2022, a year of loss and other things

(Before we go any further, I do need to say that this post isn’t meant to hurt anyone or remind them of things of the past. It’s not meant to be mean, or make subtle digs at anyone. It’s not meant to lead to conversation. This post is for myself, in hopes that by the end of it I will see that 2022 wasn’t an entirely bad year)

 

Things wouldn’t be complete if I didn’t reflect on 2022 like everyone else, so here goes: A look back at a year that was peppered with more than just a pinch of loss. And not just in the form of death.

 

It started at the very beginning of the year. Literally. A friendship ran its course, and of course, if we had both been perhaps kinder to each other, this would be a story for 2021. But we waited too long, so while the year will not be forever remembered by this particular incident, it will always remind me of it, which isn’t ideal, because this has been a year of forgetting. Forgetting people, drawing a blank when people say we’ve met before, not remembering a single thing from a night out, trying to piece together the snapshot memories I have of an incident, being made to doubt my own sanity because I couldn’t trust what I remember.

Anyway, back to the point: I promised myself that I would not let things simmer and stew again, that I would put all parties out of their misery and deal with things then and there. I can’t decide if this promise was one worth making to myself, because towards the end of the year, I found myself carrying a lot of guilt over a similar incident, but one where I didn’t give it time, not in hopes of things improving, but in hopes the universe would intervene.

(I know there is a certain withholding of information when talking about everything that happened in 2022, but that’s necessary and so, we must go on ahead without dwelling too much on it. If I ever come across this post years from now, I may struggle to remember what and who I was talking about, but there is nothing we can do about that)

I think I broke out of the shell I had let harden around me sometime in April. Or perhaps it was before that. When dared to do things, when made to face the truth, instead of doing the usual hiding away, I stepped into these opportunities (this is the wrong word, but the right one escapes me). I didn’t do anything crazy or wild or adventurous, which maybe disappointing, but I did more than I usually do and this was enough. I’m satisfied with who I became this year. I didn’t become a new person, I didn’t even change significantly, but instead of sitting in silence and hoping for something, I somehow or the other got them.

The hurt, the guilt, the shame, the uncertainty, these were let go of to some extent, which is a pretty big thing for this overthinking, anxious potato. It was more than I’ve done in the past few years. Reaching out to people, asking for answers and explanations, opening other doors instead of standing outside doors firmly shut.

Of course, there was disappointment, in life, in other people, but most of all, in myself. Feeling like I will never be good at my job, freaking out over the realisation that I’m absolutely screwed if I ever have to find employment in a different field, feeling like I could never be the daughter my parents want me to be, feeling like I wasn’t enough. And there was a lot of self-doubt, a lot of marshmallow brain, a lot of self-loathing, a lot of loneliness.

And these are feelings I will carry with me into 2023 and beyond, but I think that more than other years, in 2022, I understood that there is no shame in feeling this way. Of course, working on changing things, improving your life, your mental health is always good, but pretending that things are hunky-dory won’t help anyone. It won’t help you to carry on, and push through the days.

There were good things about the year too, of course. I graduated (I think that was this year), we didn’t travel as much as we used to but it’s been one of those years, hasn’t it? We shared moments of joy and love and happiness and, most of all, kindness. We laughed, we talked, we sat in silence, we understood more about each other.

But what I wish I did more of is prioritising myself. Spending less time on people who don’t do me any good, and instead giving that time to people who do. I wish I did more to take things off my plate, things that weren’t even mine for the keeping or eating. I wish I set clearer boundaries with people. But there were moments, telling people to not pressure me about doing more with The Flying Pig when I could barely find time to breathe; forcing myself to stop pushing things when others showed no interest in making things work; accepting that there was nothing I could do about how people react to or feel about situations; understanding that not everyone has my best interests in mind and that, just as I could be mean or rude or say and do hurtful things, so can others.

But now we get to the hard part. The worst part about this year. The biggest loss.

Calvin.

Amma’s day, which begins before mine, would start with Calvin outside her bedroom door, demanding a bowl of milk. He loved milk, and bread. He was a chatty, mischievous cat we loved so much it hurt, sometimes. He fell sick, his gallbladder targeted by a vicious cancer, his bladder ballooning. He powered through, recovering from a surgery that the doctor told me he had only a very small chance of waking up from, but that that was our only option. He took his medicine, he ate his food, he loved and he loved and he loved.

Then he fell sick again. He was patient as we went to the doctor’s every day for weeks. He complained but dealt with the needles and the pills and the injections and the low protein diet. He demanded his creamy treat at 2 p.m., he wanted his milk, he ate his fish. He looked apologetic when he vomited, watching as we cleaned it up. And we soon developed a system. A few disinfectant wipes, a plastic bag.

And then one night, he seemed weaker than usual. He slept in a laundry basin in my room for a bit, before finding refuge in a cardboard box under a sofa. At around three, I woke up, and realised that this was it. Calvin was dying.

So I took the basin near him. He dragged himself into it and let me hold his paw while his body slowly shut down. I wish I could say it only took minutes, but we sat there for five hours. I told him how much we loved him, how much joy he brought us, and that it was okay to let go. Gingie gave him one last bath, a kiss. I tried to remember what I could of various sutras, before Amma, who woke up at around five or six, sent me a recording of a gathaa, which I played on repeat. Funny, isn’t it, how we turn to religion in such moments.

Aiya and his wife, who for some reason extended their usual weekend stay with us by an extra day, woke up at around seven and we all knew this was it. Calvin started having seizures. We moved him to my room. Covered his body with a cloth so he didn’t have to suffer the indignity of being seeing when his body did things he had no control over. At 8.30 a.m. we called his doctor and asked if they could do something to ease his pain. I changed out of my pajamas and came back to find him lifeless, his body hard and coarse. Amma, Aiya and Aiya’s wife buried him. I couldn’t bear to be there. My little boy was gone, our house quiet, Gingie by herself, after spending close to five years with her dear darling son in our house.

And then, because life is cruel, Aiya, who, to be fair, had moved out last year, decided to migrate. I can’t and won’t hold it against him, given the state of our country, but I don’t think I was prepared. I don’t think I had it in me to deal with his departure properly. So I packed it up in a neat little box and put it with everything else I haven’t dealt with, and I will take it all with me into 2023.

I don’t deal with loss that well. None of us do, I suppose. So I don’t know how to deal with these absences in my life. I don’t know what to fill the silence with. And maybe I will, as I continue to grow and learn and understand things about this world. Perhaps there is hope. Perhaps there will be a day when things hurt less; when there is less unpacking to do.

And so, here we are, at the end of 2022. I will remember this year in moments; day-drinking with someone I have spoken to every single day of this year; going from pharmacy to pharmacy looking for Calvin’s medicine; singing along to Sweet Caroline while being that perfect level of drunk; watching someone walk away when I asked them to stay; realising what a lot of love I have in my life as I share a quiet moment with a friend who I thank the universe for every day; feeling a tear or two escape my eyes while waiting for the bus because I don’t think I’ve ever not felt tired this year; sitting with friends and realising that if this is as good as it gets, then I’m fine with it; games of Taboo, conversations with cousins, rare moments of intimacy, delicious food, lots of booze, and life; the good, the bad, the ugly, the ups and the downs, the expectations and disappointments.

And so, to bring this post to an end, I don’t think I want to categorise 2022 as good or bad, amazing or awful. I don’t think it’s fair to do so, especially given what we’ve been through this year; fuel lines, power cuts, political instability, a fleeing president, protests, economic collapse, the bad getting away unpunished.

And maybe because the past few years have taught me that planning is pretty useless, 2023 won’t be anything in particular, so you can ignore my tweets about what I plan to do next year. 2023 will be whatever it wants to be. Zero expectations, zero hopes, zero goals, zero promises.