#5: That fateful TB test

*This blog post is really long, sorry! Also, "Dada" is my older brother, Vineet. "Amey Mama" and "Anu Mami" are my uncle and aunt on my mother's side. They live in Toronto, Canada. Anyways, enjoy!*

Time is a lot like Morse Code on paper. It has the tendency to disappear from memory, then come back at the most inopportune times. 

5 months ago

I have lived a large portion of my life trying to forget some horrible things. Horrible things such as AP Calculus B/C - I shudder at the thought. Yet I never believed memories could just “flow back” into my brain. Walking the sterile, bright hallways of the Royal Oak Beaumont Hospital really facilitated the destruction of my belief. Getting that Tuberculosis test as a part of a health screening process was exciting. As long as that test came clear, I’d be able to work the summer between my 11th and 12th grade school years in the Beaumont Hospital, shadowing doctors/nurses and getting a glimpse into their fast-paced lives. What I hadn’t thought of, though, was the anxious feeling I’d get upon entering the parking garage near the south tower of the complex. Then... little by little, it started coming back.

June 24th, 2014 - 6:32 AM

“Vidhi, wake up!”

“Dad? What’s going on? It’s only 6:30! You usually drop me off at daycare around 8-”

“I don’t have time to explain. Get ready.”

“Will you, at least, tell me why?”

“Vidhi, Your mom is in the hospital.”

 

5 months ago

The sound of my dad cutting the engine of my car brought me back to a subdued reality. I’d felt as if someone had thrown me into an alternate dimension. I gingerly entered the south tower, hoping I wouldn’t be reminded of those evil hours ever again. I looked around, scurrying to catch up to my dad. Until I felt faint, once again.

June 24th, 2014 - 4:41 PM

“Dada? You’re picking me up from daycare? Why not dad? Where is dad? Is mom okay? I’ve been worried sick! Dad left me this morning and took off faster than the Flas-”

“Vidhi, take deep breaths. Mom had a stroke this morning before you woke up.”

“What now?”

“A stroke. Her brain lost blood circulation.”

“When did this happen!?”

“At around 6:15, when I woke up for school. Mom and dad were downstairs, drinking their morning tea when she hunched over the table and passed out. I came down to find this situation unfolding, so I frantically called 911. She was taken to the hospital and I had to, unfortunately, go to school.”

“I-I-Is she dead?”

“Hey, Vidhi, shh. It’s ok. Mom is not dead, but she isn’t in good condition at all. Dad needs to stay with her in the ICU, so Amey Mama, Anu Mami, and the whole family are coming down from Toronto to stay with us.”

“Really? Yay!”

“Err, not ‘yay!’ per se, but yes, it’s a relief they’re going to be here.”

“Dada, I’m scared”

“Vidhi, whatever happens, just know that we’ll always be together, ok? We are the best brother-sister duo ever. I will never leave you, ok?”

“Ok, Dada. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

5 months ago

I felt sick. I was simply walking through a hallway, my mother’s hospital room along with all my memories, tucked away inside this tower. I thought my mother’s stroke was a box of trauma I’d locked away forever. Seeing my own mother lying practically lifeless on a hospital bed, buried under IVs and vital monitors was a sight too tough to deal with already, but I knew the memory of it would haunt me forever. So, I discarded it. Unfortunately, time was against me because poof, the vision came back with a terrible vengeance.

June 26th, 2014 - 3:22 PM

“Vidhi, are you sure you’re okay with seeing mom? I’m warning you, she doesn’t look like the mom you know.”

“I want my mommy, Dada. Zombie-looking or not, she’s still my mommy.”

My brother, releasing a shaky breath, motioned towards the door of Mom’s ICU unit. Peering through, I saw my mom - the same mom who spent every night singing lullabies and reading books to me. The same mom who put antiseptic on all my wounds. The same mom who I knew would save my life before her’s. Now, she was the one who needed the antiseptic. I needed to sing her the lullabies now. I needed to put her life before mine. I ran to the foot of her bed and saw her eyes glued shut, the “beep, beep, beep” of the heart monitor breaking the occasional silence. I wasn’t scared; I was determined. As I was making my way to kiss her cheek, her eyes fluttered open.

“Mom?”

“Vidhi, my sweetheart.”

“Mom, you’re okay?”

“I can’t feel the entire left side of my body.”

“What do you mean, Mom?”

“Vidhi, the left side of my body is paralyzed”

And that’s when it hit: no amount of antiseptic, lullabies, or putting her life before mine would turn this situation around.

5 months ago

I felt a tear fall down my cheek. The box of memories entitled: “Mom’s stroke memories. Keep this closed!” had cracked open. 

Time is a lot like Morse Code on paper. Every click feels like a memory filtering its way back into me. Dashed lines: safe from those clicks. The experience of getting a TB test was one giant click. To this day, I try to suppress those memories again. Unfortunately, now that the box has been opened, I will never be able to close it again. 

But, my mom is fine. She regained sensation in her left side little by little. By September, my mom had begun reading and singing to me every night. In 9 months, I’ll be kissing her goodbye, as I prance off to college. She’s… okay.