Second Mother
I come home to her frail body lying on a bed, clearly too big for her. A short conversation follows and I continue on to my routine. My afternoons are dedicated to feeding, bathing, and walking her. I don't resent my duties. In fact, they make me feel hopeful. I watch her from the foot of the bed as her scrawny hands slowly tug on the blanket, exposing her hollow face and bony arms. Her eyes have a red tint to it, probably a side effect from her medicines. She must have lost another two pounds since I last saw her, or so it seems. The once lively woman, who used to wake up at four and went to bed at twelve, now sleeps more than fifteen hours a day. I fix her blanket and set a glass of water down on the nightstand. As I look over, I see her swollen, red eyes peer at me from under the covers. I take a wet towel and wipe her dry face; she smiles. As I head towards the door, she tilts her head to the side, an indication that she wants me to sit with her for a while. I sit down.
Bai, the slightly hunched, four-feet ten inches, white-haired lady, joined our family when I was barely one year old. At the time, my grandmother thought Bai would be a great addition to the family given her experience with children. Initially, she worked as a cook and a housekeeper. However, soon after my brother was born, she took on the enduring task of a live-in nanny of three kids. Due to my parents' busy work schedules, Bai's interaction with us became a familiar ritual. Her first language, Hindi, subconsciously became my second language. Hingali, an unintentional combination of Bengali and Hindi, became my first tongue. As nightfall came, the makeshift tents came alive in our backyard and the adventurous tales of her village, abusive husband, and children flooded our diminutive minds. Gradually, I became familiar with this seemingly alien world.
Bai's eyes follow my mouth as I tell her about my day. In return, I ask her about her day; although it is pointless because it never seems to change. Leaning against the headboard, she runs her bony fingers through her hair and a small tear trickles down her cheek. It's been thinning ever since her chemotherapy began. Not sure how to act, I attempt to braid her hair. Every little tug causes her to lose even more hair. I stop, trying to look unaffected. In time, I move away and grab her medicine. After a quick scan, I pour out a handful of them and give them to her. She obliges and promptly swallows them. By now, I could recite how each dose affects her.
"When are you going to get that door fixed?" her attempt at making small talk. "Soon." I answer. She opens her mouth again as if there is more on her mind, but she quickly decides otherwise. As I sit there, something in her attitude tells me that she knows she is nearing her end, regardless of our efforts. She reaches over and grabs my wrist, forcing me to sit back down.
"Beti (a term used to refer to a young girl), it's normal," she voices. A moment of silence follows; we both know what she is referring to, yet I am still hesitant to accept it. "People come and go. It's hard, I know. You know, what? I couldn't have asked for a better end. You are better than all those doctors at the hospital. You actually care for me, Doc. You are my little doctor. Just follow your heart, Beti."
It happened right here. The day I knew I wanted to become a doctor.
Though it sounds a little too much like an epiphany, I knew for certain that day. As I shared my newfound knowledge with Bai, it didn't generate as much enthusiasm as I had expected. I guess it is understandable to question a ten-year-old's thoughts on her future. Rather than playing with my friends, I took pleasure in caring for an old lady. The prospect of healing her gave me more of a rush than fantasizing over teenage celebrities. Every time I gave her medicine or plastered band-aids on her scars, it made me feel in-control, respected and empowered. In retrospect, I think I realized that our efforts would not save her; however, the sense of accomplishment I derived from even the slightest signs of progress motivated me to strive for success.
I come home to her frail body lying on a bed, clearly too big for her. A short conversation follows and I continue on to my routine. My afternoons are dedicated to feeding, bathing, and walking her. I don't resent my duties. In fact, they make me feel hopeful. I watch her from the foot of the bed as her scrawny hands slowly tug on the blanket, exposing her hollow face and bony arms. Her eyes have a red tint to it, probably a side effect from her medicines. She must have lost another two pounds since I last saw her, or so it seems. The once lively woman, who used to wake up at four and went to bed at twelve, now sleeps more than fifteen hours a day. I fix her blanket and set a glass of water down on the nightstand. As I look over, I see her swollen, red eyes peer at me from under the covers. I take a wet towel and wipe her dry face; she smiles. As I head towards the door, she tilts her head to the side, an indication that she wants me to sit with her for a while. I sit down.
Bai, the slightly hunched, four-feet ten inches, white-haired lady, joined our family when I was barely one year old. At the time, my grandmother thought Bai would be a great addition to the family given her experience with children. Initially, she worked as a cook and a housekeeper. However, soon after my brother was born, she took on the enduring task of a live-in nanny of three kids. Due to my parents' busy work schedules, Bai's interaction with us became a familiar ritual. Her first language, Hindi, subconsciously became my second language. Hingali, an unintentional combination of Bengali and Hindi, became my first tongue. As nightfall came, the makeshift tents came alive in our backyard and the adventurous tales of her village, abusive husband, and children flooded our diminutive minds. Gradually, I became familiar with this seemingly alien world.
Bai's eyes follow my mouth as I tell her about my day. In return, I ask her about her day; although it is pointless because it never seems to change. Leaning against the headboard, she runs her bony fingers through her hair and a small tear trickles down her cheek. It's been thinning ever since her chemotherapy began. Not sure how to act, I attempt to braid her hair. Every little tug causes her to lose even more hair. I stop, trying to look unaffected. In time, I move away and grab her medicine. After a quick scan, I pour out a handful of them and give them to her. She obliges and promptly swallows them. By now, I could recite how each dose affects her.
"When are you going to get that door fixed?" her attempt at making small talk. "Soon." I answer. She opens her mouth again as if there is more on her mind, but she quickly decides otherwise. As I sit there, something in her attitude tells me that she knows she is nearing her end, regardless of our efforts. She reaches over and grabs my wrist, forcing me to sit back down.
"Beti (a term used to refer to a young girl), it's normal," she voices. A moment of silence follows; we both know what she is referring to, yet I am still hesitant to accept it. "People come and go. It's hard, I know. You know, what? I couldn't have asked for a better end. You are better than all those doctors at the hospital. You actually care for me, Doc. You are my little doctor. Just follow your heart, Beti."
It happened right here. The day I knew I wanted to become a doctor.
Though it sounds a little too much like an epiphany, I knew for certain that day. As I shared my newfound knowledge with Bai, it didn't generate as much enthusiasm as I had expected. I guess it is understandable to question a ten-year-old's thoughts on her future. Rather than playing with my friends, I took pleasure in caring for an old lady. The prospect of healing her gave me more of a rush than fantasizing over teenage celebrities. Every time I gave her medicine or plastered band-aids on her scars, it made me feel in-control, respected and empowered. In retrospect, I think I realized that our efforts would not save her; however, the sense of accomplishment I derived from even the slightest signs of progress motivated me to strive for success.