A Mother Makes A Call, A Daughter Waits
written by: Marzia Rahman
@MarziaR57167805
My mother called me for the third time. For the third time, she said nothing; not a single word or a syllable. I imagined her sitting on her bed in front of a blank screen television, the phone pressing against her fragile skin. I called out: Ammu, Ammu, Ammu … until she hung up; until the beeping sound beeped once, twice, thrice … until I pressed the red disconnect button.
A case of Hydrocephalus, her doctor said, roughly means “water on the brain.” Her dementia had also reached an advanced stage, he said more. His medical version failed to reach my unmedical perception. The weight of his words only unsettled me until I stopped nodding; until I stopped listening; until I accepted the truth that Ammu would never be the same.
She would forget most of the things, things that made her happy, sad, sour or just human. Yet, yet … perhaps … once in a while … she would remember something, a name, a face or a fragrance would float in her fluid-filled mind. She would pick up the phone and press the last dialed number. She wouldn’t utter a word. Not a syllable. She would show no emotion. But she would make that call. And I would wait.
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