A lesson in sensitivity from my mother

My mother suffered fracture of her right shoulder towards the end of November last year. It was not just excruciating pain, but immobility that drove her to desperation. She could not move the hand, she found it impossible to get up on her own, and didn’t like banking on anybody’s support, the independent-minded woman she is. With her movement being restricted, there was no choice but to resort to diapers. That was something she hated, but she took it in her stride.

Whether it was diaper usage or something else, mother developed a sore in the buttock region which didn’t bother her initially. But three weeks with her arm in a sling, she began complaining of pain while sitting and lying down.  She knew it was the sore that was causing the problem. Ointments were having no effect. By the time we took a serious look at it, the sore had developed into an ulcer – the size of a one-rupee coin. I took a picture of it and WhatsApped to my cousin who is a doctor. He recommended surgery – pulling the skin around the ulcer together and stitching it up.

After I managed to convince mother that a “minor surgery’ was required, she was all game to visit the hospital. Cousin called me to his chamber once he had taken a look. Only a skin graft could solve the problem, he said. Skin from the thigh to be stapled to cover the ulcer area after it was cut and cleaned. It is mostly with some trepidation that you enter a hospital and, now, after his view, I started getting the heebie-jeebies.

Well, the surgery soon happened under anaesthesia hip downwards. Mother had an exhausting and nerve-racking time ahead of it – lasting several hours – wading through one test after another, being tossed and turned around with little concern for the pain she was feeling. The surgery was scheduled for the afternoon, but happened only around 8 pm. Mother was put on IV fluids at around 3 pm. The last meal she had was a mild breakfast at 8.30 that morning. The surgery took well over two hours. I found I couldn’t be rooted to any chair or sofa and, so, kept pacing up and down.

Finally, when my cousin sent me pictures (WhatsApp has its advantages, I suppose) of the skin having been grafted, I felt some relief. Half an hour later I was summoned to the room where mother had been moved to. I was expecting to see her semi-conscious or asleep or groggy and squealing in some pain. As I entered the room, I was surprised to see her lying sideways, face turned towards the door. A smile broke out on her face as she saw me. “I was asking the nurses where you were,” she said. “Have you had your food?”

Here was an 89-year-old woman, helpless in many ways, having just undergone surgery, having experienced a daylong ordeal, paralysed waist down (even if it was for the next few hours), aware that her battle to regain normalcy had just started and that it would be a long-drawn one… not concerned about herself but whether her son was all right and had food!

Here was a person who had risen above her problems, her discomfort, who showed me what care and concern actually mean – that there is just no limit to how concerned you can be for another human being... the ability to rise above pain and yet be sensitive. Lessons nobody can teach you at school or college or at the IITs and IIMs or at Harvard, Oxford, Cambridge or Yale… Thank you, mother.