Friendships that mend broken hearts

Yesterday, there was a discussion in one group about friendships between men, and the difference in them from friendships between women.

It got me thinking about my friendships, and what they mean to me. A lot of relationships have been tested over the past one year, especially that of me as a mother. It has been a tough year, and I cannot imagine how I would have gone through it alone. I would not have been able to get up every morning, go through each day with a semblance of sanity, and basically keep living in this last year if it hadn't been for my female friends (and I'm happy to include a sister, some nieces, and some sisters-in-law as friends). Their continuous support and messages of 'I can't imagine what you are going through, but call if you want to talk', 'Just thinking of you. Love you', 'I am here if you want to cry, or even if you want to keep quiet', ‘Just take it easy, you don't have to do anything you don't want to do’, ‘We are just a call away’, and many many more like these made me stronger. They let me know I was okay, and would be okay. These friends also promised to keep an eye on me, and let me know if I looked like I wasn't doing okay and needed professional help. That was such precious reassurance.

A lot of these friendships were made when our children were younger, and discussions in those days were not intense - mostly about sleep times, school curriculums and shopping - but these friendships lasted through the years, even if the children themselves lost touch with each other. Over time, we stayed in touch, with some more than with others, more because of Geography than intent. There were calls and meetings, almost daily with some, as infrequently as maybe once a month with some, and only messages on a birthday or an anniversary with others. But each time we connected, we picked up right where we had left it the previous time we connected. There was never a moment of awkwardness or discomfort. The baseline of our friendship was set.

This sisterhood is the best thing that happened to me. It is possible only because we were all willing to invest our time, put in some effort, and openly show that we needed each other. It is comforting to know they will be there, in good times and bad.

The myth is that you can't make good friends as you go older. Friendships are there waiting to be made at any age, so long as we are willing to nurture them. I've made friends in the last few years, even in the last one year, that I know will be there for me. As will I for them, I am sure.

6 months or Half a year or 184 days.. + 2 more days

When am I ever going to laugh out loud like this, watched so lovingly by someone who worships me ??

186 days, half a year - this is how long it has been since I have heard my son’s voice call out to me, or laugh out loud or give me a hug or….. Keeping a count of the days is not going to help in any way, nor is making a list of all the things that I do not have any more. I know this during my calmer moments - thankfully these occur more often than before - and I am able to stop my thoughts from spiralling downwards into the What ifs and the Whys and the Hows.

But then the calm moments are only that, short and temporary. The past few days have been really tough, and everything I see or do has been triggering off memories of Shashank and then the waves of grief carry me off on a, by now all too familiar, rollercoaster. By the time I am able to talk/think myself off, I am physically in gut-wrenching pain, my eyes are burning and a splitting headache. Talking is not helping, nor is reading or watching or knitting or crocheting. I am hoping that writing is going to be the remedy for today which has been a really tough one for various reasons.

I have read enough now about bolstering myself with happy memories, but how does one go on doing that while constantly being reminded that there will be no more new memories that are not tinged with sadness, for ever and ever as long as I live? The past week has been so strange. My husband, younger son and I went out for meals together and I had to stop myself from asking for a table for 4 at every restaurant. There was always the fourth chair vacant at our table, reminding me constantly of ‘the presence of an absence, the absence of a presence’. I heard this phrase for the first time in one of the talks on grief handling that I watched, and it resonated. 

I met a stranger during my morning walk, and only while talking to him did I realise how adept I had become at forming my sentences. “My 2 sons moved to Goa 5 years ago. “They both did their Masters in Conservation”. “One of them married”. The gentleman would have gone away with absolutely no idea that only of my two sons was with us. One of the reasons for my strange sentence-formation could be that my grief is my own, and I have no inclination to share it with strangers. However, it is interesting that these sentences are coming out of my mouth without any conscious effort on my part. 

Already an efficient multi-tasker (or so I believe), over the past six months, I have mastered the art of crying silently while going about with my daily routine without agitating the rest of the family.  What other skills am I going to acquire in the next few days, months and years?