Cowardice, Regret, and Tauba

For months now, I had been dreading performing a particular act, and act of kindness, sincerity, and for a loved one, an act that should have been performed without question.

A few months ago a very dear great aunt passed away from breast cancer. My mother's masi, my maternal grandmother's sister, had cancer for over 5 years. In 2002, when she had just had her mastectomy, and was running through her first set of chemotherapy sessions, she needed someone by her side. Her husband, God bless his heart, weakened at the sight of her weakness. She was the strength for both of them. Her one child, a daughter, lived over a day's train ride away, and had a family with young children to look after. After a summer, filled with trips to the oncology department, her children's school was opening, and she had to get back.

Family from Pakistan were unable to acquire visas to traverse the then restricted border, and there was an uncertainty in scheduled flight departures. UK relatives wished to go, but couldn't afford to miss any more work than had already been scheduled. Family in N. America, busy as usual, and those who wished to go, had obligations or restrictions holding them back (too young of children to leave behind, or the infamous visa issues.)

I was only 18 at the time, and before everyone realized no one was able to go, I told my mom, hesitantly, as if it was a stupid idea, but at least to get it out, just in case, that maybe I could go. My mom shrugged the idea off, suggesting I was too young, and that my great aunt would probably want/need someone a little older, mature; someone she could go to for moral support. To cook, clean, and just take care of the household, while she recooperated. At the time, I could barely cook karhai chicken, even with Shan masala. I believed her. My mom thanked me for the offer, and then continued to think of a solution, hoping one of her cousins from Pakistan would be able to overcome the visa block.

A few weeks later, I find out that no one can go, and my mom mentions in passing to her cousin, that she could send me. I had no visa problems, and I had no obligations to tend to. Perfect.

I flew to India via UK, and stopped over for some delicious chicken and roti at my khala's place and during the transit, and I told them of my confidence issues about my role when I reached India. What could I possibly do to help out a 60 + year old person, whom I love, yes, but barely know too. How can I possibly provide any emotional consolation to someone who probably thinks of me as a kid, who knows nothing of the world--which I admit, I was and probably did.

Anyway, I reached India, and it was none other than life altering. Really. I will never forget that 1 month I spent with them. The conversations, the lunches, dinners, the mangos (non-stop and from all over eastern asia), the daily naps from 4-6pm, the Z-TV shows from 6-11pm, the so silent old indian movies from 12-3am (while they slept), the multan mithi face masks, the coaxing and bickering with the housekeepers, and morning fresh roti & paratha wali, the wheat grass handkerchief filtering every 7am, the forced down boiled eggs, the craze for protein in a world filled with vegetarians, the train rides, the incomprehensible English, my broken hindi, the computer guy with a broken keyboard down the flat, across the street, and near the STD, phone place, the 1/2 hour vuzu trips, the weekly ziarats, the Bandra movie theater with Anil Kapoor look-a-like with tickets for 50 rupees, the hospital with white walls, white floors, and white coats, with black heels, and dangling earings, the one green plant in the corner, and the super helpful, sweet, adoring guju volunteers who made her feel oh so comfortable, and at ease, but most of all, the stories of her childhood, adolescence, and married life, from past to present. The one thing I will not forget is that she said she wanted to stay well, so her husband would also. If she went down, his would inevitably follow.

Well, she died a few months ago. And, I had never called her husband or her daughter to give my condolences. I thought about it many times.

I was in the Caribbean when I got the call from my mom, I fell silent. I couldn't believe it. I had no idea the disease had progressed that far. I should have been ready for it. I wasn't. I should have immediately called. I should have. But, every time I got to the computer to call I couldn't make out what to say, how to say it. I felt that he would already be so devastated, wouldn't my calling just make it worse? I was so wrong. It was cowardice. I guess I was scared to be there for someone else, when in fact, I needed someone to console me.

This morning, I got a phone call from her daughter from India. I didn't recognize her immediately, there are other cousins with the same name whom I hadn't spoken to in a very long time, and I had just been awakened from my not so fulfilled sleep. But when it did become clear who she was, the tears poured out. I was what my husband likes to call, a water fountain. I kept telling her to forgive me for not calling. How I wish I had. She said her father had been thinking of me, and kept saying, "Lulua hasn't called, why hasn't Lulua called?" It's been about four months since she passed away, and now his health is worsening. I spoke to him finally, and I couldn't help but start up all over again. "Please forgive me, (sniff, sniff)." They understood, but I would have thought the worst of me, had I been in his place. How could someone you expect so much from, disappoint you so. How could I? We spoke, and then he pauses, and says in a confiding tone, "I miss her so much, Lulua" A man, in his seventies, probably eighties, is telling me, one who was inconsiderate enough not to call him when his wife passed away, that he misses her. I can't help but want to buy a ticket right now to see him, especially, God forbid, anything were to happen to him.

Lesson:
Even if you don't know what to say, call.
Say you're sorry to hear of the news, and inquire after the loved ones nearby.

I think it's easier for me to call random people than loved ones.
Clinicial correlation: I must have a severed tract that is causing this contralateral deficit.
Talk about a severe case of MR.

I don't know why I'm letting all this out, but it's been on my mind the entire day. Immediately after I hung up the call, I cried. My face in my hands, hyperventilating in the process. I had to tell myself to breathe at a steady pace while I walked in small circles in my studio apt, heel, toe, heel, toe. The walls here are pretty thin, so I hopped in the shower to mask the noise. I started all over again. I don't remember the last time I felt this emotional about something.



Ramadan is the month of forgiveness--forgive me.