Room 23

by Kavita Basi

  I was too exhausted from traveling to sit there for long. I stayed for as long as I could, then rose from my seat. “I’m so sorry, but I’m going to have to go back to my room and rest for a while,” I told them. “All the traveling has taken it out of me.”

  “You do what you need to do, Kavi,” one of my cousins said. “Get rest and we’ll see you later. We’re so happy to see you.”

  I spent most of my time in Spain sleeping; I napped for four hours that first morning alone. The doctor was right: even a short plane ride to Spain had had a big impact. And there had been the train ride to London as well. But as I sat on the chaise by the pool watching the kids, all that seemed like it had happened long ago.

  I watched Jay from the lounge as he jumped in the pool; Jasmine as she talked with her cousins and did her hair; Deepak as he played with his nephew, smiling widely.

  As tired as I was, I was so grateful to be there, to be alive. I didn’t want it to end. It was pure joy for me to be in Marbella with my family, even though I couldn’t participate in the way I wanted to.

  I thought back again to London. The wonder on the kids’ faces as we walked to our favorite Moroccan restaurant, Levante—through the large, intricately carved wooden doors and down the alleyway lined with Moroccan lanterns—was priceless. Inside, it was like being in Morocco—the rich colors, tapestries, and music. The children were in awe, especially when the music was turned up and several belly dancers wove through the tables, encouraging diners to join their dance.

  I tried to swim a little in the pool, but my fitness and energy levels were so poor I could only manage quick dips—just enough time in the water to cool off. My body was desperate for Vitamin D. I thought about the eight to ten times a year I’d traveled to warm countries and soaked up the sun in the past. Now I was embarrassed about my body and covered up as soon as I got back to the sunbed after my dips in the pool.

  The fatigue from all the travel and activities started to overtake me. I still couldn’t comprehend why my body was so fatigued.

  I rose and gathered my things. “I’m going to go rest up for tonight,” I called to Deepak. Then I headed to our hotel room, hoping I could recharge my battery before our evening meal.

  That evening, we met my mum’s brother for Japanese. He’d settled in Marbella with his wife and owned his own business there. He brought his son—my cousin, who I rarely saw—along for the meal. We both share hereditary Crohn’s disease, his somewhat worse than mine. It was so nice catching up with him and talking about old times.

  “Why haven’t we kept in touch?” I asked. I felt that one of us should have made the effort—that I should have made more effort. This was how my mind was changing.

  Something about seeing my uncle and my cousin made me feel I’d lost a part of myself along life’s path. I felt so comfortable with them, like we’d never been apart. I vowed to stay in close contact going forward.

  Even though it was hard for me to understand what was happening to me physically—the pain I saw in my face and eyes when I looked in the mirror, the way my body ached with tiredness—it was clear that the relationships in my life were becoming a priority in a new and different way.

  Chapter 9

  Relationships at home were strained.

  My family had been stoic during my recovery, but now they felt like they had a different person in their midst. I wasn’t aware of how I’d changed—besides the obvious. My memory still played tricks on me. I would call Deepak at work and then phone again ten minutes later and not remember I’d already called him.

  It seemed like Jasmine was drifting away, almost scared to talk to me or be affectionate toward me. I wondered if she was afraid because of what she’d experienced the night I suffered my hemorrhage and went to the hospital. Maybe she thought I would break, or maybe she was just hiding her emotions to be strong for me. She takes after her father that way—guarded and ever strong. Jay was still too young to really understand what had happened.

  One evening, Jay and I were watching TV in his bed, snuggled in our fleece blankets, when he hugged me tightly.

  “Mummy, I missed you when you went away for a long time.”

  My heart sank. “I’m here now,” I said. “Don’t worry.”

  My personality had become more sharp and direct. There was no sugarcoating when I was explaining things. I would get angry within a second, something no one in the family was used to, and my mood would suddenly just shift. The calm, collected person I used to be didn’t exist anymore, and Deepak and I began arguing more frequently—sometimes even screaming at each other— because we couldn’t understand one another anymore.

  My personality was suddenly black and white, and it was difficult for me to be anything else. I was angry and frustrated that I couldn’t do as much, which was affecting my identity—making me question who I was. I had high anxiety and I couldn’t handle more than four things on my list or I’d panic and get upset.

  After living with me for eighteen years, Deepak didn’t know who he was married to anymore. One night we had an explosive argument over something trivial.

  He grabbed me and held me tight, tears in his eyes. “You don’t understand. You’re a different person now. The wife I have loved dearly for the past eighteen years is now someone else. I just want my old love back.”

  Looking into his eyes, seeing his tears, I realized I needed to get the therapy that had been suggested to me. I needed at least to try to adapt.

  That night, after putting Jay to bed, I got online to do some research and found Headway, a social media group for people who had suffered from head-related injuries, or who knew someone who had. As I looked through the threads of conversation, I noticed that most of the conversations were about how people’s relationships had changed. Most of the members had gotten separated from their partners after the injury, which scared me. I didn’t want to lose Deepak.

  When Deepak called me from work at 11:00 a.m. one day, I was immediately concerned. He never called from work at this time.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked. “What’s happened?”

  “I’m coming home,” he said, his voice shaking. “I’m not going back to work.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  “I’ll be home soon.”

  Even though I was getting better, I was still fragile and fatigued most of the time and not in a good state of mind. I couldn’t even begin to understand what might be going on, or why Deepak would talk about not going back to work. This was the worst possible time for us to lose an income.

  When Deepak got home, he embraced me.

  “Is there something we can do to fix it?” I asked.

  “I want to be here with you,” he said. “I don’t want to travel so much anymore. I worry about you when I’m away from you.”

  Deepak had been through so much with me. After nearly losing me, he was a broken and confused man—and his priorities had shifted. He wanted to be with me.

  I wanted to be there for him, but I was so concerned by this sudden change, and I wasn’t strong or healed enough to focus on him the way he had been focused on me the previous few months. I wasn’t even sure if I would ever be able to work in the same capacity I had in the past. I started to have another anxiety attack; I felt like I was drowning. This felt worse than coming home from the hospital the first day, or the attack I had in Tatton Park.

  We lay awake in bed that night.

  “I’m turning forty-four years old,” Deepak said quietly. “How can I be starting over again? Am I making the right decision?”

  The idea of giving up everything he knew frightened him, as it would anyone, yet he felt strongly that he couldn’t stay where he was.

  We couldn’t sleep. Even though I was confident in Deepak, I hoped I’d wake up and find that his talk of leaving was all an unpleasant dream. I didn’t know how we could survive without both of our incomes. And I’d been through so much, I couldn’t help but think it was unfair for Deepak to hit me
with this now. Suddenly he was the one who needed support, and I was struggling to give it to him, because I didn’t have the capacity. I wanted to be as strong as possible for him—to have a positive mindset—but it was so difficult. I was no longer sure of who I was, and I felt like we were about to lose everything.

  “What if we lose our home?” I asked him. “What if the children have to be taken out of school?”

  Were all those years of working hard and spending time away from my children worth it?

  I was taken right back to the day I was released from the hospital and couldn’t walk up the stairs. That was such a scary moment for me, and this felt like a similar situation—one I had no idea how to get out of.

  The following day we were at the grocery store, putting vegetables in the shopping cart, and out of the blue I broke down—just dropped to my knees and sobbed.

  Deepak quickly grabbed me, lifted me up, and put his arms around me.

  “Everything will be fine. Don’t worry.”

  I was terrified to lose my home, but I’d also noticed my views were beginning to change as a result of the accident. I didn’t care about material possessions in the same way I had before. What mattered most was that I was alive and with my family. It made sense to trade the pressure of a hectic work life for one that was slower paced so I would have more time with my husband and children.

  At home we talked about selling the cars, letting the in-home help go, and putting the house up for sale.

  I loved my house. We’d been living there for ten years, and I’d designed every part of it myself. I hadn’t hired an interior designer since I’d studied architecture in school. (In fact, if I hadn’t decided on a career in fashion, I’d have been an interior designer.) I’d traveled so much in the Far East, and my home was an eclectic mix of Indian and Japanese influences. This house was my personal sanctuary. I didn’t know how I’d be able to let it go. But I did know I had to do whatever I needed to in order to keep my family intact.

  I wished my dad were alive to give me advice. It had been so long since I’d felt his presence.

  The day of my therapy appointment came and I made my way to The Priory Wellbeing Centre, which was just around the block from our home. The Priory was a well-known mental health clinic frequented by celebrities, sports personalities, and other famous people in Manchester who were combating drug and alcohol problems and/or mental health issues. The Priory was dedicated to helping people improve their health and well-being through individually tailored programs suiting each person’s specific needs. I thought it would be a perfect fit for me.

  I was still anxious about seeing a therapist, however. Was it necessary? Would it help? I didn’t feel sure.

  Walking up to the large, white country mansion with Deepak was daunting. Inside, a receptionist greeted us and pushed a clipboard toward us.

  “You’ll need to fill out these forms,” she said.

  We sat in the waiting area and filled out the forms. The waiting area had the feel of a retirement home, with magazines on the coffee tables and people waiting for their loved ones to finish their sessions.

  The questions started out simply: name, date of birth, gender, address, insurance provider.

  Then they became more personal.

  What illness are you suffering?

  What are the side effects?

  Do you suffer from anxiety?

  Are you suicidal?

  Have you ever felt the need to harm yourself?

  Looking at the questions, I wondered why I was here. I just want to feel like myself again.

  When my name was called, I took the grand staircase up to the consultation room and knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” a man’s voice said.

  I opened the door and entered a small, white-walled consultation room. The room totally lacked furnishings: there were no couches, cushions, or even tables. There was only a white board on the wall and two chairs in the room—that was it.

  My therapist greeted me with a handshake.

  “I’m Kavita,” I said.

  “Very nice to meet you.”

  He was younger than me and had a comforting way about him, which eased my anxiety and allowed me to unwind and unload.

  After crying for a full ten minutes, I started to talk sense. “I really didn’t know what I was supposed to do when I came out of the hospital,” I told him. “I was just glad to be home. Anyone who’s had a child would understand. The first day you return home with your baby, you’re expected to just know what to do. It’s scary.”

  “You’re doing fine,” he said. “You’ve been through a lot.” He looked down briefly. “My close friend suffered a brain hemorrhage and passed away.”

  I was shocked to hear this. More and more I was hearing of others who’d had similar experiences or knew of someone who had.

  “You can’t compare yourself to what you were before,” he said. “This is who you are now. Be here now. Don’t live in the past or the future. This is important for healing.”

  He helped me understand that my body needed a slow and steady pace to recover, despite my mind’s desire for recovery to move at a quicker pace.

  “Getting back to routine seems like the only way to make sense of things,” I told him. “I need to get back to yoga, meditation, and other things I used to do regularly. I don’t have much energy, but I need my routine back.”

  He nodded. “Getting back to routine is important.”

  I also told him I’d cut my hair off, hoping for a fresh start, but was miserably unhappy with the result. It wasn’t me! My entire life I’d had navel-length hair. Now, when I looked in the mirror, I didn’t know who I was. I hadn’t realized how much my long hair had defined me. My self-confidence was at its lowest, and now I had even more reason to shy away from the mirror.

  “Another thing I’m having a hard time with is I can’t feel my father’s presence,” I said. “I used to feel him regularly after he passed away. I was never frightened. I considered them unexplained spiritual encounters. I just felt a warm presence that made me feel sure and secure in myself. And now, when I need him most, I can’t feel him close by.”

  The therapist just sat there, listening intently. Encouraged, I went on.

  “After my father passed away, the first time I felt him again was a couple of weeks later. I was alone in my room, lying down on the bed thinking of him. Suddenly a figure appeared in all white. The figure came toward me and leaned down, placing a hand on my shoulder. ‘Please look after your mum. She needs you, and you’re the eldest and strongest.’ I began to cry and he wiped away my tears and disappeared.”

  My mother had a similar encounter around the same time, and Jasmine later saw him as well. When we moved into our second home Jasmine was five. She was busy downstairs putting the place settings on the kitchen table for me when I heard the door slam. Jasmine came running upstairs, panting, and her face was pale and shocked.

  “I was putting the cutlery on the table and heard someone behind me say, ‘Jasmine,’” she blurted out. “When I turned around I saw a man in white standing near the cutlery drawer smiling and nodding. He said ‘Jasmine’ one more time and then he left.”

  Jasmine had never met my father—she had only seen him in photos or short videos—but she’d recognized him.

  “Nana was downstairs and he called my name,” she told me. “I was a little frightened, but I’m okay now.”

  Back then, my father’s absence was the only big hole in my life. Now, everything was so hard. I yearned to feel him nearby, but I felt nothing. I was disappointed he wasn’t looking after me. I’d even questioned my mother, as if she might have an answer to this problem.

  “Why haven’t I dreamed about him in such a long time?” I demanded. “Why isn’t he around me?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe he doesn’t think you need him anymore.”

  But I so desperately did.

  I needed his advice on how to deal with what was happ
ening with Deepak and how we should handle our finances and future lifestyle. I was nowhere near ready to go back to work, but now I felt this incredible pressure because of our situation. I wasn’t strong enough to deal with my own recovery and give confidence to Deepak. We both felt like we were drowning.

  I felt better and stronger after just that one therapy session. At the end of the session, my therapist recapped what we’d talked about on the white board. By the time I walked out of the room, I had a new perspective on what had happened to me. I didn’t feel as upset. I was just happy that I was going to be okay, and determined to achieve a better balance in terms of how I pushed myself in recovery. My mind felt more focused; I was finally thinking logically about my priorities.

  Later, at home, I thought about my lack of self-confidence— the clumps of hair on my pillow in the morning and my short hair; the acne; the bruises on my skin; my poor posture; and my lack of strength.

  If there’s a problem, I fix it! This is who I am.

  Even though I needed to go slow, I didn’t want to waste time. I wanted the rest of my life to be filled with great memories and new adventures with my family.

  Everything seemed so clear. My therapist kept repeating to me, “Recovery is an ongoing process.” My sessions with him made me understand that I could do anything and be anyone—I just had to act.

  I started by making an appointment with my general practitioner about acne medicine, booking a personal trainer and physiotherapist, and resolving to do something about my hair.

  The first session with my personal trainer, Brad, was embarrassing. I could only do two minutes on the exercise bike and I was already exhausted. But he was exuberant.

  “Come on, Kavita,” he encouraged me. “I’m proud of you! You can do it!”

  His words gave me the confidence I needed in that moment.

  “Thank you,” I said, and kept pedaling.