ഇനി എത്ര ദൂരം

 

Three Births, Three Stories: The Memories My Body Never Forgot

I have three children, and each of their births carries a different story. Yet all three live in my memory in the same way—heavy, unsettling, often returning without invitation. Even now, they replay in my mind unconsciously, bringing nausea to my thoughts. Today, I decided to let them out—to spill them onto words—and finally stop these memories from jerking me awake inside.

My first delivery happened on the 29th day of Ramadan. That day, my family had planned a large iftar feast at home. Early in the morning, before Subh prayer, I woke up with an urge to urinate. I went to the toilet, passed urine, and returned to sleep. After half an hour, I woke again with the same urge—but this time, no urine came, though I still felt the need to sit in the closet. This kept repeating.

When my family woke up for suhoor, my mother noticed something was wrong. After listening to me, she called my aunt. They decided we should go to the hospital. I was confused—I didn’t feel pain, only discomfort. I worried that if we went to the hospital, the iftar party would have to be called off. What if it wasn’t labor? What shame it would be, especially since the feast was large, with neighbours and relatives invited. But they decided firmly: hospital first, party cancelled.

At the hospital, I was examined and told that I was in labor and delivery would be soon. I wondered in disbelief—is this really labor pain? People say it feels like half of death. The family was informed, the iftar was cancelled, and the ordered beef and chicken were returned. By 6 o’clock, I delivered a baby girl.

The nursing superintendent appreciated me for not crying or making noise. I truly didn’t cry, though in the last moments the pain sharpened so intensely that I feared losing control. I bit back my cry—partly from fear of harsh words from nurses, and partly because I wanted my child’s birth to begin with happiness, not tears.

When people in my village and neighbourhood, who had slept after suhoor, woke up to the news, they were amazed. A girl child, mashaAllah. Everyone said the delivery was easy and quick. “She is lucky,” they repeated again and again.

My second pregnancy was not as easy as the first. I was working until my eighth month. Due to a slight rise in blood pressure, I requested admission one week early. This experience was very different. I was admitted in the morning; after check-up, they gave me a tablet and sent me to the room. After a few hours, I was called to the labour room again and given another tablet. By night, I delivered a baby boy.

Though the hospital, labour room, and labour cot were the same, the entire routine felt changed. The most interesting part was that breastfeeding was started immediately after delivery, without delay.

My third pregnancy was unexpected, and it pushed me into deep emotional distress for many reasons. There was no one in my family to strengthen me at that time; only my doctor truly consoled me, along with friends who had gone through the same experience. To reduce expenses, I changed both hospital and doctor and chose a government district hospital.

This third pregnancy phase brought the greatest stress and loneliness of my life. After my second trimester, my husband went abroad. My second child was very naughty and temperamental, so my mother took care of him. I went alone for monthly doctor visits, never asking anyone to accompany me. After two such visits, my aunt came to know and offered to come with me. From then on, she accompanied me. Even now, I don’t know how to fully express what I felt then. I cannot stop my tears while writing this.

Due to family financial issues, I suffered immense stress. No one cared about my mental health. I constantly feared whether this stress would affect my baby’s health. My blood pressure increased. I was admitted, and then COVID-19 positive was detected—though I had no symptoms, not even my usual allergic cough. Still, quarantine was required. That news shattered me mentally.

Quarantine? How could my children be separated from me? They slept with me, depended on me, fed from me. Later, I was referred to a medical college. Another problem arose—who would be my bystander? One hospital was government, the other COVID. Who would have the courage to come?

My aunt was ready, but her sons protested. My son had head banging and severe tantrums. Only my parents could handle him; no one else could. To keep my children safe, my mother couldn’t come with me. Finally, I sought help from my sister-in-law. She agreed, though she was not very mature in handling such situations.

The hospital journey was alone, in a taxi used for COVID patients.

I was admitted in the morning, changed into a white lungi and shirt, and entered the labour room. I came out only to eat food. The labour room was large and designated for COVID-positive patients. One-fourth of the hall was converted into a labour room—one labour cot and five other beds, all occupied. It was clean. One woman screamed intermittently, calling out to her gods. Newcomers were asked to lie in the opposite corner.

At first, I was alone. Then two women came and left. The loneliness hit me hard. The crying around me disturbed my mind. Every tragedy and sadness of my life rushed into my thoughts. I wept silently—thankfully, my mask and spectacles hid my tears. In the evening, the doctor examined me and ordered induction. Instead of tablets, a cervical ripening balloon was inserted. I was sent back to the ward, which was crowded, beds placed very close together. I felt that none of them had serious COVID illness.

After some time, mild pain began. Suddenly, my back became wet. Other bystanders rushed my sister-in-law to inform the staff nurses. Immediately, they came with a wheelchair and took me to the labour room. There, the nurses shrank their faces when they saw me. They asked harshly why I had come so early, said delivery would not happen now, and complained there was no bed space. I told them I hadn’t come on my own—the nurses brought me. They shouted at the staff nurses.

But within two hours, I delivered a baby girl. Yet my sister-in-law managed everything beautifully. Other bystanders supported her generously. Unlike my previous deliveries, this one made me cry. The pain went far beyond my tolerance. Still, the nurses said I cooperated well during delivery.

Some pains do not end with childbirth.
They remain—quiet, breathing inside memory—until one day, we finally let them speak.

Ms. Sajlamol. P. K

Assistant Professor and Head,

Department of Nutrition and Dietetics,

Al Shifa College of Arts and Science, Keezhattur, Perinthalmanna.