We Look For Warmth When Illness Knocks Without A Warning

The familiar feeling of despondency crept up on me, like a deliverance, each time I start taking life for granted. To cut a long story short, my autoimmune disorder decided to flare up, out of the blue, in London. I am generally a careful woman because motherhood has taught me lessons on planning and responsibility, so I did bring my medicine to London. But this time, the steroid was failing me.

Having been a caregiver for years and the role is still ongoing, with my fairly manageable Ma, I am hardwired to snub the first personal sign of any health setback at its genesis. So being hyper vigilant about the demonic claw of my disease creeping up like a reminder that our relationship with each other is still not over, was a surprise. Like a toxic lover from the past, reminding me of my failings. My eye was red and hurting from the uveitis. All bright lights were poking my right eye with vengeance.

Asking for help

Partly due to my gender and also circumstances, I am trained not to ask for help. Adding insult to injury, I automatically reduce the impact of all personal situations around me. It’s like a button, I switch on, to joke about my ailments. From the awful headache as a young girl, to the pain in my legs during the early years of motherhood, cut to my current menopausal hot flushes, where I sweat profusely between my thighs and breast gap, like a good girl, I don’t occupy space. Therefore, in autopilot mode, I smile benignly at everyone around me, tie up my hair, fan myself with the napkin, but remain vigilant to not cause discomfort for anyone. This is my natural state of being.

But today the pain was getting sharper, and I couldn’t overlook the bastard. Finally, at 11.00 pm, I told my son I needed to go to the emergency room in the NHS, London. Hospitals are a comfort zone for me. I have been in more hospitals than bars throughout my life.
London at 11.00 pm was beautiful, like a woman in a beautiful gauze dress, feeling the summer wind on her skin. It was balmy, with revellers heading back after a night of stupor and fun. I became conscious of the eyes of strangers that met mine. I became aware of my own red eye, hurting and dilated.

The waiting...

Emergency in the NHS, London, is well-lit with people of all ages waiting to be seen. On one chair sat an old man, maybe in his 80’s with blood on his forehead, holding on to his walking stick, alone. There were elderly single women standing in a queue to register; some could barely walk. I began missing India, my optometrist, in Bangalore, Jayanagar. My secure support system, back home.  My Ma, who will say the most innocuous things, that won’t help, but her voice and the warmth give me strength. My driver, who will appear from thin air to take me back home. I felt out of place here.

Thoughts on family structure, the western way of living life, where support is not guaranteed even if you have raised many children, started to play on my mind. Existential questions on what is the right way to live life began tormenting my soul. I began thinking of my conversation with my writer friend in Bombay, where we spoke about euthanasia and how it must be legalised, for the elderly who are dying, single and without a supportive family structure.

I know that senior living is becoming the norm in India, where children are handing the responsibility over to someone else. Often, when the children are overseas, they don’t know how a parent is being looked after, but they have to trust what is said about a disease for their parent, as the truth. In this changing scene, the elderly have no choice but to start to build connections and find family in others as they age.

I made multiple video calls to my Ma, just to see her and again listen to her about having curd, fruits and water during the summer months. I won’t do any of the things she suggested, but it surely made me feel calm in this desert of chaos.

Right now, I am waiting for the last 4 hours for my turn, as I watch a young mother with bloodshot eyes and her two toddlers, constantly going up and down the stairs while she navigates them both and her illness, all alone.

I was treated kindly by the doctor at the NHS and given free medicines, but I sorely missed the smell of hot sambar, the familiarity of Kannada and my doctor’s voice on foreign shores.

Mohua Chinappa is an author, poet, and runs two podcasts called The Mohua Show and The Literature Lounge. She is a member of a London-based non-profit think tank called Bridge India.