My deepest sorrow

I am writing this blog post as part of the Chennai Bloggers Club’s March contest titled “I suffered but overcame”.

As a middle-aged person, I had my pick of struggles from my life to choose for this post. Financial crisis, health problems, relationship problems, career stumbles, educational challenges, emotional struggles, crisis of faith – I could probably come up with a post on each of these topics. I took some time to think about what I wanted to pick to write about for this. Almost immediately something stood out. The one experience that went deeper than rock bottom. As soon as it came to my mind, I dismissed it. It was too personal and after my last post, I was not ready to make myself feel vulnerable on social media just yet. Besides, how could I reduce that experience to just a post for a contest? But the thought wouldn’t leave my mind and as I thought more about it, I came up with some convincing reasons to write about it. Firstly, the spirit of this contest: Its not about winning a contest, it is about getting to know one another in our bloggers club, to appreciate each person’s struggles, and hopefully write something that might inspire or as in my case- heal. Secondly, I process my emotions by writing and I know writing this will be incredibly cathartic. Finally, I considered the cost vs benefits of writing it and decided that if it brought comfort to even one single person out there it was worth it. So, here I go.

I have heard that little girls dream about the day they get married and plan it down to the last detail. I never did that. But I always dreamed about the day I would be a mother. For as long as I can remember, I wanted to have three children. So, April 22, 2004 was one of the happiest days of my life. I found out that I was pregnant for the first time. I had taken three pregnancy tests (all positive) while I impatiently waited for the doctor’s office to confirm the news. I wanted to call India and tell my parents that they were going to be grandparents before they went to bed. The doctor called me on at lunch and I left my sandwich uneaten (and my dog stole it off the table) as I called my mother with much excitement. Some weeks later, on June 18, 2004, my husband and I went to our second prenatal appointment. I was down with a horrible cold and almost cancelled the appointment. At the appointment, the doctor used a Doppler device to listen to the heartbeat of the baby. But there was no heartbeat. Shortly afterwards, an ultrasound confirmed our worst fear. My new baby had passed away in-utero. I’ felt absolutely helpless. I wanted to scream at the doctor to do something, to somehow save my baby. But, nothing could be done. My husband and I exited the clinic in shock. I called and cancelled the lunch that I was supposed to have with my adviser and lab-mates to celebrate my upcoming Master’s graduation and went home. Do you know that 1 in 4 pregnancies end in a miscarriage? I was 9 weeks pregnant when I miscarried.

Once home, I sat on the stairs and called my parents. When I heard my father’s voice, I broke down and told him the news. To this day, my father won’t answer a phone call from me if he can help it because of that call. He always hopes and waits for someone else to answer it. The following week was a blur. On June 25th, 2004, I underwent a D&C surgery to remove my baby because my uterus was showing no signs of letting it go. Over the next three months, I struggled through every day. Everyone knows that the worst thing in anyone’s life is losing a child. But the worst thing about miscarriage is that no one ever acknowledges this loss – simply because the baby wasn’t born. My baby wasn’t even a fetus (a zygote is considered to be a fetus only after the gestational age of 10 weeks). It didn’t matter that in the few weeks that I knew of my baby’s existence, I had dreamed a whole life for her. It didn’t matter that I had felt the changes my body was going through to prepare for her. It didn’t matter that I had seen her heart beat on the ultrasound at my first prenatal appointment. I had no child to hold or cremate/bury and so no one could understand that my grief was a real thing.

Here are a list of things that you should NEVER say to someone who has lost a child in-utero (even if some of the things may be true):

  1. It’s all God’s plan.
  2. It is probably for the better, there was something obviously wrong with the baby and you were spared later suffering.
  3. It would have been worse if you had been further along in your pregnancy, at least it was first-trimester loss.
  4. You can have other children.
  5. You shouldn’t have announced your pregnancy so soon.
  6. It’s not really like losing a child.
  7. It is so common, it’s happened to so many people I know. They are all fine and you will be too.
  8. Once you have an other child, you will forget all about this.
  9. Time will heal.
  10. Practically everyone has experienced it; 25% of pregnancies end in miscarriage.

Yes, people actually told me all the things on this list! When I went back to my OB-GYN for a post-D&C check up, I asked her why this happened and what can be done to prevent this in the future. She replied, “if this happens a few more times, we will worry about it”. Needless to say, I never went back to her.

What you can say instead:

  1. I can’t imagine what you are going through.
  2. I am here for you.
  3. If you need to talk, I will just listen.
  4. If you need to cry, I will just hold you.
  5. I am so sorry this happened to you.
  6. If you have personally experienced this loss, share your story without talking about how time will heal it all.

For it is true; unless you have experienced it, you cannot imagine what it feels like. This also goes for the pain people feel when they experience infertility or stillbirth or have a child who is sick or has special needs or have lost a child – no matter at what age. The pain felt in all these situations are all deep and different. It is simply wrong to compare one to an another and try to rank them in order of magnitude. Parents simply do not expect to outlive their children; that is not natural and no one is prepared for it.

Over the next few months, there were endless nights when I sneaked into another room at night so that my sobs would not wake my husband. So many nights I just clutched a pillow tight to somehow fill the emptiness in my heart and body. Like many women in this situation, I wondered if I had caused it somehow – had I done something wrong? or not done something right? was I too active? had I not eaten right? The hardest thing for me was to try and visualize this child. I needed to do that but I couldn’t. My husband is Caucasian with straight brown hair and green eyes and I am Asian Indian with brown skin, dark curly hair and dark eyes. I wondered how this child would have looked. I remember cutting out a picture of a mixed-race child (with curly hair like mine) from a magazine and putting it next to the one ultrasound picture that we had of the baby. Some weeks after my D&C the lab called to tell me that they had confirmed the “products of conception” (meaning my baby). They told me that my child was a girl and had a chromosomal disorder that was a fairly common but random occurrence. It gave me some closure; we were able to give her a name.

My fragile mind struggled with my faith in God. I was so angry at God. I could not figure out what I had done to deserve this. Then I remembered that several years ago, I had helped my Chinese roommate by accompanying her to have an abortion because she wasn’t comfortable in English and wanted someone to act as a translator. I was convinced that my participation in that event was why this had happened to me. My views changed from pro-choice to pro-life.  During this time, my sister-in-law gave birth to a beautiful girl. Jealousy knifed my heart. It took everything for me not to break down when I met the baby. But all in all, I was blessed. I conceived again in three months. I always wonder what would have happened to my sanity if I had not. Maybe God really does not give us things that we cannot handle. I could not have made it through that time without the support I had from my husband, my in-laws, and my parents.

My new pregnancy did not wipe everything away. Instead, the innocent excitement that I had felt with my first pregnancy was all gone. I was filled with terror; every prenatal appointment was a huge emotional trial. I could barely look at my husband’s face when we went in for the Doppler appointment. He was just as traumatized as me. I lived that pregnancy one day at a time. It was considered a high-risk pregnancy due to my earlier miscarriage and my insulin-resistance. I faithfully checked my blood sugar 9 times every day. I ate every 2 hours making sure to consume at least 1 egg or 2 egg-whites a day (even though I hate eggs). I could not understand women who complained about not being able to drink/smoke/eat what they want during their pregnancy. I envied those women who were blissfully and happily pregnant, because I could never relax. I could never take it for granted. After 33 weeks, I counted my child’s movement twice a day and in my 36th week I called the doctor in panic when she hadn’t moved 20 times in an hour. He had me admitted right away and after 19 hours of labor, I gave birth to my daughter (my second daughter) three weeks before her due date . She was only 4 lbs 10 oz – that’s less than 2 kgs! She had to pass a car seat test before we could take her home. She developed jaundice on the day of my discharge and the doctors suggested that I leave her in the hospital to be cared for while I was discharged (because my insurance will not pay to extend my stay). I refused; I told them I am not leaving a hospital again without my baby. We would pay what it cost for home care. When we put her in the car seat and drove home, she slept so soundly that I was afraid that she wasn’t breathing. Only when she was about 3 months old, I started relaxing and that was when the healing finally began.

I was a lot more relaxed for my third pregnancy. Today my daughter is ten and my son is seven. They both know about their elder sister who died in my womb. We talk about her often and they ask lots of questions about her. Time fills the void, but the scars remain. Since this experience I end every day with prayer; prayer for a safe pregnancy for anyone that I know is pregnant, prayer for success for anyone who is trying to get pregnant, and prayer for strength for anyone who has an ill child.

A few years ago, I was working as a public relations manager at a firm. Over the course of my time there, some HR duties were added to my job description. I was asked to talk to and discipline a young woman whose performance had fallen. I was surprised when I had a look at her file, which showed her as a hard worker whose work had deteriorated suddenly. I asked her to a private meeting and went with my instincts. I asked her if something was going on in her life that was affecting her work. I told her to think of me as a friend and talk to me. After much hesitation, she confided that she had just suffered her second miscarriage. That was all it took to bring it all back. I let her cry and told her that I understood and narrated my story. I advised her to take time out for herself and to ignore the pressure from her family. I told her that I will pray for her and made her promise me that she would let me know when she finally gave birth. I haven’t heard good news from her yet, and I haven’t stopped praying for her either.

So, this is the tale of my deepest sorrow. I struggled and I don’t know if I overcame, but I did survive. I allow myself to think of my first daughter on April 22nd, June 18th and December 31st (her due date) of each year. I hope this post brings comfort to those who have had a similar experience, sensitivity and understanding to those who haven’t, and hope to those who (unfortunately) might experience it in the future. I ended up having three children like I wanted; two of them live with me in this life. They share the space in my heart where the other one lives forever.

-AB

 

 

 

 

 

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It’s time to do away with belittling Tam-Brahms

A response to Ms. Sharanya Mannivannan’s article in the Indian Express titled It’s Time to Do Away With ‘Tam-Brahm’”.

In the Indian Express article titled “It’s Time to Do Away With ‘Tam-Brahm”, the author Ms. Sharanya Manivannan, rants about an incident from her mid-twenties when an inebriated person in a night-club asked her if she was a “Tam-Brahm”. She uses this incident to launch into a tirade about the audacity of Tamil Brahmins to refer to themselves as “Tam-Brahm”. In short she asks, how dare Tamil Brahmins use a term that reminds people that we have not been stamped out of existence? Especially, when people in Tamilnadu have worked so hard to do just that?

It is important to note that when this inebriated woman asked the author if she was Tam-Brahm, she did not follow it up with any words that implied that she was disappointed that the author was not Tam-Brahm. There is no indication that this question rose because the woman thought Tamil Brahmins are “upper-caste” or superior in any way.

Now let us imagine a similar scenario. An intoxicated Christian asks someone with a name like “Akila” if she is a Christian. Before Akila responds, someone else says, “No, her name is Akila Malik, Christians do not use names like Malik”. Such an incident would have been forgotten and never thought of again. Akila would not be outraged and would not construe the innocent question to be “a subtle act of aggression”. That’s because admitting that you belong to a group whose identity is Christian is alright and you are even allowed to be proud of it. But God forbid someone admits to an identity of being Brahmin! So many people believe that Brahmins do not even have that right. We Brahmins are secondary citizens because of the sins of our fathers. Our ancestors did bad things and so we should quietly subject to being belittled, degraded and ripped of our identity for all eternity.

As a Tam-Brahm, I and many like me have been treated with this contemptuous attitude all of our lives. We have been ridiculed and bullied all through our lives because we were born in a Brahmin family. Like the author mentions, I did nothing to earn being called a Brahmin, just like she did nothing to earn her surname. Yet, it is fine for her to use her surname to identify herself, but she self-righteously condemns my use of my identity as a Tam-Brahm.

She says that she was struck that “a young person in a casual, urban social setting, that too in a state of intoxication, had maintained such a sound grip on how to peg people quickly”. I think the key word here is “intoxication” and the implication is that Brahmins shouldn’t even admit to their identity in a state of intoxication. Can you imagine the outrage if the person wasn’t intoxicated?

Personally, I have noticed that many of the young people (in urban social settings) who riot that Brahmins should be eternally ashamed of their heritage are those who did not grow up in Tamilnadu during the last 50 years. They were raised abroad and are lucky to have been brought up “caste-oblivious”. Brahmins like me who grew up in Tamilnadu in the last 50 years never had that luxury. We were constantly reminded that we belonged to the caste-that-should-not-be-named; the caste that is constantly picked-on; the caste that is freely made fun of in movies, songs, and dramas. This is because we are the caste that doesn’t retaliate and, we are the caste that does not have the right to retaliate. We were forced to grow up feeling ashamed of our heritage and downright scared to reveal our identity as a Brahmin. I grew up hating my first name because it revealed that I am a Brahmin, as if just being born a Brahmin was an unforgivable sin. It took me years to become comfortable in my identity as a Brahmin and stop worrying about my name. I wrote a blog post about that more than a year ago.

Tam-Brahms are derogatorily called “thayir sadam, namam, pattai, parpan, pappathi, mamis” and so on. If we were ever to use such word for a person based on their caste, we could face criminal procedures. I recall an incident from my early teen years where a stranger threatened to report my father to the police for calling him “lower-caste” when all my father did was to tell him not to touch me. So, I would like to know who really keeps casteism alive?

The author says that it is not incidental that “the artsy, alternative, more affluent circles” that she moves in is dominated by Brahmins. She does not know how many Brahmins are poor because she has not moved in those circles. It is also not incidental that she moves in circles dominated by Brahmins if she grew up abroad. That’s because most of us have been chased out of our homeland to earn a living just because we are Brahmins. I have heard it said that only those who have sinned have to leave their homeland and seek a living in other lands. So, this is another way by which we continue to pay for the sins of our ancestors. But, when does this debt end? Never, apparently. Most of us that leave the blessed shores of Tamilnadu for other countries end up staying abroad. Why? because in other countries we are not constantly judged by our names or our caste or our diet or our dialect or our other day-to-day practices and religious beliefs.

So, the next time you hear the term “Tam-Brahm”, please realize that we do not use it to subtly aggravate or make history more palatable. We do not use it to clarify our rank in a hierarchy of your imagination or to defend the caste system. We certainly do not say it to negate centuries of bigotry or embrace the same. Instead, we use it to feel solidarity in our oppression. We ask about it to find out if we can feel comfortable and safe in a group. We use to tell each other that we understand and to know that we have some things in common. We even use it to make fun ourselves. (Please feel free to peruse some of the Tam-Brahm communities on Facebook. You will find that the predominant theme is making fun of ourselves.) So, please stop attributing malice where there is none. We all use terms like Indians, Tamils, Chennaites and many such other names to identify ourselves in various circumstances and Tam-Brahm is just one other way.

We are so much more than what our ancestors did to others. That is exactly why it’s time to stop deriding us. Usually, all we ask is to live and let live. But this time, instead of choosing to remain invisible, I shall step up and say no. I am done paying the debt of my ancestors. I refuse to be stomped on for sins that I did not commit. I am Tam-Brahm and I am proud of it, because what the term means to me is not what it meant to my ancestors. So, start getting used to it; we Tam-Brahms are here to stay.

-Ambuja Bharadwaj

PS: Those who know me know that I am not one to air my personal views on controversial topics in public. But I did so this time, because the original article in the Indian Express upset me greatly. Thanks for all your support, friends.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The importance of respect

Raising your children in a different culture is a challenge in so many ways. As Indian immigrants living in the US, many of us struggle to teach our kids to speak our language, learn about religious practices and cultural values. For me, this challenge is amplified because my kids were not only born in the US, but they are also biologically half-American. As my husband is American (of European descent), Indian culture is only half their heritage. In some ways, it makes it easier for my kids because my husband and I understand that their identity is half-Indian, half-American. First-generation Indian Americans probably have a tougher time convincing their fully Indian parents that the American culture is also their heritage because they were born here.

Of all the things that we teach our kids in India, the one that is close to my heart is Respect. Growing up in India, I was taught to respect so many things around me. Firstly, to respect our parents for all that they do for us. Hinduism equates parents with God itself. Then to respect those elder to us, because wisdom comes with age. Yes, even those only a year or two older in India are addressed with respect. Everyone calls older people anna or akka (elder brother or sister) or auntie or uncle. No one older to you is ever addressed by their first name. We are also taught that special respect is due to teachers who go beyond their call of duty to teach us everything. Gurus or teachers are placed even higher than parents. Besides these, we were also taught to respect inanimate things like food, books, gadgets, the environment and pretty much everything around us for its contribution to our life. We are not allowed to waste food, touch our books with our feet, and once a year we worship during Auydha pooja – we worship all the inanimate objects (from cars to computers) that help us in our every day life.

The differences stemming from the collectivist philosophies of the East and the more individualistic ones of the West means that the emphasis for respect in the US is the individual. Here, children are taught to respect individuals no matter how big or small. Although completely commendable, this practice seems to have diluted to mean respecting just oneself. In the quest to teach children to respect everyone equally, the special respects due to a person because of their age, education, or experience is lost.  Of course, inanimate things are never considered deserving of respect in this culture.

When I was a graduate student here, I had to work with a physiotherapist to help ease my heel pain. The young man grabbed a couple of tall books (maybe they were phone books like the yellow pages) and asked me to stand on top of it. I was appalled! To me books, paper etc = knowledge = God. You do not touch them with your feet, let alone step on it! When I hesitated, the physiotherapist was confused. He had no idea what my problem was and I had to launch into a long explanation about it.

Today, I struggle to teach these concepts of respect to my American children. Living in India for a few years made a big difference because I had societal support in India. Everywhere they went in India, they were expected to address elders with respect. Everyone told them not to waste food and to respect their books and other things.  But, now that we are back here, I am alone in my efforts again and I worry that my children will forget those ways.

The hardest of these to teach American children is to not waste food. America is filled with an excess of food. Processed food is cheap and plentiful.  Kids in America do not think twice about wasting food. A few months ago, I saw a family get out of their car and throw half-eaten fast food into the trash nearby. There was a little boy, about 10 years old, who opened a bottle of “Simply Orange” orange juice, took a sip, replaced the cap and then threw it in the trash. One sip was all he took of the nearly 20 oz bottle! No matter how much I teach them otherwise, my children are constantly exposed to this culture of waste. Most American kids cannot wrap their heads around the fact that there are people in developing countries who do not get three square meals a day. Wasting food really upsets me because I myself have experienced what it feels like to not be able to afford food.

In the end, all I can do is to keep telling my kids about these things and hope that it will seep into their minds over time. My husband tells me that things were not so bad when he was young and that these values were also a part of the American culture some time ago. I believe that is true because of the compliments that I get from other American parents on the respectful behavior of my kids. Every time I go to a parent-teacher conference, the teachers never forget to tell me that both my kids are extremely respectful. It gives me hope and makes me proud. I guess we (my husband and I) must be doing something right after all.

“Show respect even to people who don’t deserve it; not as a reflection of their character but as a reflection of yours.” – Dave Willis

-AB