I mark the day, but love her everyday

May 1992: In Holland Park with Mom and Ari

To think back in sadness, in joy, or just to remember… how time flies. It is today 20 years since my mom Vicky left us.

It was a beautiful Spring day in Kensington. May is one of the most beautiful months in London, with flowers blooming all over, trees budding and a promise of summer, that most years forgets to pass by.

Two days before, we had been to Holland Park on the afternoon walk we did most days during the two years Vicky was with me in London, barring a spell in hospital. We had with us Ari, the Sri Lankan lady who for eight years helped take care of mom.

We lived on Campden Hill Road, just five minutes away from Kensington and Chelsea’s largest park. It became a habit after lunch and a short siesta to wrap up, whatever the weather, and go visit the park. It was a routine that broke up our long, solitary days and one we looked forward to.

Holland Park's Kyoto Garden

Holland Park is the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea’s largest park with 22.5 hectares of flower gardens, children’s play facilities, sports areas, a cafeteria, and large stretches of woodland buzzing with wildlife. Contained within the park is the beautiful Kyoto Garden, a Japanese garden donated by the Kyoto Chamber of Commerce in 1991.

The park is one of central London’s most peaceful spots and so it provided us with lots of joy. It had semi-wild woodland, garden areas, a famous Orangery and a restaurant by the same name, a giant chess set, a cricket pitch, tennis courts and one of London’s best equipped children's playgrounds, as well as squirrels and peacocks.

After crossing alleys lined with chestnut trees, we had several stops to make before heading to the pond area where we would site and chat with the regulars.

First was the Kyoto Garden to hear the gong from the natural fountain.

Is this Hanna?

Next we would go feed the squirrels. They are very tame and would come up to our hands for their peanuts and make Vicky giggle. They are tagged and we recognized them by these bands. Vicky named one Hanna (John), and would look for him every day.

A Holland Park peacock

We’d then go look for the peacocks and wonder if they would grace us with their spectacular fanned tails. We would then check on the formal gardens to see what flowers had bloomed, run our hands on the lavender beds to keep the aroma and then pass to say hello to a lady statue, next to the Orangery. We never knew whom she was, but she was to play an important role…

With an ice cream or a cup of tea in hand, depending on the weather, we then sat by the pond for an hour or so.

Our corner of transuility

We were easily recognizable, Vicky in her wheelchair with Ari and myself pushing it in turns. We were part of a small community of regulars who spent a couple of hours in the tranquility of the beautiful Holland Park grounds.

But rewinding the clock 20 years… When got back from Holland Park on the afternoon of May 4, 1992, Vicky wanted to have a little rest. She stretched out on the living room sofa. She seemed more tired than usual, and when Ari and I tried to sit her up a couple of hours later, it was too difficult. She had become very heavy and we had to wait for a friend to pass by and help get her into bed. I could feel the kind of sleep she fell into was much deeper than usual. It was time to call the family.

May 5, was another sunny London Spring day. The sun was out, the birds were singing, cars were passing, the World Snooker Championship continued on TV… but Vicky could not get up, there was no walk to Holland Park, just a bedside vigil, where minutes feel like hours and hours like days.

A final resting place

Although mom was terminally sick for eight years -- first surviving an aneurysm, then severe osteoporosis, living with Hepatitis C and a broken hip for good measure -- you are never prepared to say goodbye to a loved one. So it was while sitting next to her on the bed that I thought it would be okay, yet again, and we would be racing back to the park in a couple of days. But it proved wishful thinking…

As the hours passed, she sank into a deeper sleep. And then, the most horrific sound of all – the death rattle – began at night. It is a sound you never want to hear. And in those last hours, a lifetime goes through your mind played in slow motion.

The final breath is so peaceful. You can feel it going through your soul and lifting in the air.

On that May 6 morning, life would never be the same again. “What will I do now?” I wondered then in tears.

The following weeks are a blur. I know we eventually made our way back to Holland Park to scatter Vicky’s ashes.

The statue of the lady gone, my sister Asma takes her place

Being so far from home and her beloved Beirut, it seemed appropriate for all the peace and joy the park had brought us. And where better to spread out the ashes than in the flowerbeds, with the birds, squirrels and peacocks, next to the statue of the lady (which sadly was removed a few years later)?

And life goes on…

If any of my London readers happen to be in Holland Park today, say hi to mom and maybe a little prayer.

Related posts:

Vicky: My mother, my child… January 31, 2012

Dearest Mom… March 21, 2011

March 8: Education can win the future

It’s March, the month when the international community marks International Woman’s Day (IWD) by virtue of the economic, political and social achievements of women.

In the 21st century, with nearly half the world’s population of seven billion -- or 3,386,509,865 -- being female in figures published in 2009, one would have expected women issues and rights to become mainstream. Although we’ve come a long way since the first IWD event was run in 1911, there are still too many opportunities, injustices and inequalities to redress.

The United Nations, recognizing the critical role and contribution of rural women, has set the theme of International Women’s Day 2012 on March 8 as “Empower Rural Women – End Hunger and Poverty.”

In adopting its resolution on observing Women's Day in 1977, the General Assembly cited two reasons: (1) to recognize the fact that securing peace and social progress and the full enjoyment of human rights and fundamental freedoms require the active participation, equality and development of women, and (2) to recognize the contribution of women to the consolidation of international peace and security.

For the women of the world, the Day's symbolism has a wider meaning. It is an occasion to review how far they have come in their struggle for equality, peace and development. It is also an opportunity to unite, network and mobilize for meaningful change.

On this year’s theme, the UN says: “Key contributors to global economies, rural women play a critical role in both developed and developing nations -- they enhance agricultural and rural development, improve food security and can help reduce poverty levels in their communities. In some parts of the world, women represent 70 percent of the agricultural workforce, comprising 43 percent of agricultural workers worldwide.

“Estimates reveal that if women had the same access to productive resources as men, they could increase yields on their farms by 20-30 percent, lifting 100-150 million out of hunger.

“Healthcare, education, gender inequality and limited access to credit, however, have posed a number of challenges for rural women. Further, the global food and economic crisis and climate change have aggravated the situation. It is estimated that 60 percent of chronically hungry people are women and girls. Yet, the Food and Agriculture Organization estimates reveal that productivity gains from ensuring equal access to fertilizers, seeds and tools for women could reduce the number of hungry people by between 100 million and 150 million.”

International Women’s Day, also under the slogan “Connecting Girls, Inspiring Futures,” hopes to include girls in some way and inspire minds globally.

This led to a long discussion with friends one evening last week about how this inspiration and change will come through background, upbringing, family and most importantly education. I believe the first step on the long road to equal opportunities and development has to be through education.

I remember an incident that marked me very early in my school years.

I didn’t like studying much and preferred to be out in the school courtyard playing. I must have been around eight and my grades were getting worse with each end-of-month report card. One day, after another bad monthly performance, my mom Vicky decided that as long as I was not interested in studying and learning, she could do with someone to help her around the house. So in coordination with the convent I was then attending in Tunis, Tunisia, she took me out of school and had me work as a housemaid. This went on in earnest for three days. On the fourth, I begged to go back to school.  The lesson was learnt and my grades picked up after that.

There are innumerable admirable women around the world who have achieved so much and who help others accomplish even more. I would feel hypocritical in trying to preach about “ending hunger and poverty” from the comfort of my urban couch. But maybe each one of us could in our respective circles, try to lift a small burden, enrich a mind, encourage attainments and help “connect girls and inspire futures.”

As with compass points that never change, so have the women in my life remain points of reference, love and inspiration.(The women in my life – 8 March 2011)

Although mom Vicky has been gone for 20 years, thanks are always due to her for being the strong, intelligent and outspoken women that she was. She taught me to have a voice but to be tolerant, understanding and without prejudice. Mom had class, insight, wisdom, courage and humor -- in health and in sickness -- until her last hours. Vicky is still my reference for a great woman.

For those of us women, who have had the privilege of an education and who are making their way through change and emancipation, let’s celebrate International Women’s Day by “educating forward” and inspiring a new generation. Let’s try and secure a bright, equal, safe and rewarding future for girls and women.

And as always, let’s not forget to thank and celebrate the men in our lives who help realize these goals.

Related posts:

Dearest Mom… -- 21 March 2011

Soulmates for life --  2 November 2010

A tribute to breast cancer survivors -- 1 October 2010

Emma’s star -- 20 August 2010

Vicky: My mother, my child…

My mom Victoria

Those telephone calls you dread… I got one in June 1984. It was to say my mom, Vicky, was in hospital and risked going into a coma.

Although always there, the memories came flooding back this week when a close and loved relative went into a coma. As my thoughts and prayers are constantly with the family, it took me back to those difficult months 28 years ago and the eight years that followed.

I was in Cannes, with my sister Asma, already dealing with a misfortune when the phone rang. My magazine had asked a London friend to reach me. I had to fly back to Beirut as quickly as possible.

That was easier said than done. I had left Beirut with much difficulty. Lebanon was still in the grip of a civil war and Beirut airport was closed. I had to fly out from Damascus and make the return trip the same way – by plane to Damascus then by road to Beirut.

My magazine, Monday Morning, made all the arrangements. I flew to Paris and then to Damascus where I arrived at night. My colleague, Nadim Abu-Ghannam (who has since passed away), met me at the airport. We drove to Beirut by night, passing through Syrian and Lebanese checkpoints manned by different factions. I think the state of my puffy eyes eased our way through the lot.

A neighbor who had our house keys got worried when, by noontime June 23, she didn’t see Vicky leave the flat. She decided to check on her. She found mom slumped on her bed. She quickly alerted the neighborhood and called an ambulance that whisked her to the American University Hospital (AUH).

Mom had suffered an aneurysm at the base of the brain. I had no idea what that was. The next 24 hours, I was told, would be crucial. She would either regain consciousness or have spasms and go into a coma.

During the journey back to Beirut I was praying for the first scenario and hoping at least to make it back before the second. It was not to be. She did go into a deep coma before I arrived.

By coincidence, while in Cannes, I read an article about a child in a coma in a village in Latin America. The whole village had rallied to take turns caring for the little boy. They were talking and singing to him and trying to trigger something that would wake him up.

We are talking about a time when there was no Internet, no Google search, and no telephone lines, electricity or water in Beirut… Hard to imagine, I know.

The first shock of seeing Vicky with tubes all over and helpless was devastating. Mom was strong, opinionated and full of life. She was the soul of any gathering, the busy bee of the family, always on the move and with something to say.

With Vicky in hospital

But there was no time to feel sorry. Acting on what I had read in that magazine, I got the hospital room looking homely in case we were there for the long haul and started the agonizing days of trying to bring her back to us.

I was very lucky in that my friend and soul mate, Zepure Hamparian Mansour, was at the time, and until a few months ago, the head of radiology at AUH. Zepure, her husband Yorki and her team at the radiology department, especially Elo Artinian and Seta Kazandjian, were good Samaritans. They did everything to help me overcome the absence of my sister and brother from the war-torn country.

There was no question of my going to work, a decision I paid for dearly. I lost my job at Monday Morning, which had changed ownership. It also meant having to move to London eight months down-the-line.

Strange how with one phone call, your whole life is shaken, stirred and turned upside down. Nothing would be the same again. It was a time to dig deep for all the strength the human body and mind can muster. That’s when love and caring take over.

Spending whole days in a hospital and losing contact with the real world are never easy. The hospital becomes your world, and one I got to know well along the years with long spells at AUH in Beirut and Charring Cross Hospital in London. I was there for more than 16 hours a day despite arranging for a night nurse.

The hardest part was leaving Vicky at night. It took me three to four hours each night to say good-bye and leave the room.

The days were one long, continuous soliloquy. Zepure, Elo and Seta helped relieve the pressure and we would joke and talk and involve Vicky in all our conversations.

We also kept up a chain system of massaging Vicky’s legs and arms to keep them mobile and avoid thrombosis. We had to turn her every couple of hours to prevent bedsores, keep an eye on of all the electronic devices Vicky was hooked on, make sure mucus did not gather in the tubes and choke her, as well as other innumerable tasks.

It was also our mission to keep it happy. I alienated a number of “aunties” who came into the room crying over Vicky. They were quickly shooed out.

Do people in a coma hear you? We didn’t know then and I still don’t know now. But there is always the hope and conviction they do.

Vicky was in a coma for five weeks, which felt like five years. Then one morning, I got a phone call from my cousin Dalal to ask about her. I told mom, “Come on, wake up and talk to Dalal.” Suddenly, her eyelids fluttered and she opened her eyes. Panic followed. Hanging up, calling the nurses, paging the doctor…

The first test was to find out how alert mom was. The scans showed that one of her front brain lobs had been drowned in blood, but we didn’t know the exact effects.

One question puzzled us during the five weeks. I couldn’t remember where she had hidden her little box of jewels. So I asked, “Mom, where is the jewel box?” And she looked at me exasperated and said, “You know it is behind the cartons on the balcony.” So that was that.

Celebrating so many things in September 1984

Vicky had lost her recent memory. She had no recollection of anything that happened since the aneurysm. She didn’t realize she was not well, which during the next eight years would prove to be a blessing. At first, they didn’t want us to leave hospital, because they thought it was a matter of time for her. But Vicky proved the doctors wrong and fought for eight years in which we could bask in her warmth and love.

It is an experience that makes you appreciate every second of your life, your health, your family and friends. It puts many concerns in perspective and you learn to let go of trivial issues.

After five weeks, my mom was back, but more as a child.

When the coma patient wakes up is when the tough work begins. It is exactly like having a child on your hands. It is particularly difficult when you leave hospital and have to cope without the gamut of doctors and nurses and equipment.

The eight months after we went home were hard. As were the eight years that followed. They were dedicated to getting a child on its feet and trying to recover a mother. There were many complications along the road, especially in a country ravaged by civil war. And perhaps one of the many blood infusions she received when blood banks were still slackly controlled infected her with Hepatitis C. But all that is for future posts.

For now, I wish our patient well and my relatives patience and strength.

Related posts:

Dearest Mom – March 21, 2011

Soulmates for life  -- November 2, 2010