Perhaps?
The rays of the sun seemed softer now, the fight taken out of them. A yawn escaped from me, and I hurriedly clapped a hand to my mouth. How could I be sleepy at such a time? I fingered the little wooden sculpture in my pocket that Juhi had given me. Zarek, give me strength, I prayed. God, divine powers, anyone who is listening, save the little king.
Juhi had created the sculpture for me as a parting gift. It was of a tiny sleeping baby curled up in fetal position, an expression of immense peace on its face, fingers curled up on its sides.
“Call it Zarek,” Juhi had said to me. “In Greek, it means, ‘May God protect the king.’ Keep it near when the time comes. I created it out of gentle and healing thoughts.”
You have no choice but to take a yoga instructor very seriously when she says something like that, especially one who talks about balance
in the body, quieting of the mind, and cleansing of the aura in the
same breath that she talks about her failed relationships and her unplanned pregnancy.
Raian came into the world silently under the watchful gaze of many—Uncle Rizvi, the obstetrician, the pediatric surgeon, the geneticist, the anesthesiologist, and an army of nurses. I felt the pull and tug in my abdomen as Raian was brought out via c-section. He and I were separated by a thin curtain that was placed on my abdomen between us so women like me don’t lose it from watching themselves bleed. When I didn’t hear him cry, I thought the inevitable. Then I caught a glimpse of his raised blue hand in the air as he was whisked away and knew that he was going to make it. My heart overflowed with a disconnected and untitled love. Uncle Rizvi rushed out behind the entourage of the two specialists and nurses that accompanied the baby. Hormonally imbalanced, I immediately felt sorry for myself—upset at not being able to see my baby’s face, tearful at doing the whole thing alone.
Raian. He’s here. My little king, the voice inside consoled me.
“Possible bilateral choanal atresia,” announced a nurse who came back while they were cleaning me up. They were all silent as they worked intently and briefly acknowledged what the nurse said with nods or raised eyebrows.
Sensing my concern, one of the nurses leaned in. “Blockage of nasal passage,” she explained. It was Meredith, whom I had befriended earlier. “They will likely insert an oral airway to help him breathe.”
I looked at her blankly.
“Maybe surgery,” she continued and then nodded at me. “I’ll get more information for you.”
She assigned her task to another nurse and escaped from the operating room. I was again among strangers, tugging and pulling at my stomach, making me whole again until the next time my life took me apart.
“They need to get him to the Children’s Hospital nearby,” Meredith informed me when she came back, trying to sound optimistic but failing. “They might have to run some tests.”
Pain washed over me, making me nauseated.
“I have to get to him,” I pleaded, my throat dry. “Can I see him?”
Meredith laid a hand on my forehead, promising nothing.
“Soon,” she said. “Very soon.”
Raian, be strong.
“I think I have found the perfect name for our son,” Faizan declared one day when he returned from work. “We should name him Raian.”
“You’re sure we are having a boy?” I asked, folding a tiny sweater that Azra Apa had sent from Canada. It was a gender-neutral yellow with ducks on one side and strings that tied in front. I was four months pregnant then.
“Of course,” Faizan said, kissing my cheek and hanging his steward jacket on a hanger. His face was lit up with a serene smile. “Do you have doubts?”
“You definitely don’t want a daughter?” I asked, trying to keep the anxiety out of my voice.
“That’s not it.” He shook his head, sitting down beside me. “I love little girls. A mini-version of you! Life couldn’t get any be better.” He rolled his eyes, and I swatted him with the sweater. “But we are not having a girl.”
“You’re certain of that.”
“Positive.”
“The ultrasound’s in a few weeks,” I challenged.
“I know, and we are prepared.” He glanced over at the blank videotape on the mantel, still in its packing.
We settled down for dinner. I was famished. The chicken curry that I had attempted to make that day looked quite enticing.
“Faizan?”
“What?”
“What does Raian mean?” I liked the name; it had grown on me. Ra-ian. I liked the way my tongue rolled up and touched the roof of my mouth when I said it.
‘“Little king.’”
It was perfect.
“If it’s a daughter we will call her Reesa,” I suggested.
“It doesn’t matter,” Faizan waved his hand, dipping a piece of bread in the curry.
“No, it doesn’t because we are not having a girl,” I offered helpfully. God, the curry tasted horrid. What had I put in it? I tried to take a mental stock.
Faizan nodded. “That’s correct. We are having a boy.”
And that was that.
Even then, I could not picture him with a child in his arms.
Fate had already decided that he was a father who would never hold his own child.
Abu had flown in for the birth, and he and Baba stayed with Raian his first night at the Children’s Hospital. Throughout the night, we kept getting calls from the specialist detailing the happenings and what their next steps would be. My stomach dipped each time a call came. I kept listening even as the list surpassed the one I’d heard when I first found out about Raian’s health problems—heart defect, breathing abnormalities, some vision impairment. Was there anything normal with my child? Half of the issues made no sense to me even when the doctors tried their best to strip out the technical lingo from their explanation. My sense of comprehension was slipping from lack of sleep and exhaustion.
At some point in the middle of the night, the calls stopped coming. The pain from the sutures made me nauseous, but I refused to take any medication, not wanting to end my suffering or cloud my thinking capacity any more than it already was. Finally a night nurse cajoled me into taking some pills, and Ma slipped them down my throat, warding off my protesting hand as only a loving mother could do. I noisily gulped down the glass of water she handed me afterward and turned around, totally drained. I woke up the next morning to Ma’s hushed conversation on the phone. She turned and looked at me and then moved a few feet away. It was Ami on the other end of the line, I was sure of it. I was torn by conflicting emotions; I needed her but I did not want to see her right then.
The next day I was wheeled in to see Raian. At first I couldn’t see him. He was neatly hidden behind all the paraphernalia attached to the various parts of his body. And then I saw him—a tiny shriveled-up bundle with an umbilical catheter and a feeding tube down his nose. He had billy lights on for jaundice. I touched him lightly on the cheek and withdrew my hand instantly as I realized how translucent his skin looked. It seemed that you could see right through him without needing an X-ray. His tiny body shuddered in response, perhaps recognizing a mother’s touch. I floated between joy and insanity from seeing my child for the first time and realizing how much he faced.
For an agonizing moment, I watched helplessly as he stopped breathing. An oxygen hood went over his head next. “He has floppy airways,” the nurse told us. Abu stood by, his face guilt-ridden as if all this were somehow his fault. His jowl had sagged over the years, a little weightier than I remembered it to be. “I would’ve done anything to spare you this pain,” he said to me later when we got back to my room.
How much can you save me from, Abu? After all, my life, my trials are my own. Loved ones soften the blows life deals you, but ultimately it’s not their reality.
I was finally able to bring Raian home a month after his birth. He was released on a ventilator and a trach and I was instructed to feed him round-the-clock from a pump. A
nurse was assigned to us for two weeks to help us learn the process of taking care of him. Inside the house, I gave Raian a grand tour of the apartment but he fell asleep in the middle of it.
“Not much of a tour guide, am I?” I laughed, stroking the area around his cleft lip and he turned his head toward the touched side, wanting to suck. I picked up a picture of Faizan from my nightstand and brought it close to Raian.
“Meet your father, Raian. He was the one who named you. He is very far away.”
I felt overcome, stopped, and then laughed. “He doesn’t even call.”
Raian looked at the photo briefly and then turned his curious but imperfect eyes towards me—unfocused, yet attentive.
I sat down in the rocking chair, not being able to take my eyes off him. He still felt light in my arms at five pounds. There it is, my reason for existing, I thought. The minutes ticked away as we bonded in spirit.
A movement near my feet startled me. Did the shadows just tremble and dance? Who else is in the room? I wondered and excitement crept at the base of my neck, leaving me tingling all over. Faizan, I whispered. The shadows stopped moving. The light from the lamp and the shadows it created were playing tricks on my mind.
It is just us, I finally admitted to myself, but my hopeful heart expected to see more.
A week later we were back at the hospital for Raian’s feeding intolerance. And so our journey continued in this vein—two weeks in the hospital, two weeks out, with periodic heart-stopping moments when he fought for his very survival.
At home, Ma tended to me like she did to Raian; we were injured and wounded birds under her care. Lately her bones sagged with the brittleness of age, of unrealized dreams; her eyes spoke of dreadful losses. The eyes are where the process of aging starts in the women of our world. I had seen it many times, and I started seeing it in Ma as well. The eyes go through so much—seen and unseen—that finally cataracts threaten their vision, clouding the lens of life for them. Then age attacks their hearts. Although women’s hearts are sturdier than men’s, they get weak from carrying unfulfilled or shattered dreams for too long and from nurturing lives that break them into pieces every few steps. Finally age catches up with their knees when they refuse to carry the burden of life anymore for their owners. Who said being God’s helper was an easy task?
Ma rushed around, getting things done for us, often forgetting to eat her own meals, panicking at every call we received from the doctor, dreading every appointment we went to, fearing the worst. I had never seen her so apprehensive and confused. Even then, like a battery-operated toy, she ran around fixing all the postpartum essential food for me that helped in speedy recovery and lactation: the gur treats, the ghee-laden parathas, dried fish, all varieties of dal, liver saag, and katla that helps in lactating—a round flat whole-wheat bread cooked in butter with almonds, pistachios, and a powder made from different herbs, as well as easily digestible vegetables.
“Do not refuse,” Baba cautioned. “Mothers know best, and I am a better man today because I listen to her.”
Milk flowed from me in a steady stream, predictable and bountiful. I filled bottle after bottle of nature’s gift and froze most of it. Raian continued to feed from the gastrostomy button and occasionally from the bottle.
A few weeks later, the verdict was in, and we finally had a name for all of Raian’s trouble: CHARGE. Not as in “charge ahead and get through it” but a syndrome that was attached to him and would continue to pose challenges for my child at every stage of his life. CHARGE was an acronym for multiple birth defects. There was no single treatment for all that he faced. The conditions were still dealt with separately. The calendar on the fridge now had little room to pen in anything other than Raian’s schedule. Our lives were dictated by specialist appointments, checkups, surgical consults, tests, early intervention sessions, punctuated by frequent feeding therapies as nearly every part of Raian was explored, probed, refined, fixed, and adjusted. I had to take a six-month break from Chamak. I wasn’t certain I would ever go back.
The move from New York was the best decision I’d ever made. Under Uncle Rizvi’s care and Ma and Baba’s loving presence, Raian and I started putting the puzzle of his life together. I tried to see life through a one-inch square as Anne Lamott suggested in Bird by Bird. All I had to remember was to fill that space with new ventures. Seeing life in that manner made it less overwhelming.
On the six-month anniversary of the attack on the World Trade Center, I saw on TV the monumental lights that shone heavenward where the Twin Towers once stood, reaching out to those who were lost. I looked down at the slumbering child on my chest, his tiny fist clutching the front of my shirt. Why do we appreciate the full glory of light only in darkness? I wondered if we touched Faizan somehow. Did he feel us? Did he see the new person that we had created from our union?
Not even curtains rustled in response.
“There are many of you who ask, ‘Why me?’ And the answer is, ‘Because you were chosen.’”
I was attending a Children’s Hospital workshop for parents of children with special needs. The instructor looked around the class and fixed her gaze on me. She was a tall woman with a shock of red hair and a large Celtic cross pendant on a chain around her neck. “You were selected for your compassion, kindness, and above all patience.”
She paused for impact.
“Have you ever met someone who was hurtful and had a disabled child?” She looked at the class. “I haven’t.”
I pondered her words after the class was over. I’d never thought of myself as special in any way. Raian and I were the most common-looking folks, but our skin and his disabilities set us apart from the rest. I didn’t even think compassion was a virtue I possessed. I definitely lacked patience. I think we all have a tendency toward some form of meanness. I don’t think we are born with malice. I think it is an acquired trait, and I do believe God grinds it in batches and deposits some in all of us, whether we like it or not. We grow up to resist it, our conscience our rescuer, and when we snap, it all comes spewing out. Unchecked, uninhibited, we are all sadists by default. Just notice how many cars stop to gawk at an accident and what percent of drivers actually get out of their vehicles to do something about it. I don’t claim to be pure and divine. I am the first one to stop, steal a look, and move on. My world waits for no one, and I don’t wait for anyone either.
Some hide their sadistic nature better than others, and God gifts them in unique ways. I really think he has a sense of humor; it probably comes from all the dust he ingests from the grinding.
I also learned the lesson of life from a little voice in my ear when I finally allowed it to speak: there’s no real sense in stepping out of the cave of your past if you get trapped in yet again by your existing baggage.
Outside the hospital, I shook the umbrella in my hand and an unwilling wasp slid off it into the grim brown puddle. It landed without a splash and writhed awhile before it swallowed enough water to end its life. I bent down to witness its final seconds with fascination. For a minute there, I thought I saw a spark of courage in its eyes, the will to survive but just like that, it was gone. Dead to the world. Consumed by murkiness and senselessness. In the grand scheme of things, how important was this life if it was compared to some others?
I sighed and stood up. Yes, there really was no sense in getting out of the cave if you were unwilling to dust off the reminders of your past.
Soul Searcher stayed in my bureau following Raian’s birth.
Month after month, year after year, as a struggling student of motherhood, I learned its nuances, its joys and sorrows. I suffered more than my fair share of heartbreaks. Month after month, babies around us celebrated milestones with textbook precision. The entire span of time from helplessness to crawling to walking is typically covered in a year and a half, separated by the mini-milestones of finding sound, voice, and vocabulary. Month after month, my son stayed on his back on the mat, his intelligent eyes looking around, his frail, underdevelo
ped body failing to comply with the commands of his brain. I listened for the voice he never found, syllables I never heard him utter. He said it with his eyes; the love was there. I saw it in his smile and the way his face lit up when I entered the room. The joy of hearing your child say your name for the first time was not to be mine. Together we struggled to master sign language. I made more headway; he was the one who needed it more.
And then came the defining point. The day when some of it finally clicked for him while he was propped up with a pillow in a sitting position in the middle of the living room. Baba was sailing a toy plane off Raian’s head, making swooshing sounds for his enjoyment. Raian joined his fists and signed his first sign when Baba stopped.
“More,” he commanded.
Time froze for all of us. Not wanting to startle him, Ma and I exchanged glances and inched in closer. Baba did not look away from Raian although he must have felt our presence. My son did. He turned around and gave me his brightest, most beautiful smile.
“Mama,” he signed, resting his thumb on one side of his chin. I fell to my knees and through tears, hugged him close to my heart. He was two and a half.
The next year, he crawled toward the TV a week before his third birthday, and on his birthday, he surprised us all by taking his first steps. We were late, but we were there.
Hope sprang in our hearts. All was not lost. He still had a lot to contend with even as I finally went back to work part-time.
Saffron Dreams Page 16