Concussed.

I went from a normal functioning student to a girl who could barely get out of girl in less than an hour because I hit my head on podium by not paying attention to where I was walking for a split second. I slept for 18 hours a day for the first few weeks, taking breaks only to eat and drink a little, go to the bathroom, or drive to the doctor with a blanket over my head, head stabilized between my knees, and NASCAR earplugs in my ears. After this period, I started stepping outside of my zone to try and condition myself back to normal. This came with a plethora of challenges – I couldn’t get up without feeling like I was falling into a pit of nothingness; I couldn’t walk without clutching the wall, the rail, or something to keep my balance; I couldn’t go down stairs, walk by edges, or walk along bridges without imagining gory scenes of me falling and splitting my head into a thousand pieces; I couldn’t talk at my usual volume because that would exacerbate the constant pounding I felt going from my temples to the base of my neck. The pounding rarely stopped – it became this pest that wouldn’t cease to nag me for all the things that I thought were dead and gone. Things that I hadn’t thought about for months began to haunt me in my solidarity. I thought of my grandmother’s death, and her loss truly sunk in for the first time. I thought of my plans for the future, heck, I even thought of the craziest OO ideas I could think of just because I had the free time to do so. But, once I started getting more active, I started showing more symptoms. I started throwing up every time I tried to help out in the kitchen, falling backwards when I tried to blow-dry or wash my hair, and getting massive headaches from having a 30-minute phone conversation with my cousin. Darkness and silence were my companions, because I suffered in brightness and noise. I felt like a hermit, wearing sunglasses everywhere I went and facing the barrier between the world and me. When we had to go to a family wedding, I felt beautiful in all my Indian outfits, but I had to wear sunglasses, a neck brace, and earplugs to every event so I could last as long as possible and so I didn’t feel like a burden on my family. But despite all these props, I still had to leave nearly every event early. It was disconcerting that I couldn’t even celebrate the happy occasion and hit the dance floor with the rest of my family, but I was able to hang out during the afternoons and nights with my younger nieces and nephews who also turned in early. Though I wasn’t able to enjoy the wedding as I usually do, I was able to enjoy it in a different and more intimate way. From this experience I learned the importance of alone time – be it “me time” or “one-on-one time,” we should all allocate a little bit of it every day.

Controlled Insanity

Controlled Insanity

I really can’t

I can’t get up.

I can’t walk.

I can’t take a shower,

I can’t comb my hair.

I can’t even climb a single stair.

Where is your father?

Do you have any tests?

What grade are you in?

Where is your father?

Dementia is crazy.

Every day is a pain,

As if there’s nothing more to gain,

Than lost memories and an emptiness that will kill you faster than any disease.

So you fill your life with scenes,

Hallucinations jig sawed from your past.

Mixing your rural childhood, with your urban adulthood, with your suburban old age.

So right after spoiling your grandchildren with your impeccable Mexican cuisine,

You’re playing games in the fields with your girlfriends,

Then you’re putting food on a table for 17 and changing the diapers of your sister’s kids.

But as it frequently does,

Time ran your show.

Dementia is crazy.

With it, came confusion, complications and incompetence.

But, as a hero with your own code,

You owned dementia.

The phrase “I can’t” quickly became “I want to, therefore, I will”   

I will get up, with aide.

I will walk, with aide.

I will shower, with aide.

I will comb my hair, with aide,

I will climb a dozen stairs, with aide.    

Dementia is crazy.

You see,

We spend our whole lives helping others,

But in the end, the biggest help we give is the help we receive.

Receive the back rub.

Receive the medication.

Receive the warm baths.

Because dementia can drive you crazy,

But live life to the fullest, even if it is a little hazy.

Growing Up

A young wave,
With light blue waters
Daintily rolling upon the sand,
With an air of confidence like no other.

Down the shore,
A ferocious tide,
With darkness deeper than a soul,
Crashing upon the shore with a thunderous roar;
Screaming its infamy for all to see;
Outshining the young wave with purpose,
Supposedly for growth;
Demeaning the young waters to worthlessness.

The tide changes and the rolling young waves come to a halt
Instead there is an ominous dark tide lining the edge of the beach,
Punching the shore rather than caressing it.
Age defeats youth.

Lil' Imagination

Relations and Spiteful Cake

Thanks to the lovely Hurricane Sandy, I got some time to do some writing. Here are my works of Sandy.

Relations

Rawr!

A sign of endearment.

Rawr!

A sign of hatred

The Lionette shuns the Lioness.

First,

Rawr!

A sign of care.

Care when ailing,

Care when in need.

Then,

Rawr!

A sign of ungratefulness.

Ungrateful on purpose,

Ungrateful unknowingly.

Lastly,

Rawr!

A sign of disgust,

Of impatience,

Of abandonment.

Lil' Imagination

Spiteful Cake

Cake with icing.

Blue or green,

Pink or purple,

Orange or red,

White or yellow,

Black or brown.

I want blue.

Repulsive!

I want green.

Atrocious!

I want pink.

Disgusting!

I want purple.

Terrible!

I want orange.

Gross!

I want red.

Loathsome!

I want white.

Revolting!

I want yellow.

Nauseating!

I want black.

Foul!

I want brown.

Repelling!

Why?

            Differences,

                        Ignorance,

                                    Pure hatred.
Lil' Imagination

Irreplaceable

This is a memoir dedicated to my grandmother. However much I don't express it, I respect her and love her and I plan on cherishing the time that I have left with her.

Irreplaceable

How much can one person deteriorate emotionally and physically? After her husband passed away almost six years ago, I watched my grandmother deteriorate. Gone was her productiveness. Gone was my grandmother’s perseverance. After she fell several times, due to her stubborn attitude, my grandmother’s deterioration accelerated.  Gone were the smiles my grandmother used to spread like cream cheese on a bagel. Gone was the woman who always knew what everyone was doing. I watched her monstrous health conditions engulf her tender eighty-eight-year-old self, bit by bit. However, much to my regret, I never knew the worth of water until my well was almost dry.

            Before, I never paid much thought to my grandmother. In my adolescent mind, she was more of a picture frame on a wall.  I knew of my grandmother’s existence; but her place in my heart was replaceable. My grandfather was the one who interacted with me by helping me with my homework, and having tea parties with me. My grandmother was the one who kept my brother and me in order.

“Eat your food!” my grandmother prescribed.

“Yes, Baa,” we responded.

“Don’t waste anything!” my grandmother established.

“Yes, Baa,” we retorted.

Because of these conversations, I never respected my grandmother in the way I admired her husband. Yet, these views all changed in a matter of seconds.          

The wind made the leaves of the trees surrounding my house creepily brush the windows next to the couch that I was lounging on. I shuddered under the soft blanket my mother had given me. My head was pounding from the concussion I had gotten the week before. All of a sudden, I heard a painful thud. It was followed by a shriek. Next thing I knew, screeching sirens were outside my house. My grandmother and my parents were nowhere to be seen. I was home alone. When I went to visit my grandmother the following day, I did not know what to think.

The tubes! The bed! I got a whiff of the stinging scent of rubbing alcohol. The untouched memories from five years prior were returning. She looked so fragile, like an old vase. If I had touched her, she would have shattered. The look of reassurance that I unconsciously received from my grandmother; one of the many things I had never acknowledged; was not there. I missed it terribly. The eyes were the last things I brought myself to look at. They were hidden by those lids. I resented myself for my inability to recall what was under those lids. What was their color? What was their shape? I feared I would lose my grandmother without ever knowing what her eyes looked like.

“Hello, Baa, I’ve come to meet you. How are you doing?”

The silence was overwhelming.

“It is the painkillers that she is taking, have no fear. She is still here with us,” a voice similar to my mother’s voice answered to my unasked question. This response refused to go further than my ears.

I felt droplets gathering near the brim of my eyes. Not once have I left this place without shedding buckets of salty tears. This time would be no different.

 “Please open your eyes, Baa,” I croaked. My grandmother’s response proved this visit to be different in other ways. Those mysterious eyes fluttered open for a few seconds, and for those seconds, the world stopped. I did not have a pounding headache, and I had no work to worry about. There was nothing in the world but those big beautiful oculi. Her pupils were black as night, and they were surrounded by a chocolaty brown iris. The iris was surrounded by a ring of sky blue, but those spheres said so much more than colors. They oozed agony and distress, but held a certain spark of joy and times of celebration. Yes, there was life in those eyes.

“She will make it,” the voice persisted. But the agony! The distress! They pinched my heart, and overflowed my face with a salty liquid. What was it? Oh, yes, the tears. I ran out of the room and into a white coat. I did not know where to go but back into that agonizing room.

After my face dried up, I realized that something was different. I had gained a new respect for that eighty eight year old woman with the salt and pepper hair. She has been through it all, experiencing the ups and downs of the crystal staircase of life.

Now, when I look at my grandmother, I remember those wise eyes. I see my five year old niece looking at her great grandmother in the same way I used to look at her. I try to pass down the teachings of the eyes down to my niece, but her juvenile mind does not process them.

I am lucky enough to have gained that respect towards my grandmother before she leaves me forever. As I sit by my grandmother, I look up at her as she is serenely resting, with her thick eyebrows in a furrow, and wrinkled face wincing in discomfort every time she moves her pale left leg. I recall the heart wrenching image of her in desperate pain, an image that is engraved in my memory. It hurts. But that comes with respecting and loving someone through the hardships in life. Nevertheless, there are good parts of life, and that spark in my grandmother’s eyes is there as evidence of times of laughter, rejoice, and youthful happiness. Life has thrown dementia, extreme diabetes, and an artificial hip at my grandmother, but she has gotten by, keeping the pleasant memories an arm’s length away. She refuses to let her deterioration engulf her carefree spirit, and for that, I know that my grandmother is irreplaceable.

Lil' Imagination

Who Is Me?

Am I you?
Am I he?
Am I she?
No, no,
I am me.

Who is me?
Is me you?
Is me she?
Is me he?
No, no,
Me is three:

the optimist,

the pessimist,

and the struggling mind.

 

Lil’ Imagination

So Many Ways

I look around at others,

Completely different guises,

Yet the same in so many ways.

I look around at others,

So similar to the eye,

Yet so very different.

In the United States.

In India.