A Day Like Today

M O R N I N G I wake up today and nd it not unlike the last few. My mothers pancreatic cancer has been back now for about 8 months, and though I returned to Pakistan almost three years go specically to be here in case it came back- there is a huge dierence between planning for a tough time, and living the tough time. It is around 8:30 am, and my wife has already left for work. Just 8 months ago, my mother was personally dishing food out at a family barbecue celebrating my sisters return from England. Today, shes ghting for her life. And more than her life- her breath. Were all ghting for her life. Perhaps the most dicult thing to see, after my mother in her pain, is my father when he wakes every morning, having slept for at most- an hour the previous night. I cannot even begin to understand how you cope with watching your lifes partner ght an ever-uphill battle, with pain that keeps you up all night. In our home everyone tries to get up early and start the day as early as possible. We try to have breakfast at the same time, and as this is Pakistan, we are fortunate enough to have a lovely girl by the name of Neelam who lives with us, and basically runs the kitchen. The need for home assistance grows immensely when the main woman of the house falls ill- Ill give you that much advice. Unfortunately, Neelam is visiting her family this morning, and no one else can make him breakfast right now. My fathers all dressed up, ready for work but I cant help but notice that his eyes are red from lack of sleep. I know very well that he can help himself, but I gure Ill take a chance and make him breakfast- and feed him as best as I can before he heads o to Mall Road for work. Its not even remotely a chore- rather its a feeble attempt at doing for a parent what hes done all his life for mesacricing, and caring. I look in the fridge and I nd some good stu. Im a huge breakfast person, and for me- misery is an alien concept right until I dont nd the right kind of bread in the fridge in the morning. Bread snob, perhaps.

I nd a German loaf, and I think of what to do with it. I slice it thinly with a bread knife four times, and gather the seeds that are falling o it. I also know that my father loves almonds and nuts in the morning (Good for memory, hell say), so I gather some of those too.

I look through the cupboard and nd some Earl Gray teabags that my wifes very fond of, and I think theyll be a good change from the routine Lipton looseleaf doodh pathi chai that is the staple every morning. I put the toast into the toaster and right then, the power goes out. This is, as I said- Pakistan, and were subject to frequent power outages. I dont have a generator at home- we just have battery backed power supplies that run only fans and lights- not toasters or ACs. I quickly turn the stove on, and nd a very large tawa and toast the bread on it. In the process, I burn one of the slices, and drop one on the oor, which happened to be wet. Im now frantically trying to multitask, and growing in my respect of the everyday Pakistani woman, in whichever form she comes, because she deals with her own issues, and then this - cooking. I pull out some cereal options for my father, because if theres anything I can say I snob over apart from bread- its cereal. So I pull out some nice muesli and Weetabix- I suppose giving him options will make him happier. Im trying to do all I can- to make sure that this man can have some semblance of a breakfast- just so that hell have the strength to get behind the wheel of his car and drive to work, and lie to himself that today is just like any other day. Somehow, I manage to pull it all o.

Breakfast is served.
(we$- the toast was being done...)

A F T E R N O O N

I usually come home for lunch- I live down the street from where I work. I think thats one of the biggest blessings I have in my life; the kind of people I work for, work with and above all, how close to home we all work. (I teach undergrad electrical engineering in Lahore) Today, I have come home later than usualbecause there was a lot of work. Im home, sitting with my elder sister, then I walk in to my mothers bedroom to see how shes doing. Her breathing is measured, and very noticeable. Thats the one thing I keep a check on these days- her breathing.

I decide to lie down beside her, and hold her hand. She wakes up and smiles very lightly and tells me how she felt bad that I had to make my dad breakfast. I dont know- its a Pakistani housewife thing, or maybe its just my mother. So I tell her it was my pleasure- it really was- to ip the tables and stay home from work a little late, and help out. She can barely talk- because shes always so tired now. Still, she tells me that when I was little, hed do the same thing. Hed feed me little tidbits all day long. I cant help but think about how I must have looked- a tiny baby in my fathers lap, being fed little bits of food throughout the day. Its a cute thought, but given the circumstance Im hearing it in, I feel sad and heavy. I think about how roles reverse- when children grow older they just cant aord to be children anymore. Im moved by this thought- this mystical time where I didnt have even the slightest semblance of what responsibility or ambition meant. So Im curious, and I playfully ask her was he really happy when I was born? since Im their only son. She smiles and laughs as lightly as possible, and says: Aik jashan tha. Jashan, in essence, means celebration. I dont know why, but that little moment will last me a lifetime.