Things That Keep us Awake, by Swarnapali Maity, Kolkata
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Born, raised, and currently residing in Kolkata, West Bengal, Swarnapali is a critical care physician working at the frontline, the spouse of another frontline doctor, and a mother.
He left for the hospital last night.
“It’s positive. I shouldn’t waste much time at home and increase the risk for you all,” he had said while hurriedly packing his bag.
But as he walked towards the ambulance, his stance became more relaxed. In fact, he left with his headphones on. Our nine year old sensed something wrong only the next morning.
“Mom, where's dad? He didn’t come back from the hospital yet.”
I had been awake the whole night, tossing to and fro, occasionally looking at the phone. I felt I shouldn’t miss any call from the hospital. Our daughter’s question made all my restlessness melt into tears.
“He has been admitted, sweetie. COVID-19 positive,” I said blankly.
She stayed mum at the bedroom door for several seconds, then asked, “Mom, is dad going to die?”
“What? No, no, honey, he will be alright in few days.”
I usually don't go near her for several days when I am back from the COVID-19 ICU. We have invented a sign for a virtual hug. But this is not a time for that. Though his disease is mild, though he is young, he is also diabetic. Everything is so unsure about this virus, I thought. While my child was in my arms, my phone beeped. It was a message from my duty station.
Bed no. 340, Mr. Jaiswal, expired at 7:30 a.m.
I closed my eyes at once. A calm, poignant face emerged from the darkness. She was in a wheelchair, going home, recovered from COVID-19. She had come to the ICU only to deliver a handwritten note of thanks. She was Mr. Jaiswal's wife. Her husband was lying prone on ventilation, in that very ICU.
“Thank you all, for taking care of me, of him,” she had said.
He was not keeping well, she knew.
She had a faint smile on her face.
“I am going back to my family. I know he might not. Yet, I thank you that my children still have got me.”
...
My nine year old's tiny body wriggled a bit in my arms.
“Mom? What is it? Is it dad?”
I hugged her more tightly. “No honey, it’s a message from my hospital.”
I wanted to say, “Don't worry, sweetheart, you have got me,” but I couldn’t.
I have a lot of fear to overcome, before I can say those words to my child.
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(This story was prepared for an “Imagine Another World” online storytelling workshop held October 28, 2020.)
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