Is motherhood restricted to having a child?

Is motherhood restricted to having a child? 

The story of Mallika Bhatia

Spanning over New Delhi and Munich

Written by Mallika Bhatia

Back in 2012, motherhood had already changed me much before I  became a mother. I had leaking breasts, sleepless nights, contractions, labor pains, stretch marks, everything that could qualify me as a new mother but no baby to show for it. I had delivered her, of course, but instead of her 21 week old body being handed to my warm arms, she was put in an ice box and sent for biopsy.

My baby had died in my womb in the fifth month of pregnancy. The cause was never made clear. No doctor wanted to claim responsibility, no one wanted to take the onus and call out the cause. We were told in hushed voices that it could be because of an invasive test that was administered too late in my pregnancy. According to the reports of the very test that took our child from us, she was a perfectly healthy fetus, hence no cause of death could be determined except for maybe shock of the test. We could blame the machines, we could blame the people involved or ourselves but all the blame in the world could not bring back our child. She was gone; without me ever having seen her, without me ever having touched her, without me taking-in her baby smell and inspite of she growing inside of me, she was taken away. I never got to know her yet she changed me completely.

She taught me to love someone deeply without having met them. She taught me to be angry without fear. She helped me learn the importance of my relationship with my partner. Her going away made me see clearly that we, as humans always operate out of our weaknesses. A few of my so-called friends did not reach out to me because they did not know what to say. Family members and relatives did not try hard enough to support me emotionally because they believed I was strong myself. People who were supposed to console me, got awkward around me. It made me question the meaning of each and every relationship I had. My own mother was far away visiting my sister in another continent when I became a mother.

A mother!! Yes, I was still a mother even though at that point, I had never wanted a baby of my own again. It was too painful to want one. I was a mother even though I had believed that giving birth was the most physically painful experience there ever can be. Labor felt as if the devil himself was sitting at the center of my being and pushing aside each of my parts, shoving every bone and trying his best to tear up the lower part of my body. The lack of a child had not taken motherhood away, in fact it gave me a painful version of the experience. I was still a mother, though an unfulfilled one.

I still sang to my child in heaven and I wrote for her and thought of her all the time. Not crying at the brink of a hat was not an option that existed. Our missed abortion, which is what the doctors call it, made me miss a huge part of my life. Even though I am a psychotherapist, it was my husband who was acting like one for me.  He had lost a child too but he focussed on the sobbing, howling creature in front of him that needed love instead of tending to his wounds.

My physical recovery was much faster than the mental one. I was discharged from the hospital the same day that I had delivered my baby girl. My gynecologist had very conveniently forgotten to mention that I was going to start lactating soon, just like she forgot to shift me to the labor room and I had delivered right on the bed that I had in my room. She had forgotten that I was supposed to deliver in her presence and not when she was busy in the O.P.D. and still be charged a hefty amount for her assistance in my delivery. I had never experienced so much pain in my breasts like I did the next day when I woke up. They had never felt like rocks in the past. The doctor simply said, oh I must have forgotten to prescribe the medicine against it. My body was reacting to the delivery and producing milk for the baby who could never drink it. My breasts were full, heavy and hard.

Emotionally I felt lost, purposeless, unsupported. I could not trust anyone around me, neither could I go back to work. My profession involves helping others cope with their issues. How was I supposed to help someone else cope when I was going through so much myself? I needed something to push me, something to motivate me, something to make me feel otherwise. I needed a change of scene and I needed to be far away from where I was, literally.

Strange that I say that because both me and my husband were against moving out of our country. We were happy with our lives before this incident. We had our work, our friends, our family and our social support in India. India was the only life we had known and the only life we had loved until then.

We moved to Germany within five months of losing our baby. It was a difficult decision to make, a very difficult one! We were moving out of our comfort zones to a country where no one spoke the language we understood. In Munich, which is where we live, people either spoke German or Bavarian, there was no third language back then. We literally did not know anyone here. We did not know how this country worked and there was no way to find it out unless we learnt the local language.

In the hind side, the newness and challenges were the best things that happened to us. It meant a fresh new start, it meant no baggages, it meant new challenges and new learning every single day. Even though I had been with my husband for many years, now was the time where we had many of our adventurous firsts and hopeful seconds. We went to our first Oktoberfest together; got drunk, acted crazy, played pranks and loved each other a little more. We learnt our first foreign language together, we visited many countries for the first time and after a year and half of healing ourselves, we decided to have our second child together.

Even though the decision was full of hope and trust, I dealt with anxiety every single day. I cried very often and prayed very hard. The conversations that I had with my husband were my comfort; he would say, "no matter what happens, we are together and healthy and that is what matters. At other times he would tell me to trust. Trust in the universe, trust in our luck, trust in our destiny, trust that we learnt our lessons the first time, trust that things can't go wrong twice. I also had two friends who were my constant support. I would talk to them very often, share my fears and truly gain strength from them. These three people saw me through my anxiety in an otherwise healthy and perfect pregnancy.

I was glowing and growing. Me and my husband travelled and explored more places before our second child finally arrived. We bought little things for her together and prepared for our lives to be changed forever. When she was finally born, she had ten perfectly manicured fingers, ten little toes, the chubbiest cheeks we had ever seen and that divine baby smell that drove us crazy with love. She was perfect then and now at four years of age, she just keeps getting better. We are growing together as a family. She teaches us much more than we teach her. She gives us much more than we ever can. She speaks three languages fluently, four if you consider her language of love. She is a wise little nut who knows exactly which buttons to press in order to get what she wants. We are raising her not as an inferior for being a child, nor as a superior for being our rainbow baby but exactly as an equal. We let her make mistakes, we let her fall, we let her experience pain because we know it is through the pain that we grew into who we are today. We let her believe in magic and let her hope that unicorns become real creatures, because it is hope that always sees us though.

* If you found this story inspiring then don't forget to share, comment, like and subscribe to The Hope Tribe.You can be the instrument of Hope for someone by spreading these inspirational tales. Thanks for reading, Mallika Bhatia, Founder- The Hope Tribe

A mother's triumph over death

A mother's triumph over death

The story of  Mrs. Manju Bala Aggarwal 

Based in New Delhi, India 

Written by Mallika Bhatia

The ordeal began in 1987 when my daughter was 5 years old and my son was 1. I had visited a gynaecologist with a positive pregnancy test with an intention of not carrying on with the pregnancy. The doctor gave me an appointment for D&C in the following week. Before we could medically terminate the pregnancy, I had miscarried naturally. The doctor still did a thorough D&C and said I was good to go.

Before it all began

In the following months, my periods came unbearably painful and unpredictable. Sometimes I would faint because the stomach pain would be so extreme. I would wait for my periods to come for months and when they finally came, the flow would be so much that no amounts of pads or clothes could keep me from getting stained. Going to work became difficult and I never had enough energy to do what I needed to. We went from doctor to doctor to find out what was suddenly so wrong with me.

A cousin who was also a GP was a great guide through all this. He urged me to go for a second opinion after one doctor declared that I had Tuberculosis and had to start medication ASAP. We took a second and a third and a fourth opinion. The next doctor declared that I had fibroids and needed surgery and a yet another said there was a cyst that could be treated without surgery. This doctor had then tried to heal my cyst through medicines but to no avail. She then suggested a biopsy for which I got admitted in the hospital on the Saturday she had proposed.

My children were at home with their dadi (grandmother) and bua (aunt) and my husband was with me in the hospital. The pre-decided time came but the doctor never did. Till date I don't know why she never showed up but it left us very disheartened. At this point my husband decided to call my father and together they took a call to get me discharged. The next day was a holiday and there was no point staying in a hospital when nothing would be done. We then went to another government hospital where a biopsy was finally done and the results they said weren't alarming. We were back to square one.

The revelation

It was the year 1989 and it had been almost 2 years of suffering, pain and inconclusive tests for me. I sat across a doctor who was as clueless and confused as me. I had a positive pregnancy test again but no baby to show in the ultrasound. I had started bleeding heavily right there, on her table while she checked me.

The doctor at this point, did not try to help me at all. She simply went to my husband in the waiting room and told him that she believed I had miscarried. In her opinion, the bleeding was so heavy that she suspected I would die right on her table. She made it clear to my husband that she would not take any responsibility for my death. 'I am just informing you about her condition but I am not treating her' she had said.

Thankfully her surgeon husband had witnessed her entire narration and instantly came to the rescue. He suggested a surgery to keep me alive. My husband was asked to arrange 4 units of blood before the morning. I was then rushed to a private nursing home.

The next day post surgery, the surgeons told my husband that when they opened me up, they noticed that my entire uterus was literally falling apart. They had removed the whole thing and had sent a sample in the lab to confirm what they highly suspected.                                            
                                                                 
A week later my husband went to the testing centre to collect the report, the assistant hesitantly handed the report looking visibly sad. My husband looked at the report in equal sadness accompanied with shock. It had taken hundreds of visits to numerous doctors over these 2 years to get a diagnosis, which by the way, was still not revealed to me.                                                                                                   

Post surgery, the doctors had suggested us to visit the OPD of a famous teaching-government hospital in Delhi for further treatment. It was only when my husband held my hand and walked me to the Oncology OPD, did I realise that I was suffering from cancer.

My cancer type was Choriocarcinoma, a fast growing cancer that occurs in a woman's uterus(womb). The abnormal cells start in the tissue that would normally become the placenta. It increases the same hCG hormones which are responsible for results on a pregnancy test. I can tell you all this effortlessly now but like I said earlier, it took doctors 2 very painful years of my life to connect my symptoms to my disease.

I got my death diagnosis at the age of 35 after a major surgery.

My first thought at finding out that I had cancer was of DEATH. I didn't know anyone who had survived cancer, I knew I was surely going to die. But what about my children, I wondered! What would happen to them after me? They were too young to lose their mother, I didn't want them to grow up with a step-mother. They needed my love and care, they needed me. I couldn't die. No, I just couldn't. I knew I had to live for them but how, I had no clue?! Back in those days the cancer treatments in India were not so advanced, the survival rate was very low and my chances bleak. I was going to die when I did not want to. Who wants to die anyway!

The fight

With the diagnosis came many other struggles: the struggle to be alive, the struggle to make sure my children lead a 'normal' life, the struggle to keep my diagnosis under wraps from certain family members, the struggle to remain hopeful, the struggles of carrying on my duties and responsibilities, struggle of sharing my diagnosis with my parents, the struggle of stigma.

(After the first round of Chemotherapy- 23.08.89)

There was a tough competition between the nausea caused by chemotherapy and how badly I missed being with my children. Each cycle of chemotherapy made sure I stayed in the hospital for weeks at a go.

The cancer survivors are usually so elated about being alive that the months of vomiting, not being able to look at food, relying on glucose bottles for sustenance, missed pulses as a reaction to the chemical, hair-loss, and emotional struggles are rarely spoken about later. During the time though, they are worse than the disease itself.

Every day I heard about fellow patients dying in the ward, the person on my next bed going through the same journey as me suddenly ceased to exist. It wasn't just once when I caught myself thinking why I was putting myself and my family through all this when no one ever survived?

Mummy's words always gave me the reason. When she and bauji(father) came to meet me for the first time after learning about my disease, Mummy had said just one thing to me, “remember you have two small children who need you.” That's what truly kept me going. Every-time I was about to mentally give up, I thought of my children and told myself to take one day at a time. I never thought about the future, never thought of the final result, never made a long term plan. I only kept telling myself that I had to survive just this chemo, just this day, just this cycle, just this hospital stay. At other times I kept myself so busy, that it was easy to not let any fear surface.

I would do everything on my own when I could: all the household work, take care of the family, go to my work, cooking, everything. Thankfully, I did have help and a lot of support. My husband stood by me like a rock, he was always present for each of my treatments. He would be with me during the day and be with the children in the evening. He would re-check the dosage given to me in the hospital to avoid human errors, which were quite high during those times. He was just always there.

The bank where I worked supported me to no end. I did not have to quit my job because of the illness. I was kept at half salary for a while and then my colleagues motivated me to attend office just for an hour before deciding to go on a loss of pay. My husband thought it was a good idea too, I was not sure I could do it but just the first day back at work was all that I needed to keep me going back. It was a motivator and a diversion. My husband dropped me to work in the morning and would pick me up post lunch everyday. Together people around me made me believe that I was capable of working. They made me feel loved, supported and blessed.

Chemotherapy continued and so did life.

Even today I thank and bless my sisters-in-law everyday who took care of children every time I had to stay in the hospital. They were younger, unmarried and dedicated to their niece and nephew. Even though we all stayed in the same house, we had not told my mother-in-law about my diagnosis. We didn't want her to start fearing my death just yet. She was the mother to her grandkids in my absence. My parents were another solid pillar of support we had. Available anytime we needed them.

Sadly support wasn't my problem, hope was. The each day at a time approach helped me, numbing my mind helped me too and yet there were days where the pain would be overwhelming and the fear of death very real.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, I saw the father of a fellow patient at a bus stop. I was hesitant to approach him, scared to ask about her. Half knowing he would say she had succumbed to the illness. I had not seen her in the hospital for a long while. Her husband had already left her when he found out about the cancer.

I somehow gathered courage and walked up to him, I owed him that much. The proximity in the hospital somehow makes one feel connected, almost like family, almost like the passengers on the same ship heading to the same destination but hoping for a different end. He was very happy to see me, very hesitantly I asked him about his daughter. He smiled at me and said, she was hale and hearty and at home waiting to hear back from a job interview she had given.

That evening I went home and cried. I cried out of relief, I cried out of happiness for her, I cried out of hope, I cried for me, I cried for my children and I cried with joy and relief.

I was declared cancer free in 1990.

I think that meeting at the bus stop changed my life. That meeting may be the reason I share my story with you today, to give you hope, to give you a dream, to give you optimism. I want everyone to know that life after cancer exists. I want people to know that they are not alone in their struggles. I want the friends and family of the patients to know that their support and love means a lot, a lot more than they can ever imagine.

Hale and hearty- sharing hope

There were so many factors that helped me heal, some tangible some intangible. Today I am thankful for each one of them. I count my blessings everyday and strongly suggest that you do too.

My reasons to fight my illness: my children both are happy and healthy and are my biggest strengths. My daughter is 36 and my son 31. I retired in 2014 after 38 years of service from my bank at the age of 60. Now both me and my husband of 37 years love to play with our 2 year old grandson, Aseem.

* If you found this story inspiring then don't forget to share, comment, like and subscribe to The Hope Tribe. You can be the instrument of Hope for someone by spreading these inspirational tales. Thank you, Mallika Bhatia, Founder, The Hope Tribe