – with no time to repent. Every extra day you get is a bonus.

Life is short. Doesn’t matter how many years you live, it is always short for whatever one wants to achieve, to do. Living in peace and harmony is not that difficult. Try it.

Child Abuse

Child Abuse

People have children with many aims in life: providing a safeguard for their old age, for the family name, for love, for duty… the list is endless. Yet, all, in producing them believe that the children are their private and personal property to dispose off in any way they like.

The children are duty bound to love the parents – however manipulative, harsh, tyrannical they may be. To obey every wish, whim or fancy is imperative.

And grandchildren must be better than the best. Anything their own kids did, the grandkids must do better.

If this is why we bring children into the world, it is a sad statement of affairs. Children are a gift from the almighty, to enjoy as much as we can, to revel in them and to relearn from them our lost innocence. To teach them the best of our learning and to shelter them from the harsh and horrible realities. It is our duty to make the world a better place for them – devoid of conflict and demands. Let us have the courage to nurture their talents and encourage them towards positive effort – efforts to the best of their ability in whatever they do.

Every time one watches the abuse heaped on children in the name of duty, one wonders at the insistence on unquestioning love and loyalty being demanded as of right. Expecting adult children to report on each and every one of their movements and then questioning the decision. Questioning every decision they take including the brand of chocolate they might procure for their own children! Insisting that the kids do more for their in-laws than for them, when each day one is doing ten things for them and may be one in ten days for the in-laws. Expecting to be forgiven the unforgivable because it is so much easier to excuse one’s own faults and mistakes than to accept the same from another.

Reminding, time after time what sacrifices they have made for you. Did we ask it of them? For everything they have done, demanding that it be returned many times over. Heaping abuse when a dutiful child makes an unpalatable choice… and then cry ones heart out when he is in trouble, in pain.

Gas passer – striving for more

Ok, this aint the best way to look at the past few days, but really, this must be recorded.

I needed to have my insides overhauled – had finished producing my children so my system decided the uterus really couldn’t stay unproductive. So the uterus started producing fibroids. Would have been fine, except fibroids are never delivered. They just grow and grow and push things around and generally cause trouble, until of course, you’re too old to produce kids anyway.

Finally, the surgery got scheduled. Here I am, flattened out on a gurney, with a couple of needles poking in. Set one of the surgeons comes around, pushes some papers in front of me and says sign. Oh-kaaay! So, I sign on the dotted line. Then comes the next set, another lot of papers, another signature. Here I’m thinking, would they do the same to someone who’s not a doctor’s wife? I know I’ve read the consent form, but isn’t someone supposed to tell me all the risks? (A different matter that as an anaesthetist’s wife, I probably am a firm believer in Murphy’s law. More can go wrong than one can even begin listing)

Next, I’m rolled in to the OT. Transfer myself to the operating table with huge round lights beaming down on me, like in the fillums. So, tell me, why could I not have just walked in?

Next thing I know I’m waking up, feeling thirsty. Hubby being Hubby, lovingly dabs the parched lips with a wet rag. Swimming in an out of sleep for the next few hours, I’m closely monitored in the post op area – no ICU with seriously ill patients for me to see and scare me(aaaaah! the advantages of being a staff wife).

Time to be shifted to the room. So the blood trolley rattles through corridors, lifts and more corridors and its time to shift to the bed. Now, this takes some doing. 5-6 guys, all hanging on to the sheet below me heave ho at once and there you are, Bob’s you uncle!

Monitors are attached, cuffs tied in place. And the first sips of water administered. The pain med pump is set. Two hrs later, the pump decides its not working and the first of the beeps go off. Bleary eyed, hubby looks into it. Fifteen minutes later, back to the same, and so on through the rest of the night. The nursing staff is in and out through the night. The heart monitor keeps taking my BP at set intervals, crushing my upper arm to smithereens every time. The shoulder begins to ache. The poor nurse is pressed into massaging the shoulder and upper arm. All in all, not a great night, though a lot worse for the attending hubby and nurses-I’m all woozed out, they are the ones working!

Morning arrives with belches, nausea and endless questions about passing gas. At least 7 incidences of hearing to me tum. Meanwhile the loo door malfunctions, locking people in – so am shifted to the next room. Is it the movement, or just that it was bound to happen, the big throw-up arrives. Turn my head, no kidney tray in site, so just throw up all over the freshly changed sheet. A large towel is pressed into service. Soaked through. It’s all out, finally. Feeling much better for it.

The rest of the day is spent in no hunger, no pain, and answering the Big Question – HAVE YOU BEEN PASSING GAS? Thirst assuaged infrequently with sips of water, and HAVE YOU BEEN PASSING GAS? Being raised up, lowered, belches, belches and more belches – followed often by a small upchuck of bile laden mucous, checked and the Big Question – HAVE YOU BEEN PASSING GAS?

Yup I’ve been belching, horribly so. No, No – Paaaasing gas??? Yup I have(ain’t that just too indelicate a question to answer?)

A more peaceful night. No monitors going beep. No Big Questions to answer. A midnight top-up of pain killer, right into the spine. Brilliant! No pain. Snooze off once again.

Morning arrives and my left leg decides not to move left to right or vice versa. Shall I press the panic button? Wait a while. Nope. It ain’t getting better… but I remember the incident described on other patients and their reactions. So mention it but keep the panic under wraps. And yes, I PASSED GAS!

Ok, time to remove the catheter that has been quietly removing all the liquid product of my kidneys. A swift pull, and its out. Two hours later, no sensation. I don’t still wanna go. And there’s talk of putting it back in. Disadvantages of a VIP patient. A lot more gets done than absolutely necessary. Thankfully, 3 hrs later, make it to the loo and voila, pass urine on my own and some poop too. Everyone’s happy! No more catheters for me. A fairly peaceful night except for a trip to the loo. Morning arrives, Hubby gets ready for work having checked on the pain med, blood pressure, position, etc. and yes, I continue to Pass Gas.

Now, I’m hungry. Ask for breakfast – just a soft-boiled egg and toast will do. Consternation in all quarters. No, no, we can’t give you food till the consultant says so! She’s not likely to be in for another couple of hours and I’m hungry! My stomach growls. I call the Hubby. Apparently, no patient in recent history has actually ever asked for food on their own. Everyone moans, groans and generally requires cajoling to take in the daily nutrition. Hmmmm. Yup, I’m certifiably nuts. Much consulting later some breakfast is brought in – hard boiled eggs, cornflakes with skim milk and toast. So what If I’ve been growling lactose intolerance.

Couple of humdrum days later – spent alternating with smiles for vistors, bucking up the kids, pain, indigestion, horrible food – with no respect for the lactose intolerance, I’m released. Street Clothes! What a blessing! Hadn’t realized how much the hospital clothes were irritating me. The wheelchair is brought in. Looking around who its for. Certainly not going to be wheeled out. Big battle over this. Hey, I aint a cripple. Eventually have my way and walk out on me own two feet.

Hell yes, I am still PASSING GAS! Too much of it.

I Hate Religion

Or rather what it makes of people. Any religious being believes that my own religion is far superior to every other, that people belonging or following that religion are better. That others belonging to another religion are somehow lesser beings.

Every religious and pious being, spending hours in prayer and meditation, believes they are on the path of salvation. They believe that every prayer shall be answered with a ‘yes’ because they bribe God with a chadar, with money, with food, with hunger, with abstinence. That God may have ‘no’ for an answer is not to be contemplated. Some places have a special connection and all prayers result in a positive.

Fynn wrote a book on Anna, a five year old abused child he found on the road. Fynn was 17 or 18 at the time. Anna’s vision of God is amazing in one sense and yet so absolutely right, that it feels that she has put into words what one has felt all along. Mr. God, This is Anna – seems to me is a book that must be read sometime in life – preferably in ones early teens, for the first time.

For me God has always been on my side. He has provided for me in the most difficult circumstances. For a person hating violence and unable to cope with it, He has made it possible for me to be away in some more peaceful place – without knowing why I should be away. He has made it possible for me to get 3 years of comfort and ease when I was at the point of breaking up. He has made it possible for me to have enough money to bail me out of the worst situations at critical points. He has made a wonderful housekeeper available to me. He has gifted me a wonderful husband and beautiful children at a time of utmost despair. Sometimes, He may have asked of me to do my duty, yet He has never demanded payment for all this and more that He has provided me with.

Being a peace loving person, who is yet to hit anyone in anger, it hurts to be asked time and again, why the Bombay Blasts. Just because I was born a Muslim, does that make me a terrorist or an expert on terrorism? Why am I supposed to know the thought processes of that vile breed? Yet it is the most devout who pray morning and night after having carefully bathed, who ask me this question. The very same who have known me for nearly half my life.

So, God is my best friend… but… I hate religion.