107A

Chapter 1

I look outside the window. It is still raining. There are pigeons sitting on the windowsill. Grunting and fluttering their wings, trying to drain out the rain water. They say the monsoon has been unusual this year. This year has been the most unusual.

I look at her lying in the white bed, surrounded by rails. I think of the time when I would have been surrounded by the rails of the crib with her watching over me. Does she understand what is going on? Yesterday she didn’t recognize me. The one that housed me in her belly for nine months. She didn’t recognize me under the influence. Everything seems to be getting engulfed in a big white blur where the sound gets lost and the faces disappear.

The drip is making a continuous white noise. I am scared that she will wake up and there won’t be a way for me to pacify her. Make all her pain go away. I stare at the white roof and the white tiles that line the white walls. Chronologizing the  events that led us here. Thinking about the silly permutations and combinations of life. How things may have turned out differently if I was here all along. I dread about what lies ahead and how this is going to change all us. It already has in some ways. I get up and turn on my computer. I make some silly lists of things to do and to buy. Trying to regain a false sense of control when it is all slipping away from me. I call my brother and get his voicemail. I disconnect and stare at the white screen of the phone until it goes dark. The drip goes on.

Chapter 2

The white overcoats are here. They approach the bed on other side of the white curtain first. They are talking to the the elderly woman and her husband. I try to focus on some words to figure out what is happening on that side.  “Lab work is looking good. You will be discharged tomorrow.” The elderly couple seem grateful to overcoats but make complaints about the attendants and quality of food. The head overcoat loudly orders a woman standing behind him to look into these complaints. The woman nods her head. She has heard it all before. Nothing really matters. They move the curtain slightly and are now standing right next to her bed. The head overcoat raises the bed and asks me how she is doing. I say a few things that they don’t really pay attention to. He loudly asks her “How are you doing? Do you recognize the woman standing right next to you?” I hold my breath. She finally answers “She is my daughter”. They probe her further and ask her my name. She answers correctly. I take a deep breath and hold my tears back. She is still there in spite of the deep white fog that surrounds her.

They make some notes and explain how she had low sodium levels and that can lead to confusion and short term memory loss. They don’t tell me anything else. Instead, the junior overcoat asks me to come and see him in his office in couple of hours. I want to run away from this place and take her with me. To a place where white doesn’t exist. She abhors white.      

The reluctant attendants come in and help her change. They are an unhappy overworked bunch.   She is breathing heavily by the time they are finished and wants to lie down before having breakfast. I wait.

I try feeding her some porridge for breakfast. She complains that she kept hearing loud computer noises last night for her to sleep comfortably and tells me to not work at night. I explain to her that it was probably her drip machine that she heard but she doesn’t seem to believe me.

I pace the small room nervously. As I am about to head out to meet the junior overcoat in the office, the elderly man from the other side of curtain stops me and starts going on and on about how it is out of manners for me to keep the toilet seat down after I have used the toilet. “My wife always turns the seat up when she is done. I have lived in “England” half my life and I am telling you that these are the right manners”. I give him a piece of my mind on what the right manners are and how he didn’t learn anything about manners even after spending half his life in “England”. I don’t feel awful at all yelling at an old man who is just set in his ways and probably cannot change. An old man who is here holding his wife’s hand, not giving up. An old man with no other family in sight.

I pace outside the office. The junior overcoat is talking to a couple and I wait. I don’t want to hear what he has to say to me. I can wait here forever. But he sees me and calls me in. He asks me “Is there anybody else with you? Your father or brother?” I answer in negative. “There is nothing we can do for her at this point. The last round of chemo hasn’t done any good. Both her lungs are a thick mass at this point. You need to take her home and focus on palliative care”. I ask some pointless questions about alternatives and pain management hoping for him to show me a sliver of light. He repeats his message and writes her prescriptions on a white notepad and hands it over to me. Not forgetting to add “ You don’t need to bring her here if she has an infection. There are other hospitals who can handle that as well.”

I get a call from my uncle on my father’s side. I patiently explain to him the situation and my desire to take her home. He vehemently advises me to stay in this place as long as possible. “You have the support of the medical staff there. What will you do at home by yourself”? I change the topic. “How is he doing? I want to come and see him.” His dismisses me. “Your dad is doing fine. Don’t waste your effort visiting him in the hospital. He is in good hands. Stay where you are.” I ignore everything he says. I need to see him to be sure.

Some more relatives stop by to check on her. My cousin, another white overcoat, doesn’t fail to point out that she is not getting any treatment to get better. “It is all palliative”. They leave me with a true hatred towards the word “palliative”.

Chapter 3

She seems to be herself the next morning. She eats her breakfast by herself. The elderly woman on the other side of the curtain is complaining to her husband about breakfast. “Why do they give me these dry pellets for breakfast”. I look at her and we break into a laughter. We still share the same warped sense of humor.

Later she asks me when I am going to start a family. I tell her that we are not ready to have children. She is upset. “You need to start a family soon. There is no point delaying it. You can have all sorts of issues when you are older”. I shrug and don’t comment on the topic any further. I don’t tell her that we won’t be discussing this anymore or anything else for that matter.

We are getting ready to leave this place. I gather all her belongings and get her seated in a wheel chair. She fusses about making sure that I don’t leave anything here. “We will never get it back”. The cleaning staff is already here and waiting impatiently. As soon as we start moving, someone yells.

107A is gone.