Oh!
To be a Grand-Ma.
My
grand-daughter turns 5 in a few months. The last five years have been something
of a dream that I could never have dreamt of. Of all the phases of life, it’s
amazing how this one phase topples your entire being upside down, filling your
heart with a feeling you have never felt in the entire life gone by, heard of
or read about.
A couple of
decades back I wrote a fiction book on the life and struggles of a fictional
female surgeon in the world of surgery dominated by men, during the eighties
and nineties. It was titled, ‘Oh! To be a lady surgeon’.
The story I
now write is a real life, non-fiction, about a non-fictional real character
(read: me). The story has a similar sounding title, but the decades gone by
have added the grey in the hair and the calcium in the heart vessels and
changed the status of the character from ‘surgeon’ to ‘grand-ma’.
It was in
2021 on that gorgeous humid morning in July when the rains had taken a break
and the moisture in the air had come back with a vengeance that the world
decided to change my character.
A tormenting
previous night of labour pains through which I held my daughter’s hand as she
writhed in pain, one wave after another, only making her aware of what was to
come, without a logical conclusion. Finally, the decision to put her on the
operating table was taken.
The time I spent staring at the operation
theatre door, felt endless, tormenting and excruciatingly slow, reminding me of
the countless relatives who wait for me to open the door and give them the news
of the surgery that I have just finished and how their loved one was holding. Suddenly
it was me who was sitting out, waiting for the surgeon to pop out.
The wait
here was exciting but so was the stress of my daughter going under the knife! After what seemed the longest wait ever, the
guardian angel, my daughter’s obstetrician popped out of that magical door with
a beaming smile to declare that I had become a grand-mom of a baby-girl!
Oh! to be a
Grand-Ma.
Lot of
people talk of life changing moments. For some, a discourse by a seer, for some,
an unexpected event, and for some a book of philosophy. For me it was the birth
of my grand-daughter that changed me inside out. Holding her tentatively (I had
not held a baby since my kids grew old enough to be held by hands) the pink
mass of softest cotton wool, my hands trembled ever so slightly but it was my
heart that bounced loudly in my chest, threatening to burst with untold
unexplainable joy. It was with utter wonderment that I looked at that tiny
mass, hardly two and a half kilo weight with exquisite features formed over a
round pink face, eyes that barely opened into slits, a tiny nose over arched
lips that were still a little less pink as she continued to take in oxygen, an
exercise she was unaccustomed to for the last nine months, a slender neck, long
beautiful fingers on slender hands and legs that perfectly added to her beauty.
I was
mesmerised.
How could one be so perfect! God had taken all
the time in the world, precisely nine months and a few days to chisel the
beauty that was sleeping peacefully in the cradle of my hands.
It was not
really sinking that I had now entered the ‘mother’s mother’ club. All I could
think was how beautiful she was. Moments later, I regained my composure, my
legs felt a less trembly, my heart raced but less than before, the tears in my
eyes slowed down and I could quietly settle down to looking at her all over
again………..and again ……………and again. A cursory look at my daughter, a relief for
her stable health and I went back to staring at this little one, eyes closed
one moment and then suddenly the loud bawl!
I panicked.
My daughter was still under the daze of the anaesthetic drug and here she was,
loudly declaring her hunger. I remembered
my grand-mother telling me that crying
is a good sign and the baby’s lungs expand to accommodate more oxygen. But that
was when I was not a grand-ma, who was now shaking like a leaf, scared for the
new born and worried when my daughter would be able to feed her baby. This was
to be the standard reaction for the next few months. Each time she bawled, not
cried, I went into a hyper-drive mode, wondering if she was hungry or had a
colic or an insect bite or ………any of the hundred other medical causes that clouded
my brain while my daughter silently cajoled her, fed her and put her to sleep.
I looked at myself with wonderment, trying to understand if I was the same
person who wielded the scalpel in the operation theatre with a calm, unwavering
hand!
Oh! To be a
Grand- ma!
Taking her
to the paediatrician was a totally stressful event for me. The vaccines, the
prick, the pain, the fever that would follow and the sleepless nights of
heart-ache to see her crying through the night and my daughter exhausted with
lack of sleep and the stress of tending to the baby, were the difficult moments
of her growing up.
Needless to
say, the most precious, unforgettable moments were her first smile, her first
gurgle, the first time she turned on one side and the first time she held her
neck. Every new step in her growing up gave me a deep sweetness in the pit of
my stomach, as my heart was already full with the joys of seeing her grow each
day, achieve each mile-stone.
Holding her
close to my heart, carrying her in the cradle of my hands, changing her soiled
diapers, washing her tiny soft clothes and holding them close to my face for
her fragrance, neatly arranging her tiny bed, making baby food while my
daughter healed and grew as a new mother were the jobs that I wore proudly on
my sleeve! Singing to her the lullaby’s I could remember, making up small
nursery rhymes and telling her stories she didn’t even understand as I put her
to sleep were momentous achievements that were not even close to all my
academic and past glories.
Time flies
and flies so fast!
She sprouted her first tooth, took her first
step and said her first word. Each step a divine moment, each moment a new
treasure, each treasure that enriched my life beyond words.
Being
utterly house-proud, I wonder how benevolent I had become for all the glass
artifacts she broke in my house, for all the scribblings she did with permanent
ink markers on the walls, for all the neat and tidy rooms that resembled a
tornado after she came and went, for all the trashy food and chocolates she
wanted, for all the toys and the cookery sets she demanded at any random time,
for the sudden demands to be taken to a garden and the a sudden change of mind
to go back home, and for the ‘nays’ that she said for something I had prepared
because she likes.
Time for
nursey school and my heart sank. Why does she have to go out in the world. Why
does she have to get exposed to pollution and noise, why does she have to leave
the comfort of her home, even for two hours at that. The ‘Why ‘s’” didn’t stop just
as my illogical thoughts that only a grand-mom has, didn’t stop.
Oh! To be a
grand-ma.
Thankfully
my daughter was the responsible parent and the little one started her journey
of alphabets and numbers, rhymes and games, friends and sleep-overs.
My
interference and interaction has slowed down as she has got busy with her life,
but what has sustained me as I walk through the difficult process of growing
old are her hugs, her small demands for pampering, the secrets that we share (
she later on secretly spills them in her mom’s ears), the garden trips where
she learns a trick or two on the jungle gym causing me minor heart attacks, her
beaming smile when she sees me and comes running into my arms, her curious
observations and her need to know every detail of what she finds different, her
growing vocabulary and her tantrums.
Each time I
roam through shopping malls, all I can buy is those tiny dresses and frocks
thinking of her beaming smile when she sees her gifts. Most of my evening
outings have now been replaced by time playing her nanny and baby-sitter, with
joy and pride of course.
It’s not
every day that I see her grow now, most weekends she has her friends and
outings with her parents, but just to see her face on the facetime call is
enough to give me my daily dose of happiness.
My daughter
complains that I am foolishly pampering her and have conveniently forgotten my
own children.
My son feels
I don’t have time to talk to him anymore
My friends
complain that I skip their get-togethers and parties.
My husband
feels I am obsessed.
Well, as I
say,
Oh! to be a
grand-ma!
Dr. Reina
Khadilkar
