The tears didn’t stop. Why me? Why me? Why me? What wrong had I done to deserve this?
Why did you give me a baby after so many years, only to place so many conditions on him?
I didn’t want to do this anymore… These thoughts kept running through my head for days.
They say the grief has five stages: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression and Acceptance. I think I was going through three of them – denial, anger and depression at the same time. I felt like I had hit the lowest point in my life. Even now, when I think back, I can feel the countless emotions I was battling then.
In any free moment, I would curl up on my bed and cry. I had stopped talking to everyone around me.
I was angry at Sid for not being there—though I knew it wasn’t practically possible, and I wasn’t being fair.
But as always, I felt like I had to carry this weight alone.Even though all of us—Sid, Mugddha, and I—were deeply affected by this new reality, it felt like this was my problem, and I had to suffer alone.
In the middle of all this chaos, I didn’t stop caring for Adi. He was bathed, clothed, fed—food and medications always on time. His initial seizures had stopped, and I thought maybe the medicines were working. I kept telling myself that we just had to manage it.
But one night, he suddenly had a completely different kind of seizure. My heart skipped a beat. Again.
I knew I had to see a pediatric neurologist urgently. With great difficulty, I managed to get an appointment with a well-known and experienced doctor. I couldn’t find the clinic at first, and by the time I reached with Adi, the doctor was about to leave. I literally begged him to just take a look at my baby.
Thankfully, he agreed.
He got an EEG done immediately and prescribed one more medication. Looking at my anxious and exhausted face, he asked, “Have you been checking Google?” I nodded YES. He said, “Then stop. Stop doing it. Stop torturing yourself.” That was one advice I have held on to since that day.
He also referred me to a therapist who specialized in early intervention for kids. I came back home that day with a little bit of hope. Maybe… just maybe, we’ll get through this.
The medication seemed to work—it helped with the seizures. And that’s when I realized—I had to pick myself up. I had to accept the blow and move forward. Life doesn’t stop. As much as I didn’t want to hear it, it had to go on.
Till then, I had no idea what therapy even meant or how it worked. But I tried to mentally prepare myself.
I was Adi’s primary caregiver. Giving him his meds on time, like a nurse in a hospital, became second nature to me. I took him for therapy sessions—physiotherapy, OT—and slowly, I started seeing some improvements.
My life now revolved around giving him the best possible care—through medication and therapy.
But the fear never really went away. I had stopped sleeping, out of constant worry.
Though I was doing everything I possibly could for Adi, I was drained—physically and mentally.
Completely worn out.
I had no choice. I had to keep going. For him.