Thursday, April 29, 2010

Bermuda Cruise from New York, NY.

I haven't blogged in a long time! The last time was September 2009. Much happened during this period, then again, not so much! November 21 was a particularly very difficult day. Here is a piece I wrote about the day which ultimately had happy ending:


Going for God’s Jugular!
By
Rohini B. Ramanathan

It was 1 a.m. Saturday, November 21, 2009. The police were attending to Dad who had stopped breathing. Presumably, the ambulance was on its way and here I was in the den praying so hard, away from all the action, that it felt like an out-of-body experience.

Apparently, a surgeon is not allowed to operate on his/her own child because the relationship is too close for comfort and objective decision-making. This is precisely why, once help arrived, I stayed away from my father, his 125-pound, 79-year-old, 5’ 7’’frame lying ramrod-like on his bed, snoring loudly but not responding to anyone’s touch or voice. His motionless eyes wide open and his normally light skin now pale. I had never seen Dad like this. I left the room and let my husband administer first aid to him, which in his case meant feeding him something sweet.

Though very youthful in spirit, among the many ailments Dad is afflicted with, he is also a diabetic whose sugar level now and then, inexplicably drops. Usually, on his own, he takes care of this situation by eating a snack or drinking some apple juice or both and adjusting his meal time if necessary and of course injecting himself with appropriate doses of insulin when the sugar level goes way up. This morning things must have spiraled out of control too rapidly and too unexpectedly. All Dad had been able to do was remove most of his clothing---which too he does as the low blood sugar makes him sweat like a can of chilled beer---but not have enough energy to reach for the juice or candy nearby.

Though I don’t fully fathom the concept of God yet, still praying comes easily to me. This morning, I slipped into my habit with the intensity that was equivalent to shaking up God to his core, thus endangering His own life, perhaps. Later, while in the ER, when I learned that Dad was recovering, I recalled the fervor of my prayer earlier and my mental image reflected my going for God’s jugular literally, and He out of fear for His own life, granting me my wish and letting my father live. I let out a muffled laugh at this imagery of my interaction with the Almighty. The doctor said that had we waited even a few more minutes, Dad would have gone into a coma. His sugar level reading of 21 was way below the minimum needed to survive.

In the last year alone, my father had been admitted to the hospital twice for low blood sugar and once for heart attack. The first time his hypoglycemia had knocked him down unconscious on the shower floor and nearly forty minutes later, my husband accidentally discovered him. The second time, in the middle of the night when my mother, who prefers sleeping by alone, accidentally heard him making some funny sounds in his room and got help. His heart attack revealed itself in Dad’s face turning pale, and getting out of shape. Luckily, I happened to be around when this happened. Seeing his facial changes, I felt that something was wrong and rushed him to Emergency.

At 1 a.m., Saturday, it was my second son’s turn to save my father’s life. My son had trouble falling asleep because of a sawing sound he heard. Tracing the sound to my father’s room, a whole floor away, and sensing that, though odd-sounding, it was probably a snore, yet wanting to make sure, he lept to his feet and sprinted toward my father’s room. Indeed, the sawing sound turned out to be heavy snoring by my father. But seeing the odd positioning of his grandfather’s half-naked body, my son tried waking him up. There was no response. Feeling disturbed, my son came into our room and woke us up.

Growing up, I had heard how when my maternal grandfather was 36, his wife, my grandmother had harnessed the power of prayer to save his life from tuberculosis. Ultimately, he lived to be 69 and died as a result of a fall. Many years later, grandmother’s prayer also helped her younger son recover fully from a major accident and her other son from a heart attack he suffered at age 36. Only these successes were touted.

After grandmother died, I relied on my mother’s connection to the Almighty. It was her job to pray when things got tough for me. It was my conviction that her prayer carried more power than my own. Interestingly, neither hers nor my grandmother’s prayers were an emotional appeal to the Almighty. They were more on the lines of, "Hey, God, it’s your job to protect us, so do it right." This was the summum bonum of their appeal. In return they promised the Almighty offerings made by their own hands with the utmost devotion.

For the last four years, my mother has been afflicted with post-coronary angioplasty depression and no one has been able to diagnose why her condition---not totally an uncommon phenomenon---is lasting this long in her. A woman who went from being 24/7 active to 24/7 inactive, she is not someone the family recognizes anymore. I had cruised through life thinking it was really not necessary to pray, as it was God’s job to protect us and keep us sane. But, now, on Saturday, my father teetering on the verge of a coma, all I knew was to appeal to God to spare my Dad’s life.

He did . . . for now. How many more times my prayer will work is anybody’s guess. There is really no palatable way to bid goodbye to your loved ones when the final hour of their life arrives. Yet, wanting to make it linger till it’s the "right" time to see them leave is all so real. Raised in a non-dual way of thinking (advaita) family, I have been taught repeatedly that the only way to be sorrow-free is to accept life as "maya," an illusion. Oh, sure, yeah, why not? Unable to follow this advice, often, selfishly, I wish that maybe I should leave this earth before my loved ones.
Fierce debate on medical coverage is raging all around us. Some feel strongly that it is just not worth it to prolong a very sick person’s life. On Saturday, the attending doctor in the ER had declared my father to be "very sick," too. But twenty hours later, seeing Dad regain consciousness, and, then, witnessing his love for life---once he became conscious, he gestured feebly to learn if he had had his scheduled dialysis yet---personally, I am glad that his life was deemed worthy of being preserved though he was "very sick."

The first time I had to attend to my father was in January 2001. It was the dead of winter and I flew to Columbus, Ohio, Dad’s domicile at the time. He had gone through a quintuple bypass heart surgery. Because my sister, Dad’s caregiver at the time, was traveling, I stayed on for a week in Columbus and considered attending to my father a privilege. Some infection had chewed up a quarter of his thigh. I cringed and could not bear to see it exposed even for a second. A nurse came in every day to clean his sore, treat it and bandage it.

Dad had debated a great deal before he chose to go in for the bypass. The risk of dying was high. But so were the chances of living. So, my advice to him from New York was, "go for it, Dad." Still, the risk involved troubled me. At times like this I look for signs to make me feel better about what is troubling me. That morning this sign came in the form of a male customer at the local farm market I had gone to. For no apparent reason, the man informed the cashier he was 82. Irrational as it may sound, I took this to mean that my Dad too would live to be at least 82. On Christmas Day he’ll turn 80.

A retired Indian government official, Dad is a survivor. Having been raised by a mother widowed at a very young age, and dad himself was just three-and-a-half years old, he had probably built an armor around him and no matter how bad things get, his spirit, his unusual sense of humor and hope rarely fade. This same survival spirit must have pried him out of death’s jaws each time he was admitted to ER in the last few years.
Taking care of him after his heart surgery was a novel experience and hence fun. Over the years, however, as more things went wrong with him, the responsibility of having to be more attentive to his needs began to weigh me down. Two years ago, we learned that he had to go in for dialysis three times a week to stay alive and last year, a pacemaker was installed in his chest. His diet also has to be monitored carefully and mom, of course, walked away from cooking and her other worldly responsibilities four years ago. My sister, who lives in Dallas, TX now, felt no differently either than I did about our uninvited, uncommon, unglamorous new role: a parent to our parents. However, focusing on the right thing to do under the circumstances, we decided that we would just "accept" our lot, and take turns.

After the November 21 incident, my sister suggested that we admit our parents in an assisted living place so we didn’t have to worry about close calls anymore. I countered, "Most folks who live in these homes ideally want to live with family." I know for a fact that my parents would like to live with their daughters.

Though years ago, when they were in good health, I had fantasized taking care of them in their old age, in reality, when the rubber met the road, the hardship of this responsibility trumped everything else. I communicated this to them. So has my sister. Despite this confession, neither of my parents really wants to live any place else other than their daughters’ homes in the company of their children and grandchildren. They did try though to give us a break. In 2008, they went to back to India to spend at least a few months there and see if this arrangement would work in the long run as well. Within two months they returned. Annoyed as I felt for not getting a longer break, I made the best of the situation and went on. Right now, my mother lives with my sister and my Dad with me in New York. But he prefers Dallas during New York’s winter. So, if he feels up to it, health permitting, he will go back to Dallas soon and will return to New York in March, his frail body getting frailer by the day. As for Mom, she prefers Dallas overall. Sometimes I take this personally. Maybe she likes my sister more than she likes me although every day, right on the dot at 6 p.m. she phones me to sing for her. We are a musical family with all the females trained in music.

Having to play parent to my parents, I wonder if this is why humans have children: to take care of the parents in old age and sickness. Is this why my parents even provided music lessons for me so I could sing to my mother while nothing else gave her succor? These mean thoughts take a vacation when some friends of mine whose parents live in far away lands of their origin envy me for being able to take care of my parents in their hour of need.

All said and done, honestly, after the latest November 21 close call, I really can’t imagine my parents living any place but at their daughters.’ Whenever things get rough, I’ll just keep going for God’s jugular.
End.
October 25-November 1: B and I took a cruise (2nd time out of the city; last time was to the southern Caribbean) out of Manhattan to Bermuda (our second trip to paradise). http://www.youtube.com/ and once there, searching for rbrimages Bermuda brings up the nine videos of the trip ( a total of about 80 minutes). The cabin with a balcony on deck no. 10 on NCL Dawn was worth ever extra penny.
Winter was bitter yet here is a memorable, heart warming, (herat breaking?) scene (a must see) on my backyard deck: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zt78B9RMhmM.
Moving on to January, bitterness in the air continued. February was brutal. My first Feb. in the U.S. in a long time. Last year we were tracing the pharaohs' footsteps in Giza. The year before that was the footsteps of of the Man of la Mancha in Spain and those of vasco da Gama in Portugal. The year before was Chile and Argentina. If only I were not so afraid of flying how much more of the world I'd love to see!
Spring did arrived like a lion in March but it was short lived. The last few days have been windy and a bit soggy but by May 1 things should look up. Actually, it's supposed to be eighty degrees on Saturday. Will go to the boardwalk probably.
Ciao.
Till we meet again!
Ro.
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