Remembering Ma

Published in 'Chicken Soup for the Indian Woman's Soul

Ma was dying and she knew it. She’d been diagnosed with breast cancer and had her first mastectomy at the age of 55. The biopsy report said ‘stage 2-B’, which, I learned later, was a euphemism for ‘stage 3’. Post-secondaries, her second mastectomy happened three years later, and it was then that she sensed that the end was near. It’s more than two years now since she passed away, but she lives in our memory (and the memory of all who knew and loved her) as the embodiment of love, grace, dignity and beauty.
I remember clearly her determined courage when she was diagnosed with the dreaded disease. My sisters and I just went numb – it was too much to take in all of a sudden; but Ma and Dad, working as a team as always, took prompt action, and without getting into the controversies of second opinions and conflicting advice from different sources, opted for immediate surgery and by next evening the diseased organ had been severed away. By that time we had managed to get a grip on ourselves and were concentrating on the task of mentally preparing Ma – and ourselves – for her chemotherapy.
The doctors told us that hers was one of the fastest growing strains of malignancy known to medical science and her chemo medicines were commensurately strong with their equally strong side effects, even apart from the usual debilitation, weight loss, hair fall, etc. They gave her four weeks to recover from surgery before subjecting her to the rigours of chemo. She was up within two, deaf to all protests and admonitions, determined not to be a burden on her two married daughters (or for that matter, on her unmarried one), her sister or her sisters-in law, all of whom had planned to take it in turns to stay with her during her treatment. She spent the next two weeks planning out the running of her home and the hired help, so that there would be the minimum possible disruption in our lives.
This was when we really appreciated the bond between Ma and Dad – the way they synergized their strengths to create a support structure, an almost tangible edifice of love, much stronger than their individual strengths. When her hair fell out overnight, the sight of her beautiful, thick, wavy strands lying in bunches all around her was traumatic, and not just for her. And Dad joked: ‘’You are my true companion, even sharing my increasing baldness,’’ making her laugh, and planning the different kinds of wigs and stylish hats he’d buy her ‘’so that I can have a beautiful wife with a new look every week’’.
I feel blessed in the surety that no matter what, we are always there for each other as a family. Even if we are physically absent, we are with each other in spirit, and not just in the clichéd sense. I can find no better illustration of this than the fact that even though I had to accompany my husband to a job posting in the US, halfway through Ma’s chemotherapy, I would dream of her frequently. And even though everyone back home made it a point not to let me know when her blood reports were not good, or when she developed extensive skin infection during radiotherapy, or when her finger- and toe-tips and nails degenerated as a side-effect of the chemo, I always knew something was wrong because of my dreams.
I returned from US fifteen months later, to find her horribly weakened in body, but indomitable as ever in spirit – making all our favourite pickles, drying herbs for our kitchens by the kilogram (I still have the dried mint and the pickles she made for me), cooking delicacies for us when we went over for our weekly visits. Perhaps her biggest joy at that point of time was spending time with my daughter and my sister’s son, pampering both her grandchildren with their favourite foods, toys, books (though she was as strict with them as she had been with us about standards of behaviour), and most of all, playing with them like a child. Her biggest worry was my youngest sister’s marriage.
At the back of her mind was always this desperate desire to see her happily married and settled in life. In that extremely weakened state too she would draw lists and make us shop for the necessaries of a wedding (in case something materializes I won’t be able to handle everything at once in this state, so it’s better to be prepared). We would protest at the incessant demands she made on herself; she’d always say: ’’I want to leave behind pleasant memories. I want you to remember your mother as a positive figure, not as a sick, querulous, weak old woman. Besides, all this activity keeps my mind off my body’s ills’’.
And then came the second big shock. After two false alarms (minor tumours that turned out benign, but which nevertheless had to be surgically removed), she was diagnosed with secondary malignancy in her other breast a little more than three years after the first mastectomy. I had gone with her to collect the report, fully expecting a third false alarm, and read the word ‘malignant’ in the report in a daze, looking at it again and again, willing the whole thing to be just a nightmare. Ma took one look at my face and twitched the report out of my hand.
‘’It’s nothing,’’ I said, hastily pulling myself together. ‘’Yes, I can see that on your face,’’ she said. After she had been examined by the oncologist and the date for pre-operative tests fixed, she said thoughtfully, ‘’I know I won’t live to see your sister’s marriage’’. Cutting short my protest, she continued, ‘’I don’t think I have much more to give you all. I just hope the end comes before I become a total burden. But promise me something: there should be no lack at your sister’s wedding. And just look after your father as best as you can. Fortunately, he is a very peaceful soul, but he’s going to be very lonely. Leaving him alone is going to be the hardest part of dying for me,’’ she finally broke down.
Nine months later, she was gone. She battled her cancer bravely to the end. The last month in hospital, with the malignancy rapidly spreading to her bones, and then her liver, ravaged her body, but could not daunt her spirit. She would receive all her visitors with a smile and joke with them, tamping down on the intolerable pain which ultimately necessitated morphia patches. Ten days before her demise, she insisted on celebrating Dad’s birthday in hospital, distributing sweets among the doctors, nurses and the paramedical staff.
During her final week, when smiling and banter became physically impossible, she gracefully declined to have visitors in her room. She was most peaceful when Dad was at her side. And that is how she finally died, looking at Dad. Even now, when faced with any problem, it is of her that I think, and as in life, she never fails me.