“Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starlight at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.”
Mary Elizabeth Frye

Last year on April 9th, 2008, my sister Vinita Shivdasani nee Singha died. She went in for a minor surgery for gallstones and after, what was claimed to be a successful minor operation, her heart collapsed. SMS messages flew back and forth: ‘her heart is beating with meds’ ‘we are waiting and watching, pray’; the usual. But, it seemed the Lord had need of her. And before we knew it, it was over, her work here was finished.

She was our mischievous one, our little rebel, the butt of a lot of teasing and jokes,pranks we’ve never forgotten. The stories are legion and would provide material for another post altogether.  What was amazing and heartwarming for us, her family and friends who knew her from her childhood and through her rebellious years, was to learn at her funeral service how she’d grown both in her faith, maturity and kindness. The number of people she had helped and comforted, encouraged and stood by in Kolkata (Calcutta). How active a church member she had been. Hearing all this made us proud to say, “this was my sister”.

For those of us who look for signs; something interesting and very encouraging happened at the funeral service. During the speeches and prayers, through the tears and memories, the church was filled with a number of butterflies and one kept hovering around my brother-in-law. As the coffin was carried out, and we followed it up the aisle and through the door, that butterfly alighted several times on his shoulder and flew out into the churchyard with him.

This year, we had a memorial service at her grave. The poem above was engraved in its entirety on the deep grey granite stone on her grave. There was a ceremony arranged by her husband, Mohan and two sons, Aakash and Varun.  It was a befitting memorial to a person who had lighted upon the earth as a blithe spirit and left it, much like a butterfly. And like that lovely creature, she brought joy and smiles, laughter and hope to so many. And just how many, we learnt at her funeral and again this year at the graveyeard on April 9th. And once again, one butterfly from many in that green cemetery, chose to come and hover over the grave and around the flowers, it stayed while others came and went.

I like to believe it was a messenger to tell us that she was somewhere spreading joy and happiness, and like the poem that she was in the gentle wind that stirred the green leaves in the cemetery.

This is a short story, but I hope it will have a big impact. Obama said, “Yes, you can” and if any one person, that I know has followed that dictum, it is Mike Austin, once a talented art director and a well-loved, much admired, and highly awarded art director. And he followed the spirit of “Yes, you can,” long before Obama was heard of by the world at large and well before his famous slogan became the battle cry that called a vast majority of Americans to seek change.

Mike andLesley, his wife, have fought a battle against all odds and they are finally, I believe and hope, climbing out of the very depths of despair. Honestly, I don’t know how they’ve done it. Where they found the strength, the will and the ability to persevere.

Although this post, isn’t the one in which I will delve into the sad story of how poorly Mike was treated by the advertising agency he worked for in Bahrain, I may well add it as another story some day.

Mike had a massive stroke, the year before I did. The fallout was incapacity, especially in his ability to speak, I understand that the term for this is aphasia.

However, perhaps in his desire to communicate, or his innate artistic instinct, whichever it was, he decided to re-learn how to draw, and how to use his computer again. He still cannot talk as clearly as he once could, but he does understand what people say. He has a beautiful voice and when he’s at a loss for words, the one word he resorts to is, ‘fantastic’.

That’s Mike. And that’s his work too. To see his work visit  http://mikeaustin.carbonmade.com/

He is keen on getting meaningful, remunerative work. So, if anyone visiting this site has a job for Mike Austin, please leave a comment here and I will forward it to him.

Sleep, blessed sleep in the “Rime of the Ancient Mariner” Samuel Taylor Coleridge refers to “sleep” as being blessed from pole to pole and he wasn’t too far off the mark. For a patient recovering from a stroke having lost many of his faculties and abilities, sleep becomes a convenient and happy escape route. It is an anaesthetic and if you are lucky enough to, “sleep, perchance to dream”, there is always the possibility of being transported to another day when you were sound and normal. But, this has a downside too. It is very similar to the sense of elation you would feel if you lay down in an opium field; an overdose could be harmful if not lethal. My personal experience was that at its worst, sleep took you away from your current problems and therefore I did have a tendency to hit the sack whenever I had the opportunity. And so I would encourage all those who suffer to try and curb this tendency and limit indulgence in this ‘loser activity’.

So how do we deal with this?

My own experience in this regard was quite effective and I would recommend it to all post stroke victims. Of course, I cannot give any guarantees but then, in this, day and age who can? A cousin of mine who has a rather religious bent of mind supplied me with a thought from the bible (my own knowledge of scriptures, being very weak to put it mildly). The remedy for desolation should be what is called in psychological terms positive self talk. There is a tendency for the individual to look up to the heavens and ask God the rhetorical question (depending on the individual’s penchant for histrionics) “Dear God! Why me?” This line of thinking will get you nowhere but into more of a desolate spiral.

I say, with all your might, “stay away from this line of thinking.” Instead: look up to the heavens and you might say “Dear God, thank you for keeping me alive! With my mind and my wits intact.” If it isn’t a case of ‘mind and wits intact’ (I am aware that a stroke affects different people to different degrees and that I have been relatively blessed in that my mind and wits are intact, but my mobility is not. Some stroke vicitms I understand lose their ability to formulate words, I believe the term is “aphasia”, but perhaps they are mobile.) Whatever it is, find something to hold on to.

And yes, it sounds trite, but do count your blessings No! I am not being Christianly. Counting one’s blessings is like a bit play to a back foot stroke to a short pitched ball… in cricket. The most effective term I found is, “yes, today, life is dismal and desolate to boot, but ’this too will pass’.

I may not ever be able to look back on these days and laugh at them (the trauma is too big for that). But, at least it clicks on a light at the end of the tunnel. At least one can hope for a brighter tomorrow and isn’t that what “hope” is all about?