“I Want To Sleep," Was The Last Line That He Said.

Suddenly, a junior doctor called me into the MRI section.

When I entered, the neurologist was waiting.

He looked serious.

“Hi! I’m Dr Oak. During the MRI, we noticed a few black patches in her brain. They could potentially cause a stroke. She needs to be admitted immediately, as she needs stent surgery.”

For a moment, I stared at him.

“This is not for real.” I thought to myself. 

I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing her go through it, all over again.

I rushed to my Mom.

She was sitting in a wheelchair, tears streaming down her face, pleading with me not to get her admitted,

“Rachana, ask these people to leave me alone. I don’t want to be here. Just take me home!” 

I bent down and hugged her tight. I held her hands in mine. In my 53 years of life, I had never seen her so terrified. 

“Ma, we’re in this together, and I'm not leaving your side. You trust me, don't you?” 

“Yes!!!! You are all that I have.”

She had been through so much recently.

And yet, it seemed far from over.

                              ********************

That morning, I had brought her to the hospital for an MRI after she suddenly lost the vision in her left eye the previous day. I had been waiting anxiously down the corridor while she was taken inside for the scan.

That same hospital.

Those same corridors.

We both had been down this road before.

I walked along as they wheeled my mother towards the ICU, passing through that same emergency ward. All this while, she didn’t let go of my hand. 

“Please, God!!! Tell me this is not happening! Not again!” I thought to myself. “I don't want to lose her.”

                                           *******************

Same scenes: 

That 4.00 am frantic call from my mom two years back. 

The next moment: Finding our way through the emergency ward, taking my Dad on the stretcher to the ICU after he fell in his bathroom. His heart rate was falling. 

Nevertheless, he looked optimistic about the whole situation. It was only a fall after all, according to him. He kept assuring us that he would be home soon. 

At eighty-four, this was his first hospital visit as a patient. He always led a healthy lifestyle. We were all sure it was just a matter of days before he started walking again. After all, a hip bone fracture wasn’t an uncommon thing. 

Only that, now his heart was only 15% functional, and he was on medication for that. 

Until the surgery happened. 

After the surgery, he was brought to ICU bed no. ICU02/07. I remember. 

He was cheerful, thinking it was all over and he'd be home soon. 

So did we.

Next day: 26 January 2024, Republic Day. 

It was a national holiday. So there were no people or vehicles on the road. The whole city stood deserted. And so did the hospital. 

There were celebrations and flag-hoisting happening in all schools and societies, like every year. 

                                          ***************

But this year it felt different. 

The first thing I noticed was the silence when I arrived at the hospital.

It was the kind of silence that made you aware of your own breathing.

Just two security guards in that huge hospital. 

No one to say hello at the reception table. 

No ward boys. 

The assistant doctors in their white coats were missing. 

The pharmacy was closed too. 

The OPD stood silent!

The corridor leading to the ICU ward stretched endlessly in both directions. 

Doors stood open. 

The huge chandeliers hung there with the lights dimmed, the smell of antiseptic fading into dust. 

The wheelchairs were kept neatly in one corner. 

People don’t get admitted to hospitals on National holidays? Do they? 

The feet felt heavy as they slowly approached the ICU, knowing someone you have loved and adored your whole life is waiting for you.

Fewer people were inside than usual.

Fewer voices.

Less chaos.

The beeping machines sounded louder than usual. 

A single doctor on call sat behind the reception desk; a single nurse and a helping maid were the only ones I could see. 

I walked up to his bed. 

He was already looking at the door as it creaked the moment I pushed it open. 

I smiled at him. 

He smiled back. 

He lay there patiently waiting for me. He seemed calm today. A bit dismayed, perhaps. That optimism in him seemed lost somewhere. 

Probably he felt weak due to the three-hour-long surgery. I dragged a chair near him. Life suddenly makes me realise: every second from here on that I spend with him is more than precious. 

“You came!” He said in a relieved tone. 

“Yes, Baba!”

“Where is your Mom?” He asked, expecting her as well. 

“Oh! She’ll be here in the evening.” Not wanting to tell him that she herself wasn’t feeling well. 

“Have you eaten?” He asked.

I choked. 

He was still concerned about whether his daughter had eaten. “Yes, Baba, I did. What about you?” 

“A little bit. But I can't wait to get home and eat the chicken that your mom makes.” I slowly held his soft, gentle hands in mine and kissed them.  

“I’m feeling sleepy.” He said after a long pause.  

“Ok baba. Try to sleep. Get some rest. I'm right outside if you need me.” But before I could finish my sentence, he was fast asleep. I kissed his forehead and left. 

I didn't know it would be our last conversation. He lost his voice after that.  

I came out and walked towards the waiting room.

There was no one.

No nurse calling for a doctor.

No patient’s moan.

No footsteps.

No ringing telephone.

Not a soul!

I sat on the couch near the window, where I could see my national flag standing proud, tied to a building pole opposite the hospital. 

The morning turned to afternoon. 

The afternoon turned to evening. 

The sun was about to set. I got up to go down to the cafeteria to grab some coffee. When all of a sudden,

“Mrs Adhikary! Mrs Adhikary!” 

Oh! Was that my name being called out? I looked behind. It was the orthopaedic surgeon standing in the lobby, who operated on my Dad. 

“Yes, doctor? Is my Dad alright?” My voice trembled. 

He had a straight face: a face with no expression, and yet I could feel my chest tighten. 

“I'm sorry, Mrs Adhikary, your dad's vital parameters seem to be falling. His blood pressure is going down. I’m afraid his body hasn’t responded well to the surgery. Well, we had cautioned you that he had a weak heart.”

“So now?” I could barely hear my own voice. 

“So I would suggest that you take him home and let him spend his time with his loved ones till he can. We did the best we could.”

His voice faded!

Home.

That was all he wanted.

To go home.

                              *******************

As I wait in that same waiting room right after my mom’s stent surgery outside that same ICU…….. 

Perhaps grief has a strange way of pulling us back to the exact places where it first entered our lives.

The hospital entrance looked the same.

The marble still gleamed.

The glass doors were still spotless.

I stood there for a long moment.

I could almost hear the hurried footsteps from that first morning. 

I could hear the monitors. 

I could see my father smiling through the glass.

The corridor wasn’t empty, unlike the last time. There were:

Doctors, patients, nurses, family members. 

An empty hospital didn’t mean the absence of patients, doctors and staff.

It was the absence of that one person I was looking for.

                                     ****************

I found myself standing in front of his bed ICU02/07, now empty, and rested my hand on its edge. I wanted to feel him. 

I saw him again, this time not lying there surrounded by machines, but sitting on that bed waiting for me to take him home. 

Seeing me, he smiled. 

I smiled back. 

I walked up to him and said,

“Baba, let's go home.”

                                       **************

“Mrs Adhikary, Mrs Adhikary ”,suddenly a female voice pulled me back. I heard her call my name. I opened my eyes. It was the nurse. 

She said the doctor wanted to see me in the ICU. 

I got up from the couch and hurried my way there.  

The neurosurgeon was going through my mom’s medical file standing next to her bed. When he saw me, he smiled and greeted me. 

 “Your mom is fine. The surgery was a success. Nothing to worry about. You can take her home in a day or two.”

“Thank you, Doc! Thank you!”

Mom was all happy and smiling like a little child. 

“So Ma, let's go home!” I said, smiling back.

But then why the tears? 

                         ********************