I do write stories, stories of people, people who reach out to me, people who like me, and also the ones who dislike me.
But never did I think that one day, I will find my next story in my own home.
It was the time of the festival of lights. Most would have done with cleaning, must have painted their walls, and decked up their verandas.
As usual, neither I nor my husband had time for these, ever. Pre Diwali-Celebrations never got a place on our to-do list, but my son seemed to be too keen on this, and he, along with his grandfather, was being really busy for one week. The types of lights to put on, the patterns to create, rangoli designs, mithais to buy, diyas for decoration, and what not – the plan was on and excitement knew no bounds. The little one kept asking about our duty schedules, so that he could plan his Diwali as per his desires and our comfort.
Just a day to go before Diwali. He went for his badminton practice and tipped over on the court. He has always been a hyperactive kid, and every now and then, he would hit a wall, or fall from a chair or bleed his arm.
Since we were busy in our clinics, and couldn’t be there on time, my brother and sister-in-law went to pick him up. ” I can’t move my right hand “, he said, very calmly, with tears in his eyes.
There was not much pain or swelling. It was possibly bearable for him and thus his main interest and focus was on putting on Diwali lights, and not on the injury. I was on duty that evening, looking after a man who was injured badly, a little boy who had burnt his hands, a girl with severe pain in her stomach, and a few others who needed my immediate attention, and the doctor in me had to be prioritised over the mother.
I got a call, at around 6 pm, “We are waiting at the hospital parking for you”, my husband said. I looked at the clock, I still had an hour to finish off my duty.
I tried and wrapped it up as early as I could and ran towards the hospital. Standing there I saw my son, he never looked so sad before. He had fractured his hand and now had a plaster on. How could a simple slip result in this, I kept wondering.
My heart broke into pieces. I stood there for a while, silently, guilt-tripping. I wished I could go back to that moment and stop this from happening. I wished I could protect my little one from being in so much pain. I wished I could be more available for him.
He saw my tears. And realised it was all because of the pain he was in. His face suddenly changed, he smiled at me, gave me a flying kiss, and bid me goodbye. We were hiding our pain from each other, and I couldn’t help wondering when did that little boy grow up so much. But that moment didn’t last for long, and I was forced to come back to my reality when I got a call from the hospital that an old lady with a high fever was waiting to be seen in the emergency.
I was in pain, and in guilt, the motherly guilt. Yet I decided to keep it within and get back to my duty. I saw my husband putting on the reverse gear and leaving. The red lights trailing behind pricked me, just like a dagger would pierce my heart and soul.
I kept thinking, which I often do, if I failed as a mother. If I failed to be there for my son when he was in deepest pain and sorrow. I was nowhere there when he fell, when he needed to be picked up, to be cajoled, and cuddled, when he was in the X-ray room or his hand plastered, when he needed strength, and when all he needed was his mother to be by his side. A doctor and a mother that I am, I can’t stop thinking about what should be my priority. What are my main responsibilities? Will I ever be able to figure it out? Will I ever be able to draw boundaries? Will this ever end? What more awaits me? How many more such dark evenings, such helpless moments do I have to face?
By Dr Nirza Saikia
Dr Nirza Saikia, Obstetrician and Gynaecologist, current working at Digboi Civil hospital. Also a Rotarian, she has served as Secretary and Editor Editor. Her areas of interest are ensuring health care facilities in remote areas, writing, and traveling. She can be contacted at nirzasaikia@gmail.com
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