Sorry From The Other Side: To My Fur Baby, Didi

If you are on my friend list on any of the social media platforms, you must know Didi – my darling furry German Spitz-Pomeranian mix. Just like you must have known Missy – my crazy black Labrador Retriever. There have been others – but what I am going to share with you today concerns these two pets.

If you didn’t know already, both have passed away. I won’t be surprised if you didn’t, because just like every netizen out there, I try and pretend on social media that my life is awesome – with all the hashtags, emojis, et al. It is difficult to show our raw, exposed selves – it is difficult to ask for sympathy.

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Missy died in March 2015. She was just four-and-a-half years old, a very short life for a dog. She had actually contracted Parvo, and I had tried my best to take care of her. As she got weaker by the day, the sparkle of her eyes dulling to an opaque resignation, I became more desperate. I became familiar with the other pet parents who frequented the veterinary hospital, passing sympathetic nods to each other as our wards received saline drips lying there on wobbly steel beds.

The generous splashes of anti-bacterial liquids used to clean the surfaces could not cover up the stench of diseased poop and other fluids. It is like you are trying to cover up death, but failing miserably. It is a smell no person with a sick or dead pet will ever forget.

Over a fortnight of such trips to the veterinary – supplemented by the visits of friendly old doctors’ assistant to our home in the evening to give Missy more drips, more injections, more medicine – and it finally came to nothing. Missy got sicker by the day, got slightly better, and then became even sicker. Then one afternoon, despite everything, she passed away.

I cried just as any pet parent would – but on retrospect, I tried consoling myself by repeating to myself that I did all I could – leaving no stones unturned, for her. That might be why I could forgive myself for her untimely death.

I cannot say the same for Didi.

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Bear with me while I explain the lineage of our extended and diverse dog family.

Didi is not just another dog I got from a pet shop. She is the granddaughter of the very first dog I have ever had, Timmy. Papa brought Timmy home when I was in the 5^th standard – way back in 1997! She went on to have two litters: Candy was the oldest bitch from the first. Candy then went on to have two litters herself; Didi was the only bitch that survived from the first. And she was a healthy 10-year-old when she passed away early this month, pup-less – and thus the last descendant of the madcap Timmy whose lineage passed down 20 long years to 2016.

Pet parents know that every dog has their own unique personality. Didi had hers too. She was extremely gentle and ladylike – almost regal (few strangers may differ on this!); she had body image issues (she was a fat furry thing – and for a long time could not develop the confidence to jump on beds and sofas because she thought she was too heavy, which is why she was highly conscious whenever one of us would pick her up on our laps); and her food choice went on to include quite healthy things such as watermelon, gourd, mung beans, and so on (unlike all of our highly non-vegetarian dogs).

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Pet parents with multiple pets will know that no matter how much you divide your love equally; there will always be one or two pets who command your attention more. When we had brought Missy home, she kind of stole the limelight with her puppy-like adorableness from the rest of the dogs we had then: Didi (who was four years old then) and her niece Spotty (daughter of Babes – Candy’s eldest from her second batch – who also passed away few weeks after Missy). So after Missy died, for the first time I focussed all my attention back on Didi, who had been aging away quietly.

But then life happened. My sister had to leave for university; I had a baby; and my parents, being their usual busy selves, had to relegate the task of taking care of Didi to our young caretaker. In the meanwhile, Papa had brought home a stray called Jheng – and both Didi and Jheng gave each other company while the humans of the family became engrossed in their own lives.

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The inevitable happened. As September rolled in, my husband noticed how Didi had been growing quieter, eating leaves, and sleeping a lot. Pet parents will know how this is the first symptom that there is something wrong with your dog. While I spent my days busy feeding Zoe, changing her diapers, playing with her, and putting her to bed, Didi was being taken to the vet by our caretaker and literally being cared for by him.

She had contracted melena, and the medicines were not helping. Already over 70 in human years, Didi slowly wasted away. The last time I saw her, she reminded me of Missy in her final days – too weak to continue to survive, embracing the imminent death with placid eyes. Her fur was still soft and fluffy though, but she didn’t have the strength to acknowledge my presence when I called out her name and sat by her side, petting her. What irked me most were the flies, hovering over her, in total irreverence of the noble creature counting her last... days? Hours?

That day, I knew she would not last the night, and just as I sat with my parents an hour later – all of us in our own private thought bubbles filled with gloom, remembrance, and desperation, she quietly passed away. And I did not have the time to mourn because I had to play with Zoe, who was up from her nap and restless for playtime.

I was just telling her the other day how I’ll let her play with Didi and Jheng once she’s old enough to walk. How she could pat the gentle creature as it would come lie by her side, in all her sparkling white furry glory. How she could even ride them if the dogs were gracious enough to let her. And now Zoe will never know my fur baby, Didi.

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My parents and I played a cruel game of ‘pass the pillow’ as we decided who should be the one to inform my sister – who was still clueless about the entire sickness period. That was the second hardest thing to do.

The hardest has been assuaging my guilt over not being able to look after Didi myself, after the years of companionship and love she gave us. I wish I could have nursed her myself, like I did Missy, I wish I could have just ‘been there’. A part of me tells me it was less the sickness, more the sudden distancing from us that made her depressed, weakened her constitution, and finally killed her. My mother consoles me saying she was getting old. She tells me Didi has lived a long, fulfilling life.

Since I was not with her for the last couple of months, guess I’ll never know. And since I am a cynical excuse of a human being, I know there is no dog heaven. She is not sitting comfortably amidst fluffy clouds and lolling her pink tongue out, finally back with the rest of her clan – her gentlemanly brother Gogo, her crazy uncles and aunts, and the entire lot. I know she is not looking down at us from above, missing her human family like it does her. I know she is simply gone, except from our hearts and memories for as long as we live. But if there was a possibility I could get a message to the other side, there’s just one word I’ll like to say. Not goodbye, just sorry – for not being there for her, with her, during her last days. Sorry.

May 24, 2016: The last photo I took with Didi

What Is This Sacrifice You Speak Of?

Let me start off by saying that the choice to be a stay-at-home mum or a working mum is very personal, and every woman makes her own decision after assessing the pros and cons. I am totally supportive of it.

But what I really cannot fathom is why every time a new mother or mother-to-be quits her job for her baby, it is called a sacrifice, which is then met with an an all-round approval from moms in similar situations.

Before you pile on the hate, hear me out. Yes, I agree that to pull the plug on a career that is speeding ahead full-throttle at the prime of your life, to stay at home and be a full-time mom is a huge change to one's life that requires a lot of courage to make. However, I can think of many reasons why people should stop calling this a 'sacrifice' on part of the woman.

Subjective Decision

Saying "I chose to quit my job and take care of my baby" itself goes to show that you have a 'choice' - and were not forced into it. At least, I hope not, for your sake.  It was a life change YOU decided to embrace. Calling it a sacrifice infuses the act with an impending feeling of regret in the future on one's part and a continuous stream of sympathy and forced applause from everyone else. Letting people call it a 'sacrifice' does not lift you up, it makes you seem like a victim of circumstances.

Being Able To Afford To Sacrifice

The most important question involved is whether one can afford to make that sacrifice at all. After all, a job is not a hobby that you can let go because of other priorities. It brings home the bread, whether it is the man or the woman bringing it. The only two ways one can actually even begin to consider quitting one's job is if the husband's salary is enough for two to continue the same lifestyle AS WELL AS raise a baby; secondly, if both partners decide to tune down their expenses considerably. Otherwise, I cannot even begin to imagine how a family of two that used to live on two paychecks will survive on one, that too with an additional member.

Belittles Working Mother's Sacrifice

Terming a working mother's decision to quit her job as a 'sacrifice' and idolising it accordingly is belittling the many others who struggle on without the luxury of being able to do so. My parents had a humble beginning, and my own mother got back to her job after three months of maternity leave in the mid-80s, leaving me behind with a nanny, sometimes scrounging up pennies to be able to afford a tin of formula for me. She did not have extra to spare for a plush lifestyle, she did not have a choice to quit working. Does that qualify as a sacrifice?

Belittles Own Career/Passion

Forget belittling other working mothers, calling this decision a sacrifice belittles your own career and/or passion. Every woman makes her own choice, and I totally respect the ones who choose to be full-time moms. For them, it is definitely not a sacrifice they are making. However, if you have your eyes set on a career - and then you opt to be a stay-at-home mom, does not that automatically belittle your career? Does it not mean that you can 'afford' to leave it, in a quite different sense altogether? If you're on a hiatus, it's not a sacrifice. If it's something you can do without the conventional office desk and chair, it's not a sacrifice. Get back to it after a few years, or find other ways of pursuing it. 

Perpetuating Stereotype About The Sacrificial Woman

When you make a conscious decision to quit your job and that automatically gets tagged as a sacrifice, you unconsciously assist in perpetuating the patriarchal stereotype about women being the meek, obedient partner - ever-ready to sacrifice her own interests for the sake of her family. And those women who refuse to quit their job at the insistence of their husband, family, or in-laws, come to be viewed as selfish, 'bad' mothers. Secondly, how many men - especially in India - are willing to be stay-at-home dads, if the tables were to be turned?

Passing Down Lessons To Offspring

The way you look at your decision now will have long-term repercussions as well. When your baby grows up, learns about the world and in all of their childlike curiosity, asks you about your past - what are you going to say? That you 'sacrificed' your career for them? How is it going to affect the way they view the world? Boys will grow up with an innate belief that the ideal woman sacrifices herself for others, and girls will subconsciously imbibe that very belief. Calling it a 'decision', however, gives the power back to you. And teaches the correct lessons to your kids.

Be a career mother. Be a stay-at-home mother. Juggle both as a work-from-home mother. Whatever you do, do it because YOU want to. Be proud of your decision. But do not call it a sacrifice. Give yourself the freedom to make choices, not the desperation to make sacrifices. Words are important. They are the tools you use to create yourself, build yourself, even destroy yourself. They can empower you or pull you down. In your eyes and in everyone else's. If someone asks you about the 'sacrifice' you made, tell them, "No. It was a decision I made."

Catharsis : Two Years In Coming

I once read this quote about how you know that you are over something when you can finally talk about it and not cry. It flashed past my Facebook newsfeed on one of those million zombified moments when you click the blue F icon on your mobile screen almost on auto-pilot, rather than the need to know what is up with the world. I remember scrolling back up after my brain had half-registered the sentence.

I hate it when I find relatable meaningful posts online. “Oh great!” is usually how I greet such memes and quotes and what not, before I continue scrolling. Not this time.

I felt conflicted. I felt a weird sense of catharsis and a heavy feeling of guilt at the same time. Which does not make the slightest sense without me going into details. So here I am, years after my last blog post, to pour my heart out. I felt catharsis because I can finally let go of my pain, and guilt for doing so.

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September 12, 2014. This day two years ago, my life was near-perfect. Deep and I were all packed up and ready to return home in Assam for good the next day, I was all of 16 weeks pregnant, and we could not wait to begin a new chapter in Guwahati – with his new job, my family, and a baby on the way. I knew I had opportunities galore as far as my job scene was concerned.

I did not have an ultrasound scan scheduled before 18 weeks, but my gynaecologist still suggested I go for a routine one before I travelled by flight, seeing that I was already a high-risk pregnancy with a previous ectopic one (a sob story for another day). It was a nuisance, to go for the scan in the midst of last-moment packing and cleaning, but the prospect of seeing the little one on the screen and hearing its tiny heart beating excited me.

So, I happily left home on a sultry September morning in Delhi, took an auto, and reached the hospital. My sister met me there, and for some reason that I cannot recall right now, she had her guitar with her. She was also pretty kicked, to be seeing the tiny one on the screen. The radiologist met us outside the ultrasound room and ushered us in.

As I prepped for the scan, lying on the bed, raising my kurti up, and letting the doctor smear the cool gel on my slight bump, she kept up a cheerful chat with my sister – talking about music and playing in college bands.

She then turned to me with some routine questions, while she kept moving around the ultrasound wand over my tummy for quite some time, her eyes glued to the screen, before turning to me and saying, “Priyankee, there is something wrong. I am very sorry, but there is no fetal heartbeat.”

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Most of what followed after is a hazy blur, but I remember pleading the doctor to do something, crying non-stop at the waiting lounge till Deep came. Calls were made to our families, second opinions advised, another hospital visited, another scan done, reasons looked into, guesses made, tests done, advice given – with me coming to terms with the fact that the life that was growing inside me for over four months had suddenly was gone.

Having not slept well that night, the next day’s flight had me thinking delirious thoughts. I realised that I was carrying a dead foetus inside me to Guwahati. Would the airlines have charged extra if it was outside me? Would they have allowed me to carry it at all?

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I got admitted into the hospital in Guwahati that very day after landing, and the D&E was carried out the next day. When people today tell me that I do not know the pains of labour as I have had a caesarean, I stop myself before I could blurt out, “Oh, but I do know.” Even if it was an induced labour to evacuate my uterus, it was one I grunted through the entire night – the waves of pain rolling over me intermittently like they would rather I drowned in them than put up a fight.

When the tiny angel did leave me, it was all too soon and all too painless. The doctor scooped me out with clinical precision while the nurses, with all their training, couldn’t help but give me looks of half-pity, half-curiosity – while I lay there in a messy pool of death and despair. Not for long, though. They cleaned me up, gave me fresh clothes, and after a round of scans and blood tests, pronounced me fit to go home.

Given my annoying Spartan reaction to all things sad, I seemingly bounced back soon enough – while dying every night. The hardest part was informing friends about the news – not because I had difficulty bringing up the matter, but because I just could not deal with all the sympathy. Not right then. No fucking way.

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I don’t remember when Deep and I were ready enough again to get back to being intimate, but an act of love and passion before now turned into a deliberate attempt to convince ourselves that we are healing, while an air of guilt and despair hung heavy in the bedroom.

But like all things, this too passed. I slowly stopped being sad on the 12^th of every month, I mentally checked out on February 15, 2015 – the due date that would have been, I slowly stopped blaming myself for what happened. The doctors could not foresee it, I could not prevent it. I stated accepting it. Just like I had accepted my previous loss, after which I lost my right Fallopian tube and, thanks to my doctor’s words, any hope I had of conceiving naturally.

The talks of IVF still continued sometimes, drunken weekend nights still turned into shouting matches, the two of us still licked our wounds in private sometimes. However, the sun would come up the next day – and all the monsters of the dark were laid to rest.

I was too raw to take all the hurt out of myself and hurl it on blank pages – something that always used to calm me. But this too passed when my rainbow baby came along.

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No woman needs to measure her self-worth by society’s standards – it is something she sets for herself. For me, I had always been fascinated with the power of a woman’s body to create new life, even when I was famously expressing my hatred of kids in all their bawling glory during my younger years. So when I was finally ready to experience that power for myself and my own body failed me – not once, but twice – I could not help but feel a virtual hole inside me.

And this too passed when my Zoe came along.

It is never easy to share one’s experiences of miscarriage and loss – and more so in a society where I am from. Such tragedies are kept quiet, swept under the rug, and dealt with behind closed doors. You are lucky if you find actual support groups. But this is my catharsis, clumsy words tip-tapping out of my fingertips into my screen, after years of picking up the proverbial pen. I am finally letting go of my pain, and even while I hug Zoe to sleep every night, I know there are two other unborn angels out there who I will always cherish in my thoughts.