Numb...

Otherwise known as not feeling anything. That's how the last week or so has been. Nothing to do with the cold weather we've been having, everything to do with both parents being admitted to hospital just before Christmas. Back in the middle of November, my dad collapsed. Not quite in front of me but I was in the room and had my back to him. I turned to see him with his head and upper body collapsed on the dining table, he looked like he had gone. I screamed and turned away, hitting my forehead at the same time (I have no idea why I do this but I've noticed that when I witness something bad, I hit my forehead - can anyone explain this?). Then I turned back and went to him, all the while in a state of panic and fluster. My aunt and uncle were there too and my mum was in the kitchen. We were all panicking and I realised that at least one person needed to get a grip and take control of the situation so I picked up the phone and dialled 999. By this time my dad had lifted his head from the table, announcing he'd "just been resting". For a split second I thought I'd over-reacted but then I'd seen him looking dead and decided that he was under-playing the scene, not me over-playing it.

My dad kept insisting he was fine but I wasn't convinced and carried on with the 999 call. At some point, he had another attack and although he remained upright because we were holding him, his eyes went funny and he wasn't really there. My mum came into the room and asked him how he was. "I'm fine" he replied. "He's fine" my mum said, followed by "you can cancel the ambulance, he's fine...". She then tried to give him some water and his breakfast until I told her not to. The first paramedic arrived pretty promptly, followed by the ambulance and a second crew of paramedics. They checked him out, said we'd done the right thing by calling 999 and took him off to hospital for a full check-up. I had to go with him even though I hate hospitals and my older sister Rahila followed behind, bringing my mum with her. While we were in A&E waiting to see someone, my dad asked me what happened. I asked him how much he remembered. He remembered me coming into the room but not much else after that. The next thing he remembered was after the first paramedic had arrived. It dawned on me that there was a period of about ten or fifteen minutes he had no recollection of and it was during this time he was insisting he was fine.

Once Rahila arrived at the hospital, I left in a daze and complete state of shock. I know this was the case as I went to the bus stop and didn't even register that I was stood at the wrong bus stop. It was only when a few of the right buses went straight past even though I was trying to stop them that I realised something was amiss. Eventually I got on the right bus and got home. I was in shock by what had happened but more in shock by the reaction of both parents, insisting that everything was okay. My parents tend to deal with things by that great Pakistani trait, sweeping everything under the carpet and being in total denial about things, particularly when they are staring right at them. It's a trait that frustrates me but it seems as if many people are too scared to look at what's going on and hope that by brushing things under the carpet, it will magically disappear. Sometimes the crap under the carpet is so big it creates a mountain with the person sat precariously on top, convinced that everything is okay but that's only because they can't see the big pile of crap they're sat on.

Once back home, my parents told others that the reason my dad had collapsed was because he'd been making breakfast or hadn't had breakfast - anything to gloss over the fact that something might be wrong. And it's amazing how people will buy this. They told the same story to my brother and I heard him relaying it to one of the neighbours who'd come to ask how he was. I went out and told my brother that his story was in fact incorrect - my dad has a history of mini strokes, although this time the hospital think it may be something to do with his heart. My brother told me the same thing had happened a few years ago when he'd been there with my mum. They'd done nothing as my dad had come round and said he was fine. Turned out my dad had collapsed last year as well at the time of my brother's wedding and once again, came round quickly insisting he was fine. And once again, nothing was done...

After this episode with my dad and seeing the level of denial that people operate under, I decided to go to a hospital appointment my mum had the following Friday. Her haemoglobin count has been plummeting which means something is wrong. The local rather useless GP's clinic had put her on iron tablets but still the haemoglobin level kept going down. In the meeting with the Consultant, my mum insisted she was perfectly okay but with the haemoglobin count continuing downwards, the Consultant said that she wasn't perfectly okay and they wanted to admit her straight away so they could investigate further. She wanted to go home to get her things so I made her stay and wait for a bed, sending my dad home instead to get her things. After hours of waiting a bed finally came up and we could leave her in the hands of the hospital staff. While we were waiting for a bed, another Consultant came to see my mum. He mentioned the term myeloma and my ears pricked - this was the term Rahila had asked about when I'd called her to say they were going to admit my mum. In the meeting with the first Consultant, I hadn't known what to listen out for but after talking to my sister (she's a doctor so knows these sorts of things), I knew to listen out for myeloma even though I had no idea what it was. The doctors suspected my mum might have myeloma and wanted to do a bone marrow biopsy to see if that was the case. I asked the Consultant what myeloma is and he wouldn't tell me as he said it upsets people and I should look on the internet.

Once I got home, I spoke to Rahila and told her what the Consultant had said. She said not to look up what myeloma was but by saying that, I did exactly that. Switched on my computer, went to Google and typed in myeloma. It didn't take long to discover that myeloma is bone marrow cancer, it's not curable and it's rare. Via the internet I found out that my mum might have cancer. When I went to bed that night I lay there worrying and after a few hours of not being able to sleep, got up and phoned my cousin in Dallas who is one of the many doctors in the family and we'd been trying to get hold of him. He asked me if they were testing for myeloma and I said yes. When I went back to bed, still unable to sleep, I found myself projecting forwards in a world where my mum does have myeloma and I had to stop myself - you can't react to something if you're not sure about it which leaves you not being able to have any emotional reaction at all. And you have to remain in emotional limbo until there is a confirmed diagnosis.

My mum stayed in hospital for a week. I went into auto-pilot, juggling work around being at the hospital between 2-8, the normal visiting hours. Work was busy and it was good to have something else to focus on at an otherwise trying time. It made me realise that I need the parameters of work to help me cope during challenging times. My mum was scared about the biopsy, about how painful it would be. Every time a nurse or doctor came to see her, she'd keep asking the same thing "will it hurt, will it be painful?" She wanted to have as many people as possible there when she had the biopsy and for every visitor she had who was in some ways connected to the world of medicine, she asked if they could be there for the biopsy. We knew she couldn't be on her own when the biopsy happened and it turned out that both me and my dad were there when the procedure finally took place.

My dad and I had to wait outside the room while they did the biopsy. My dad was still talking about going to Pakistan (they were due to go the following Sunday). Even though the Consultant had advised against travelling when my mum had been admitted, my dad still thought she might be okay in time to travel on Sunday. I had to tell him that they wouldn't be going to Pakistan on Sunday even though he was convinced it might still be possible. I felt like the person who was spoiling all their fun, telling them they couldn't do the one thing they always do and maybe spend the whole year looking forward to.

Once the biopsy was done, we could go back into the room. My mum was lying on the bed looking shocked. When she saw us, she started to cry. I had to tell her not to cry as that would make me cry and then we sat with her, either side of her bed, holding her hands. At one point, my mum asked me to lean in so she could hug me. I guess she needed the human contact and it made me wonder if I hadn't of been there, would she have asked my dad for a hug? Probably not. A lot of Pakistani people of my parents generation have no physical contact with their spouses in public. I've never seen my parents hold hands or embrace or hug, nothing natural and spontaneous - it's strange growing up in a household where there is no natural affection between parents for children to see. My mum doesn't even call my dad by his name, preferring to use the term "soon yay" which translated from the Urdu means something like "listen here". In fact, a Japanese friend of my sister's was staying at the house for a while and she actually thought my dad's name was "soon yay" as that's how she heard my mum call him and assumed that was his name.

My mum came out of hospital a few days later and had to go back the following week for the biopsy results. Another week of waiting in limbo, unable to react. I went to the hospital the following week and although she was seen by a specialist myeloma consultant, they still couldn't give us any definitive results and had to go back two weeks later. Another two weeks of not knowing, being in emotional limbo, not being able to react. I found the time trying. My closest friends knew but I realised that I couldn't tell other close friends as I wasn't sure what I was going to tell them - my mum might have cancer. But then she might not. Being in limbo is tiring, whatever it's about but this kind of limbo is particularly tiring.

Two weeks later, the week before Christmas, we went back to the hospital to get the results. The doctors confirmed what they suspected - my mum had myeloma and would need to start treatment. This time they had to explain what myeloma was, they had to tell my mum and dad that it was cancer and she would need to start a course of chemotherapy. The bombshell finally dropped, my mum's ill, she's been ill for a while, probably a couple of years or more. She couldn't say she was perfectly okay anymore as there was now the proof to prove that that wasn't the case. I wasn't sure how my mum or dad would react to the news. I wasn't sure how I'd react either. Both parents were okay, subdued but okay. My mum didn't start crying and I thought she might. I didn't start crying either and I thought I might. Much later I realised that I was on auto-pilot, had been on auto-pilot since my dad collapsed and there's no room for emotion here.

After the diagnosis, I called Rahila to tell her. While we'd been in the meeting, my phone had been switched off and when I switched it back on again, I could see that my younger sister Alia had called a number of times and sent texts. When I spoke to Rahila I asked her whether I should tell Alia over the phone or go and tell her? Alia is prone to getting very emotional and upset by things like this and I wasn't sure how best to handle it. Rahila said it would be okay to call her so I did. When I told her that they had confirmed myeloma she burst into tears and kept asking "are they sure, are they sure?" This was pretty hard as although I can keep my own emotions in check, when others around me start crying that's when I start to lose it. And I didn't want to lose it in the corridor of King's College Hospital with lots of people passing by. I'm sure they're used to it but I'm not.

My mum had to start the course of chemotherapy straight away and as it's something that can be taken at home, I left my parents in the pharmacy to wait for a big bag of drugs while I went home and then on to dinner with friends - finally I could tell my nearest and dearest what was going on. Actually only three of my best friends knew that anything was up, Claud and Wilding in London and Simone in Abu Dhabi. They were a constant source of support in the limbo period, calling, texting, emailing to see if there was any news, to see how I was. Wilding sent me a text, asking how everyone was, how I was. And I replied honestly, I didn't know how I was because I just seemed numb, I didn't feel anything. Even once the bombshell had dropped, no reaction happened. I waited for a great rush of emotion but nothing. Obviously I didn't feel happy or joyful but I didn't feel scared or sad or broken-hearted either, I just didn't feel anything. And for someone who feels everything, who is very much in tune with feelings and emotions and lives life by how they feel about something, it was strange to feel nothing.

When I came back from work the next day, I asked my mum if she had started the treatment. She hadn't as she'd come down with a cold or flu. When my parents left the hospital the night before, they stepped out into the cold, rainy night and got a bus back to Dulwich. On that short journey home, my mum picked up a bug and couldn't start the treatment until she was well again. A few days later, I noticed that my dad's right eye was droopy and he had a rash on his head. I asked him about it and he said that his eye had been like that for a few days and the rash was dermatitus. I called Rahila to tell him about my dad's eye (she's an opthamologist) but she was out shopping so I left a message with my nephew instead. The next day we all got together at Rahila's for her birthday lunch. As soon as Rahila and her husband Andrew (also a doctor) saw my dad, they said he had shingles and needed to start medication immediately. As it was a Sunday, Andrew took them both to A&E instead of hunting around for a pharmacy that might be open. As soon as they saw my mum, they said she had pnumonia and admitted her straight away, particularly after the myeloma diagnosis. My dad was given medication for the shingles and came back home again.

So, before the reality of my mum's myeloma had a chance to even begin to sink in, she was back in hospital with pnuemonia, caught on the bus home after being diagnosed. My dad probably came down with shingles at the same time. A part of me wonders how much they managed to fight things off while they believed that everything was okay but as soon as they found out that my mum has a form of cancer, something inside of them just collapsed. Not one fell, they both did. A few days after my mum was admitted, my dad was brought back into A&E by Rahila. He'd had a home visit by the doctor who was not happy with his worsening condition and when Rahila saw him later that evening, she said she was bringing him straight in. I was already at the hospital with my mum. She'd been kept in isolation while they tested for Swine flu but once they got the results that she didn't have the virus, she could be moved onto a Haemotology ward. Once again we waited for a bed and I asked the nurses if I could wait until she was moved and they said yes. Once my dad came in, I went down to A&E to see him. When I explained to the nurses where I was going, they expressed the disbelief that I felt, one parent already in, the other just being brought in. And this is with two people who until this year have not had any major health issues that have involved overnight hospital stays. I never imagined that 2009, this strange year that so many have hated and can't wait to see end, would have been the year that my parents literally began to crumble in front of me.

When I got down to A&E and saw my dad, I started laughing. My dad started laughing too. The situation was quite surreal and unbelieveable and it felt like I'd accidently walked onto the set of some Hollywood Christmas movie. My dad looked like a tom cat that had been scrapping. His face was swollen and his eyes had practically disappeared. The shingles had left him with sores and scabs all over one side of his forehead and head and he had stubble. I don't think I've ever seen him with stubble, so fastidious is he with his shaving. At one point he was sat next to a guy who was a bouncer who'd been attacked. My dad looked as damaged as this man who'd been hit by a few and had his head stamped on. I finally left the hospital at around two and collapsed into a tired heap in bed.

With both parents in hospital, life revolved around them and their health. I was on auto-pilot, not being aware of much else. With it being the Christmas period, you don't even have work to distract you for a few hours, to add a bit of normality in an otherwise bizarre period. I took a day off on Boxing Day and got out of London, went to see friends and get fed. Even just a few days of hours spent at the hospital leaves you physically drained and exhausted and in my case, hungry. After a few days of eating hospital sandwiches, I needed to go and get fed, as well as have a little escape. After the hospital on Christmas Day I went off to Claudette's house for Christmas dinner and then away again on Boxing Day for a lot more food and time spent with friends. I thought this break would refresh me a bit but when I went back to the hospital on Sunday, I felt weepy and hungry and if I did feel any emotions, they were anger and frustration, not the emotions I was expecting to feel. On Monday night as I tried to sleep but found I couldn't, it felt like someone had whacked me round the head with a shovel and I had all this anger and frustration inside of me with no place to come out.

The next morning I made an appointment to see the counsellor attached to the department my mum is a patient of. It was really good to talk to her and start to come to terms with what had happened. The thing that I found most strange, probably struggled with the most (apart from incredible exhaustion, even after ten hours sleep a night) was that apart from feeling angry and frustrated, I didn't feel anything else. I didn't feel scared by my parents' mortality or the cancer diagnosis, I didn't feel sad, I didn't worry, I just didn't seem to feel anything that I would have expected to feel. For someone who is so in tune with emotions and knowing how I'm feeling, to go through so much and not feel a thing just seemed bizarre. I don't hide from my feelings but it seemed they were hiding from me. This leaves me with the problem of not knowing what to do, what I want to do, what I don't want to do - I've always used how I feel about things to take action, my feelings guide me so when you have no feelings, your terms of reference for how you live your life, how you function, have been whipped away from you with nothing to replace them.

The counsellor said this is normal, when you go into auto-pilot, you have to do, not feel, the priority is to be practical, not emotional. Also I won't let my feelings surface until I feel I'm somewhere where I feel comfortable and relaxed - I may be staying at the family home but it's not my home - until I'm somewhere I feel truly comfortable, the feelings will remain hidden. After this was explained to me and the counsellor assured me that my feelings would return, it made me realise this emotional void I've been living recently is a lot of people's reality. So weird, I'm finding it difficult to feel nothing and so many people make themselves feel nothing or hide from their deepest feelings and emotions as a way of coping with day to day life. I'd choose the full range of emotions any day. It's been worrying not knowing when exactly my feelings will return, when I'll begin to feel "normal" again. It helps that I know all the things I can do to make me feel better (I'm in pursuit of good feelings, the bad ones can just stay away) and even just a short run today made me feel just that little bit normal. Talking to my friend Soraya in Ibiza shed light on what I was going through a little more as she said one of her friends was experiencing exactly the same thing. Even just talking to her made me smile and feel happy again. So, it feels like the numb feeling is starting to lift in time for a new year, a new decade! Just as well, I didn't want to go into 2010 feeling emotionally lost and numb....