I can look in the mirror and see the deep facial scars, and wonder why the insides don't heal as fast. I can make it dramatic, suspenseful. Should I? A tweak here, a pause there, and it becomes horrifying, breathtaking. Or I can tell it as a spectator, in third person, like I wasn't even there. That doesn't look right, but in a way, I kind of wasn't... |
On one level, the accident wasn't so bad, when I think about it. There's always someone worse off, always someone suffering more, always something more violent, vicious, or horrifying than what's happening to us at any given moment.
But that doesn't change what is. What it is was a huge Indian road truck, Tata trucks, they're called, enormous raging behemoths of cargo, barrelling along the highway in the early morning hours as our car quietly, smoothly, and (we thought) safely delivered us to the airport. We were near the end of a 2.5 hour drive from our home in the village of Mayapur; only 15 minutes from the airport as I looked at my cellphone and said to my husband, “Well...we made it. We'll be there in 10, 15 minutes.”
But that doesn't change what is. What it is was a huge Indian road truck, Tata trucks, they're called, enormous raging behemoths of cargo, barrelling along the highway in the early morning hours as our car quietly, smoothly, and (we thought) safely delivered us to the airport. We were near the end of a 2.5 hour drive from our home in the village of Mayapur; only 15 minutes from the airport as I looked at my cellphone and said to my husband, “Well...we made it. We'll be there in 10, 15 minutes.”
Look. See that? Those sharp-pronged thoughts that arise and wrench at the veil that sits politely hiding the heart-tearing realities of the emotions and pain these memories evoke; the world stands still for a moment, and I can see the two eyes of that truck, switched-off headlights, lumbering into our path. Because that is what's underneath it all: the memory of every horrifying second that followed.
Well...we didn't make it to the airport. I told the driver he was going to “hit that truck.” And then nothing.
On the surface, unconscious. Seemingly before the truck even hit. That's a beautiful thing. Not a sound entered. Before the truck ran over our car, crushed it to a pulped mess of metal, breaking everything in its path, including me, my husband, our driver; nearly killing us all in the process. Unconscious...but the mind and soul never are, are they? Always something inside us sees, feels, experiences everything..
I regained consciousness once, as they wheeled me from the ambulance into Emergency. I was upset that the nice lady with those huge scissors was cutting off my favourite shirt, and managed to express my chagrin.
But I'm lying: it wasn't the first time consciousness returned. It had tried before then, but was overwhelmed and backed off, safe in the blackness and pain-free zone being offered, like a cushion to a street beggar. And I took it. Oh, did I ever. Because the alternatives were too harsh, too soon. That hospital verandah they'd dumped us on, for instance...I didn't want to wake up there...I really didn't...
It was a top-level hospital in Calcutta, an ambulance sent on request to come and collect us from the outlying small town we'd met our truck in, just out of Calcutta. The hospital enveloped us, first class surgeons trained and specialised and honed in Europe and Britain awaited our arrival: neurosurgeons, plastic surgeons, orthopedic surgeons, eye surgeons, back and neck specialists, general theatre surgeons, you name it.
The first one wasn't like that, though...dredged from the recesses of the mind somewhere, a memory that a tiny country hospital near Madhyamgram rejected us, too badly injured, too near death for them to help. We were roadkill. Their ambulance -- which had been called to pull us from the mangled insides of the car and deliver us to safety -- left the hospital grounds again, this time with us inside, dropping us at a another, nearby hospital. They, too, rejected us...what could they do? So they laid us on their verandah. We were going to die, anyway. Best it not be inside...
The room I finally woke in was beeping, pulsing, hushed but buzzing, stainless steel and white light, fabric-sounding movements, quiet voices, a clipboard hanging from the bed with a list of injuries: a thigh bone savagely wrenched entirely from the hip joint, shredding muscle, tissue, and tendons, pressing its dislodged self against flesh, trying to escape but hanging uselessly; an arm with both bones snapped, ligaments and tendons slashed and torn, glass ripping at nerves, numbing everything; my face, held together with around 100 stitches, a nearly lost eye; my shoulders dislodged; my thoracic spine, “one tiny fraction from breaking,” they said, a lump the size of a soccer ball protruding from between the blades, a mass of damaged muscle and tissue; three bones broken in my back but a whisper away from the spinal chord; a sacrum that couldn't speak, it was beaten too badly; legs that wouldn't walk, they were too bashed and bruised....all beaten, broken, ripped, torn, slashed, and scarred, from the ankles to the tip of the head, which ten years later I still can’t feel; my forehead is still numb, my hips didn’t work for years, I've had multiple surgeries. I could go on...
But as they moved us onto their verandah, my husband's phone slid from his pocket. The policeman pressed the 'dial' button, and contact was made: suddenly we weren't “nearly dead foreigners” in some nameless village in India. We had connection. Someone knew us. Communication went into full swing. As we lay there dying, that big smooth hospital was dispatching its ambulance on the 30 minute drive to find us. Even when they did, I tried to escape. I nearly made it. But they resuscitated me. I wonder if they should have.
I talked a lot but remember nothing; a week in Intensive Care, and only 10 minutes of memories. My husband lay next to me in a coma; then, when he woke, an induced coma so he wouldn't move. The room didn't scare me. Nothing did. But I couldn't stop talking. I remember only talking. And talking. But inside, I was as quiet as a church mouse. Everything in there had moved. I wanted to look at it through a microscope. So I would close my eyes and let it come...
I loved the quiet. It's there still, 10 years later. I go there a lot, inside to that silent, awe-making place. It does that: creates awe in me. There's very few words other than that to describe it. It's vast, full of everything, yet empty. Full of people, but I see no one, unless I summon them, or they come to me of their free will. Full of life, but it was death that brought it close, opened the door, pushed me through...
The right side of my face was basically torn off; that's how it was described to me. I asked them for a mirror. They would smile and say no. I would smile back, but my mouth was split in 5 places, torn through to the teeth, so I stopped. I didn't think much about moving, because I couldn't; I didn't have to. I was cocooned. I didn't hurt, because the pain had been coerced from the room by someone whose name I think was Morphine, whose slow, silent drip filled my body with numbness and my heart with love. I know I couldn't have reached there before, that quiet place. I don't know how I would have gone through it in normal circumstances, without the ripping, shredding trauma of everything being torn from me, inside and out. That's not to say that going through this is the only way to arrive there. But maybe it takes something similar; or maybe for others, it doesn't. But it does take something that is, on all the very quiet and deep levels, so much more than we ever think we can survive, go through, emerge from... |
The orthopedic surgeon lied to me. Later I punched him, but I swear it was only reflex (though it was with my good arm). Not muscular spasm kind of reflex: more “killer instinct” reflex, when he tried to look underneath my injured arm and lifted it, went to twist it to see the underlying side...even when he was the one who had inserted the two titanium rods to hold it together, had stitched the jagged, bone-deep, L-shaped tear in the flesh, had sewn up the torn ligaments and ripped tendons, knew of the numbness in my hand, the frozen thumb and fingers, knew that that arm wouldn't turn, but mindlessly tried anyway. So I punched him. “Sorry,” I said, and left the room. I never went back, but found another instead.
Dr. Nandy, he was my plastic surgeon, yet he saw deeper than the others. He wasn't a “beauty” man, not like a plastic surgeon in Hollywood, trying to youth-ify or beautify. He was a scientist, an older, cultured, gentlemanly, precision-perfect surgeon, whose craftsmanship has deleted almost all traces that day stamped on my skin. He stood at my bed and told me it would happen, but I couldn't feel the right side of my face, and when I touched it, it was foreign. I didn't really believe him, but I didn't care, either. I was happy. He knew it. I think he knew about that quiet place. There was always a question in his eyes, a tacit understanding that we didn't give air to...
It's too long a tale to tell. I could write a book. Well, I did...but it's not just about the accident. Possibly more about the quiet place, and where it lives every day, even on its days off. And more than that, it's about how I find it in the dark.
Like today. It's early afternoon, it's a fresh spring day, but it's dark; I get like that sometimes. Only since the accident. Only since everything inside moved around enough so I could see that place I hadn't before seen...all those things must have been hiding it. I'm glad they broke, glad they were shattered and fell and gave me a clearer view of what I'd been looking for. Even if sometimes I want to hide from it...
Some people don't recognise me. Not because of the facial scars: they're hardly visible. It's the other things that moved and shifted that day which they find hard to recognise; some of those things left, died...some grew out of the rubble, and took root, are growing still. I water them. I try to, anyway. I don't limp and cry and rage like I used to: it was a one-step-forward-two-steps-back routine of healing that my hips and back and shoulders and dammit everything clung to. But while I thank Patanjali and Mr. Iyengar for the yoga, and for the rubber mat makers, the cushion-making man across the river, and for trains so that I never have to get in a car again, still I remember the most painful stages of healing was "other people," that all they'd see were the scars, and as they faded, so too, they thought, my pain did, that my healing had reached its goal, it was all over. “You're all fixed, then?” they would ask. And now, ten years later, they don't even ask anymore. Cos I must be, right?
If only they knew. It's not over, “healed.” It's never going to close, the opening inside that was created that day. I don't want it to. It won't grow more cells and cover the gaping slash, it won't knit bones and create a strong door to replace the one that was torn off. No. I don't want that. I want it open. I want it to never “heal.”
Because it was my healing.
Oh, that's a nice ending, don't you think? Isn't that tidy?
No wait: I'm not trying to be clever, wanting to impress, making misery a special thing that I “own.” No. I told you, it's a quiet place. There is a lot left to say; it's not that there isn't. But I think I'd have to love you, and know you love me, before I could tell you.
Because it's love, that place inside. That's what I found in there. That's what opened up. And that's what heals...
Because it's love, that place inside. That's what I found in there. That's what opened up. And that's what heals...
You see? ♥