The Chaos Within - Saraswathi
Saraswathi... her hands are tied to the bed with a torn up silk sari.
Why? She is wasting away. She refuses to eat. Oral thrush... her throat is full of pus. She can't swallow. She can't talk. And the nasal feeding tube is so uncomfortable that she musters up the strength to rip it out. Solution - hands gently tied in a position that is not too uncomfortable...
Is that possible?
Well Saraswathi can't tell us.
She manages on occasion - if she feels like it - to get out a couple of words. A few days ago when Maya asked her if she recognised me, her eyes screwed up to cry, no words came out, and she said "Brother." As often as I can, I sit with her, and have convinced Errol that while I am with her that her hands can be released from her fine silk bonds.
Little pieces of me die when I am with her. She keeps looking at me and crying silent non-existent tears.
Before the feeding tube Errol gave her two weeks. Now she has improved a little. She is shitting again. It is a crude indicator that she is receiving nutrients.
What can we do for her? She is too weak to take ART. It will kill her. She weaves her fingers into mine... her grip remains surprisingly forceful. When we took her children to see her, again silent non-existent tears. Her three kids could not contain their own. Their mother is on the verge of life. She has been pushed there. We are trying to pull her back, but fuck... I dread the call.
I love this woman. The strength she displayed by picking up the pieces of her life after Nagesh died was inspirational. She used to smile at me with her crooked teeth and chat whenever we saw each other at the Nutrition Centre.
The last time I was at Sahara I could not manage more than a few moments with her. I could not ask for her hands to be untied. I only managed to stroke her head whisper a few words to her and walk away.
The Link volunteer team - one of the best bunch of kids we've had for ages - is painting Sahara in stages. They are bringing colour and life to the clients and a welcome distraction to Errol and his team. I don't think they realise how valuable their contribution is to a body of people - Errol and his team included - that are shunned by society.
On Monday when I parked the van and asked if it would be safe, one of the Sahara team quipped - "Everyone knows this is a home for HIV+ patients. They give us a wide berth. Your van is safe." We laughed. Fuck, we have to laugh.
Now that Sahara and DISHA have decided to work closer together - Deep Griha's governing board approved the proposal - there will be more laughter. More hard work. More tears. More little pieces that die.
Does the laughter resurrect the dead inside me? I don't know. It must.
Errol and I have laughed so much this last week. Especially when I ask people to guess how old he is... he's 48 and looks and dresses like he's in his mid 30s.
I hope Saraswathi smiles again. I hope she shows me her crooked teeth the next time I see her (tomorrow). I hope she speaks to me, even if it is to say that she is in pain.
Now that we can get food down her through the feeding tube, medicines follow. It will help with the oral thrush infection. Errol tells me on the phone everyday that she is improving “very, very slowly.”
Maya and Lata who visit her everyday - Saraswathi has decided that food and medication is more palatable from their hand - on rotation say the same thing. She is getting better.
I still dread the call.
Why? She is wasting away. She refuses to eat. Oral thrush... her throat is full of pus. She can't swallow. She can't talk. And the nasal feeding tube is so uncomfortable that she musters up the strength to rip it out. Solution - hands gently tied in a position that is not too uncomfortable...
Is that possible?
Well Saraswathi can't tell us.
She manages on occasion - if she feels like it - to get out a couple of words. A few days ago when Maya asked her if she recognised me, her eyes screwed up to cry, no words came out, and she said "Brother." As often as I can, I sit with her, and have convinced Errol that while I am with her that her hands can be released from her fine silk bonds.
Little pieces of me die when I am with her. She keeps looking at me and crying silent non-existent tears.
Before the feeding tube Errol gave her two weeks. Now she has improved a little. She is shitting again. It is a crude indicator that she is receiving nutrients.
What can we do for her? She is too weak to take ART. It will kill her. She weaves her fingers into mine... her grip remains surprisingly forceful. When we took her children to see her, again silent non-existent tears. Her three kids could not contain their own. Their mother is on the verge of life. She has been pushed there. We are trying to pull her back, but fuck... I dread the call.
I love this woman. The strength she displayed by picking up the pieces of her life after Nagesh died was inspirational. She used to smile at me with her crooked teeth and chat whenever we saw each other at the Nutrition Centre.
The last time I was at Sahara I could not manage more than a few moments with her. I could not ask for her hands to be untied. I only managed to stroke her head whisper a few words to her and walk away.
The Link volunteer team - one of the best bunch of kids we've had for ages - is painting Sahara in stages. They are bringing colour and life to the clients and a welcome distraction to Errol and his team. I don't think they realise how valuable their contribution is to a body of people - Errol and his team included - that are shunned by society.
On Monday when I parked the van and asked if it would be safe, one of the Sahara team quipped - "Everyone knows this is a home for HIV+ patients. They give us a wide berth. Your van is safe." We laughed. Fuck, we have to laugh.
Now that Sahara and DISHA have decided to work closer together - Deep Griha's governing board approved the proposal - there will be more laughter. More hard work. More tears. More little pieces that die.
Does the laughter resurrect the dead inside me? I don't know. It must.
Errol and I have laughed so much this last week. Especially when I ask people to guess how old he is... he's 48 and looks and dresses like he's in his mid 30s.
I hope Saraswathi smiles again. I hope she shows me her crooked teeth the next time I see her (tomorrow). I hope she speaks to me, even if it is to say that she is in pain.
Now that we can get food down her through the feeding tube, medicines follow. It will help with the oral thrush infection. Errol tells me on the phone everyday that she is improving “very, very slowly.”
Maya and Lata who visit her everyday - Saraswathi has decided that food and medication is more palatable from their hand - on rotation say the same thing. She is getting better.
I still dread the call.
posted by Deep Griha at 3:14 am
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