My Mother

I had decided that I would never write anything personal on my blog. But nothing else comes to my mind. I need to write this — for catharsis. And so hereby I break my rule for once to write about my mother.
I don’t remember ever telling her how much I love her. We aren’t that expressive about our love – especially to our parents. I had once made a greeting card for her birthday, but it felt so awkward professing my love that the card remained with me for years. I wish I had given her the card. She might have mocked me but she would certainly have felt happy.
My relationship with my mother had always been very complex. I lost my father to heart attack when I was three. And somewhere deep in my heart, I blamed my bad luck for it. Strangely, the nagging thought that I destroyed her life made me more aggressive and rebellious towards her. I hated myself for being a burden and diverted that self-loathe to her. That is what I considered her life’s sacrifice for me.
And when she fell ill, my world came apart. Every day I saw her dying bit by bit. Because of diabetes, she had stroke and then imbalance issues. She used to try to walk, would fall down and get head injuries and fractures. Life had suddenly become very painful. When I used to see her suffering, I wished her to be my baby so that I could rock her and pacify. The pain of watching your parents getting weak and dying can be understood by only those who go through it. And it is unbearable.
Her last days were very painful. At just 59 years, she had become completely bedridden and also got bed sores because of that. I had been praying for her death for a long time. I knew I would be all alone without her but the life she was living was worse than death. And I blamed myself for not been able to give her what she deserved. I still remember her final minutes. I had come back from office. And had given her orange juice through the tube. Then as I turned her to one side, I heard a slight sigh. I looked at her face. Her eyes were open. Not responding. I waved by hand at her. Yet there was no response. Panicked, I called the Sister who had taken care of her earlier. She told me to flash torchlight into her eyes. If they don’t blink, then. I did that and her eyes didn’t blink. That was the end.
The only person who knew me, with whom I had lived for 30 years, to whom I owe my life had gone. I believe that she had waited for me to return from office to be able to die in my arms. I am thankful to God that He made it possible and also that she drank something from me before dying. Perhaps that was my reward for taking care of her. And perhaps she knew that I would never be able forgive myself had she died in my absence. She waited for me. She waited for me.
I decided not to call anyone as it was midnight. My housemate too returned from office after some time. I told her that everything is over. After some talk, she went to sleep. And I slept beside my mother – for the last time. I was still expecting a miracle. A slight movement that it is not yet over. That she would utter my name. That I am wrong. But nothing happened. I had prayed for her death for so long and when that happened, I knew that I had lost a part of me and can never be whole again.
It has been over two years since she left me. In the meantime, I got married and also had a son. People say he resembles me a lot, I see my mother in him. It is as if God has given me a second chance. He has returned her to me through my son.
I miss my mother a lot. I wish she were there to hug me, to advise me and to see me settled with a family. I hope that wherever her spirit is, it is happy to see me happy.

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