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I still don’t know how to write this. How do I begin? The pain and grief isn't settling. Its been just few months since I lost my mum to COVID-19...
I still don’t know how to write this. How do I begin? The pain and grief isn’t settling. Its been just few months since I lost my mum to COVID-19…
The Covid 19 pandemic severely pressurized and overburdened the healthcare sector. Hundreds of people watched their loved ones fall prey to the virus.
It has been just few months since I lost my mum to COVID-19. To the ruthless virus whose marauding claws took her away from me in just 12 days. Now, she has shifted into the transcendental realms forever.
In merely 12 days, I saw my mother metamorphose from a healthy mum, to a terminally ill patient, who ultimately succumbed to the illness.
What exponentially aggravated my pain was the fact I couldn’t travel from the US to India to visit her. My pertinent visa issues prevented me from traveling. The second wave of COVID-19 caught Delhi unarmed, and became air- borne.
My mum immediately caught the virus and got acute GI complications. It started with acute diarrhoea and was later confirmed as COVID-19 after the RT-PCR test results came in.
I was still sure that my mum would recover soon as I had seen many of my close ones do. Unfortunately, she didn’t receive the right medical attention from the doctor and wasn’t even put under the scan.
Her lungs soon started crumbling and there was an urgent need for oxygen within 5 days of her falling ill and being hospitalized. I heard her breaking down, day after day during our WhatsApp calls, crushing me inside.
She wasn’t able to eat, talk and continuously suffered from high fever and extreme weakness. My world was crashing down on me every day and I was crying helplessly, asking for help from relatives, friends, social media, NGOs and Covid-19 groups in India and the US.
Everyone tried but not one lead was successful. I couldn’t get a single ICU bed in a different hospital. The doctor attending mumma at the hospital had even warned 4 days before her passing, that she needed a ventilator but nothing could be arranged.
My father stood beside my mother and stayed in the COVID-19 ward for the last 5 days, holding her hands. He attended to her without any help, surviving, wearing 2 masks. She died 3 hours after their 41st marriage anniversary and papa was beside her when she breathed her last. It was a miracle that kept him afloat in those tumultuous conditions.
I was shattered. I couldn’t control my emotions and pain. My mum was my biggest support and motivation and now she was gone.
She inspired me to write better every day and I couldn’t be by her side when she needed me the most. The care and facilities could have made the difference between life and death.
The agony of a bereaved daughter, the guilt of not being able to serve her and letting go of her, so easily enveloped me completely. The dark hole of grief would have swallowed me had I not turned to writing again.
I published my e-book through blogchatter within 18 days of her passing and channelized my pain. I wrote, dedicating my writing to her and sought her blessings, which she so lovingly always showered on me.
She was a kind, affectionate, soft-spoken mother, who mentored me through my thick and thin. Her sudden demise left me gaping, groping in the vacuum.
Feelings of abomination, rejection, sourness and blankness, towards the way the medical facilities deteriorated in Delhi, the black marketing of remidivisir and the failure of the government machinery, aggravated me. For many days, the haunting moments came creeping back.
Life hasn’t been easy to restore but I’m trying my best. I’m writing again, healing from within, accepting my pain and seeking inspiration from my mother as always. She was and will always stay my indomitable source of strength and happiness.
I know she’s in a better place now, calm and serene, watching over me. Always!
Image source: Still from Pink
My name is Daisy and I’m a blog writer! I write whenever ideas crunch me and I like writing about anything under the sun! Visit my blog at freshdaisiesdotme.wordpress.com read more...
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Neena was the sole caregiver of Amma and though one would think that Amma was dependent on her, Neena felt otherwise.
Neena inhaled the aroma that emanated from the pan and took a deep breath. The aroma of cumin interspersed with butter transported her back to the modest kitchen in her native village. She could picture her father standing in the kitchen wearing his white crisp kurta as he made delectable concoctions for his only daughter.
Neena grew up in a home where both her parents worked together in tandem to keep the house up and running. She had a blissful childhood in her modest two-room house. The house was small but every nook and cranny gave her memories of a lifetime. Neena’s young heart imagined that her life would follow the same cheerful course. But how wrong she was!
When she was sixteen, the catastrophic clutches of destiny snatched away her parents. They passed away in a road accident and Neena was devastated. Relatives thronged her now gloomy house and soon it was decided that she should be married off.
Being a writer, Nivedita Louis recognises the struggles of a first-time woman writer and helps many articulate their voice with development, content edits as a publisher.
“I usually write during night”, says author Nivedita Louis during our conversation. Chuckling she continues,” It’s easier then to focus solely on writing. Nivedita Louis is a writer, with varied interests and one of the founders of Her Stories, a feminist publishing house, based in Chennai.
In a candid conversation she shared her journey from small-town Tamil Nadu to becoming a history buff, an award-winning author and now a publisher.
Nivedita was born and raised in a small town in Tamil Nadu. It was for schooling that she first arrived in Chennai. Then known as Madras, she recalls being awed by the city. Her love-story with the city, its people and thus began which continues till date. She credits her perseverance and passion to make a difference to her days as a vocational student among the elite sections of Madras.
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