Text of my article published in Dawn Magazine on March 17, 1995 dedicated as a tribute to all the courageous families who saw a loved one die slowly in front of their eyes.
My mother was a simple, middle aged lady of 47 years when she died. Although a diabetic patient for nine years she appeared quite robust. Our family was a normal, happy one, sharing all the pressures and joys of life. Everything seemed alright. There was no reason to doubt the security of our home.
But on August 1992, my mother was diagnosed as suffering from sarcoma, an aggressive form of cancer in its last stages. The doctor said that she only had a few more months to live.
How could that happen? My mother had looked so well! The culprit was a bulging tumour on her right leg that she had ignored for some time. The cancer had spread and the secondaries had ruptured her lungs and were also enveloping her liver slowly. The only thing left for us to do was to ensure that she underwent a treatment as painless as possible. Those were months of pure agony. I don't know how we managed it. Hope amidst despair was the only thing that kept us going.
We hoped for a miracle, firmly believing that the doctors had no power to pronounce a death sentence. We kept on going with determination. The leader of this struggle was my father. He not only conferred with doctors and friends regarding the best treatment possible but also boosted our ebbing spirits. He tried to make my mother's last days as pleasant as he could.
I remember those days my mother was hospitalised for the last time and our whole family would go to the hospital everyday to eat together. The hospital staff were impressed by our seemingly merry mood and many of them didn't believe that my mother was suffering from this fatal disease. Though she had become very weak, to please us she would allow us to he help her out on a wheel chair onto the hospital lawns where we would all sit and joke together. We ignored the seriousness of the situation and tried to laugh as much as we could. This strategy worked well as it always gave us more courage.
However our efforts at merriment lasted just a few days as further complications developed. My mother was confined to her bed and an oxygen mask was her constant companion. I remember that she would restlessly pass the whole night but would not awaken us. Even at this unbearable stage, she had only the comfort of her family at heart.
She had vomited a lot of blood a fortnight before Eid-ul-Azha and after that she collapsed completely. I can never forget the look of helplessness in her eyes and the manner in which she would express this by gesturing with her hands as if talking to herself not knowing what she could do. Till the end, we did not tell her the nature of her illness as we believed it was this ignorance that kept up her will and spirits. Her most earnest desire was to throw a party for the doctors who were so tenderly taking care of her!
Every time my father would talk to the doctor or any fresh reports would come, she would ask what the matter was. We would try to console her like a child saying that it was a simple infection and she would be fine soon. But of course, she was the one who was suffering. She finally guessed that something dreadful was happening to her. From then on, she stopped asking us questions.
She was confined to her bed and needed our assistance for moving even an inch. When my sisters or myself fed her or washed her, she would often remark that we were taking care of her like she did for us. This would give us a feeling of satisfaction that at least we were trying to serve her as well as we could and we would pray that her condition improves.
We tried every means to find a cure to save my mother. We went to aamils and said wazaif, fervently praying and hoping for the best.
Yet how can I describe the feeling of utter helplessness, when all our efforts seemed in vain and we slowly watched her die? Till the end, my mother fought like a courageous soldier. She would hardly utter a word, or let a sigh escape her lips. She was the ultimate picture of courage and forbearance. I remember that often my sisters or myself would weep unseen thinking of the suffering we imagined she must be going through. I would often say to my father that I could not bear it. He would always remark that we had only to see how magnificently she was bearing everything and I would draw more courage from my courageous mother.
It was the 3rd of Muharram. The doctor has us advised us to turn on the AC in my mother's room. The humid Karachi air was dangerous for her. But how could we escape the interminable power failures? All we could do was to ask our helpful neighbours to lend us a wire so that we could switch on a solitary fan for my mother. I remember we spent the whole day cursing the KESC while my mother lay drenched in sweat. She knew nothing could be could and only once remarked, " Bijli walon ko bachon ki haye lage gi." My mother lay still on her bed. She did not have the strength to lift a finger. We would after every few minutes change her position a little so that she could get some air but that day she seemed oblivious to what we were doing. She hardly spoke and when she did her words were so broken that we were no more than a whisper. She had lost her appetite since the past few days and when we asked her if she wanted to drink something, she would part her lips for us to give her water.
That whole day we were without electricity and as night approached we were worried as to what we should do. We tried to take her out on the verandah, but she did not even have the strength to sit on her wheel chair. Finally at about midnight, the electricity came after 15 hours. We quickly switched on the AC and settled ourselves to sleep. Everyone fell asleep at once. But I was restless, I could not sleep. I looked at my mother and she beckoned me towards her. I went closer and asked if she wanted something to eat as she had not taken anything. It was one 'o' clock and she she nodded her head so I propped her on the bed with pillows on her sides and her hands rested on a gao takia on her lap. I went into the kitchen and warmed her some soup. I watched how with great effort she gulped down 3-4 spoons of the liquid. I wiped her face and lay her on the bed and myself lay down near her.
As I turned sides, I saw my mother looking at me. I went to her and took her hands in mine. I softly asked her what was wrong, but she kept quiet. Her eyes were shining and I admired them and thought they looked lovely. I was praying. My mother's eyes moved from me and rested on the Ayat-ul-Kursi that hung in that room. It seemed as if she was reading it. Then her eyes moved towards another corner. It was then that I thought the movement of her eyes was strange and I awakened my father who was lying nearby. He got up immediately. My mother looked at him for a moment and slowly closed her eyes without uttering a single word. It all happened so quickly that I could not understand what had happened.
I noticed that my mother's breath was not as jerky as it used to be. I looked at my father with tears in my eyes saying, " Ammi is not breathing." I felt her pulse but in my excitement I could not feel it, then I pressed my head on her chest and head a faint heart beat. I thanked God and checked the oxygen cylinder and found that the mark was on zero. I quickly woke up my brother to fix the other cylinder but our mother had already left us.
Now as I close my eyes, flashes of every moment come back. The pain of death. The pain of explaining to my nine year old brother what had happened. His innocent eyes would see everyone crying and then rest on the peaceful face of my mother.
Today as I relive those painful moments, I wonder whether those last 4-5 months of my mother's illness were really more agonising than the present. Then at least we had some hope that everything would ultimately be fine. Now we are passing through a life knowing that she can never come back, knowing that we will have to brace ourselves to face this world without being shepherded by her.
Today, I find myself sometimes jealously looking at other daughters sitting with their mothers, some of whom are now grandmothers, sharing secrets, giving advice and enjoying each other's company. There will forever be a void in our lives. Life will go on though very differently. But what a difference that is!
My mother was a simple, middle aged lady of 47 years when she died. Although a diabetic patient for nine years she appeared quite robust. Our family was a normal, happy one, sharing all the pressures and joys of life. Everything seemed alright. There was no reason to doubt the security of our home.But on August 1992, my mother was diagnosed as suffering from sarcoma, an aggressive form of cancer in its last stages. The doctor said that she only had a few more months to live.
How could that happen? My mother had looked so well! The culprit was a bulging tumour on her right leg that she had ignored for some time. The cancer had spread and the secondaries had ruptured her lungs and were also enveloping her liver slowly. The only thing left for us to do was to ensure that she underwent a treatment as painless as possible. Those were months of pure agony. I don't know how we managed it. Hope amidst despair was the only thing that kept us going.
We hoped for a miracle, firmly believing that the doctors had no power to pronounce a death sentence. We kept on going with determination. The leader of this struggle was my father. He not only conferred with doctors and friends regarding the best treatment possible but also boosted our ebbing spirits. He tried to make my mother's last days as pleasant as he could.
I remember those days my mother was hospitalised for the last time and our whole family would go to the hospital everyday to eat together. The hospital staff were impressed by our seemingly merry mood and many of them didn't believe that my mother was suffering from this fatal disease. Though she had become very weak, to please us she would allow us to he help her out on a wheel chair onto the hospital lawns where we would all sit and joke together. We ignored the seriousness of the situation and tried to laugh as much as we could. This strategy worked well as it always gave us more courage.
However our efforts at merriment lasted just a few days as further complications developed. My mother was confined to her bed and an oxygen mask was her constant companion. I remember that she would restlessly pass the whole night but would not awaken us. Even at this unbearable stage, she had only the comfort of her family at heart.
She had vomited a lot of blood a fortnight before Eid-ul-Azha and after that she collapsed completely. I can never forget the look of helplessness in her eyes and the manner in which she would express this by gesturing with her hands as if talking to herself not knowing what she could do. Till the end, we did not tell her the nature of her illness as we believed it was this ignorance that kept up her will and spirits. Her most earnest desire was to throw a party for the doctors who were so tenderly taking care of her!
Every time my father would talk to the doctor or any fresh reports would come, she would ask what the matter was. We would try to console her like a child saying that it was a simple infection and she would be fine soon. But of course, she was the one who was suffering. She finally guessed that something dreadful was happening to her. From then on, she stopped asking us questions.
She was confined to her bed and needed our assistance for moving even an inch. When my sisters or myself fed her or washed her, she would often remark that we were taking care of her like she did for us. This would give us a feeling of satisfaction that at least we were trying to serve her as well as we could and we would pray that her condition improves.
We tried every means to find a cure to save my mother. We went to aamils and said wazaif, fervently praying and hoping for the best.
Yet how can I describe the feeling of utter helplessness, when all our efforts seemed in vain and we slowly watched her die? Till the end, my mother fought like a courageous soldier. She would hardly utter a word, or let a sigh escape her lips. She was the ultimate picture of courage and forbearance. I remember that often my sisters or myself would weep unseen thinking of the suffering we imagined she must be going through. I would often say to my father that I could not bear it. He would always remark that we had only to see how magnificently she was bearing everything and I would draw more courage from my courageous mother.
It was the 3rd of Muharram. The doctor has us advised us to turn on the AC in my mother's room. The humid Karachi air was dangerous for her. But how could we escape the interminable power failures? All we could do was to ask our helpful neighbours to lend us a wire so that we could switch on a solitary fan for my mother. I remember we spent the whole day cursing the KESC while my mother lay drenched in sweat. She knew nothing could be could and only once remarked, " Bijli walon ko bachon ki haye lage gi." My mother lay still on her bed. She did not have the strength to lift a finger. We would after every few minutes change her position a little so that she could get some air but that day she seemed oblivious to what we were doing. She hardly spoke and when she did her words were so broken that we were no more than a whisper. She had lost her appetite since the past few days and when we asked her if she wanted to drink something, she would part her lips for us to give her water.
That whole day we were without electricity and as night approached we were worried as to what we should do. We tried to take her out on the verandah, but she did not even have the strength to sit on her wheel chair. Finally at about midnight, the electricity came after 15 hours. We quickly switched on the AC and settled ourselves to sleep. Everyone fell asleep at once. But I was restless, I could not sleep. I looked at my mother and she beckoned me towards her. I went closer and asked if she wanted something to eat as she had not taken anything. It was one 'o' clock and she she nodded her head so I propped her on the bed with pillows on her sides and her hands rested on a gao takia on her lap. I went into the kitchen and warmed her some soup. I watched how with great effort she gulped down 3-4 spoons of the liquid. I wiped her face and lay her on the bed and myself lay down near her.
As I turned sides, I saw my mother looking at me. I went to her and took her hands in mine. I softly asked her what was wrong, but she kept quiet. Her eyes were shining and I admired them and thought they looked lovely. I was praying. My mother's eyes moved from me and rested on the Ayat-ul-Kursi that hung in that room. It seemed as if she was reading it. Then her eyes moved towards another corner. It was then that I thought the movement of her eyes was strange and I awakened my father who was lying nearby. He got up immediately. My mother looked at him for a moment and slowly closed her eyes without uttering a single word. It all happened so quickly that I could not understand what had happened.
I noticed that my mother's breath was not as jerky as it used to be. I looked at my father with tears in my eyes saying, " Ammi is not breathing." I felt her pulse but in my excitement I could not feel it, then I pressed my head on her chest and head a faint heart beat. I thanked God and checked the oxygen cylinder and found that the mark was on zero. I quickly woke up my brother to fix the other cylinder but our mother had already left us.
Now as I close my eyes, flashes of every moment come back. The pain of death. The pain of explaining to my nine year old brother what had happened. His innocent eyes would see everyone crying and then rest on the peaceful face of my mother.
Today as I relive those painful moments, I wonder whether those last 4-5 months of my mother's illness were really more agonising than the present. Then at least we had some hope that everything would ultimately be fine. Now we are passing through a life knowing that she can never come back, knowing that we will have to brace ourselves to face this world without being shepherded by her.
Today, I find myself sometimes jealously looking at other daughters sitting with their mothers, some of whom are now grandmothers, sharing secrets, giving advice and enjoying each other's company. There will forever be a void in our lives. Life will go on though very differently. But what a difference that is!
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