I’m thinking. I’m questioning. I am consumed with thoughts, and questions. My headspace is full. I can’t sleep or stay asleep for too long. I have stare-into-space-moments. But I still get on and do most of the chores that need doing. I’m alright. I’m more alright than not, which is good.

In fact, my husband and I have begun to explore activities that we didn’t/couldn’t do in the recent past. Not since the pandemic nor since my mum became unwell. For instance, a couple of weeks ago, we watched a Latin band perform at a local pub/restaurant. We listened to the catchy numbers and watched enthusiastic dancing long after our carriage had turned into a pumpkin. Seriously, we couldn’t remember the last time we walked home after midnight. To our surprise, the city was very much alive with people still milling around. We’ve also had two holidays with no time constraints. We are slowly trying to change things up.

My failing is I can’t stop thinking, wondering, and asking myself questions. I feel sad, and tear up easily. I don’t want to be unhappy. Being morose is not helping me one bit. Happiness seems to have eluded me. I know there’s no rule book or timeframe on when and/or for how long I should or can feel sad, cry or be miserable.

I know my mum wouldn’t want me to be heavy-hearted and mope about. She’d want me to get on with my life. Go on holidays and do the fun things that she knew my husband and I liked and enjoyed. She has told me that enough times. Particularly when our conversations veered towards Tata’s house. It usually went like this. She’d want to go to Tata’s house. I’d want her to stay, in her own condo where she’d be cared for. By the way, Tata’s house had no address, no mobile number, and no contact person. All we, she and I, had to go on was that Tata’s house was in Mitchell Pier in Butterworth. Hmm. Too big an ask even for Waze or Google Maps.

Anyways, I think about my mum. I miss not seeing her. Speaking with her, and sharing news and stuff she’d like. I’m fully cognizant of my mum’s age, her ailments, and her inability to have lived much longer as her health situation was already quite dire. She was on 5 lpm on her oxygenator and her breathing was laboured. Particularly after her morning shower, and walks to and from the bathroom. She exhibited all the signs of ageing. Weight loss, smallish appetite, exhaustion and sleeping more and more during the day. There were recurring episodes of tachycardia, phlegm and flu, excessive sweating, high temperature etc,. It was all there staring me in the face. I spoke about my mum’s deterioration and aging process with my husband and sister number 3.

But … my mum miraculously overcame and/or managed these health emergencies. This is true. She’d be terrifying ill all night. The next morning, she’d greet me with an easy, brilliant smile. Sometimes, she’d feel sorry for being a bother. Sometimes, she’d thank me for helping her get better. Sometimes, she wouldn’t remember or not want to remember the suffering she had undergone. This is also true. My mum also defeated protracted illnesses like pneumonia, fluid retention and dengue. And, she always had her wits about her. She knew her medicines, and the schedules. Occasionally, she’d ask me if I had given her the correct heart medicines. Hmm.

Having lived through, and dealt with my mum’s cyclical as well as unanticipated health crises over the last almost three years, I thought I had come to terms with the ‘situation’ and I would/could handle it. This is what gets me. I’m not, not clever. What was I thinking or not. I was so smug. I was so wrong. I know death is inevitable for all of us including my mum. Brother number 1 passed on Dec 5, 2023. That was final. Ironically, I still didn’t realise nor appreciate the finality of death.

Why? Because all my experiences of being, living and caring for my mum comprised happy endings. She bounced back. She smiled. We’d have a chat. Our lives, together, continued. Yes, there were hairy moments but the endings that I was present at, after each bout of illness or episode, albeit fast or protracted – was recovery. She always, the operative word, came through. And, she’d sit on her blue sofa, read her books, watch her Tamil serials. We’d have a chat and a laugh. Our lives, together, continued.

Yes, it was a life that was routine and restrictive for both my mum and me. She had enough of the ailments, medicines, reliance, and was ready to go. I understand all of that … but I haven’t yet come to terms with this not happy ending/finality.