Hospitals and Heartache, Self-Care and Survival.

I ended off 2025 gloriously proclaiming that I had found my Peace, Balance and Joy (despite the usual triggers).

January seemed full of exciting possibilities with all the meetings and events I had lined up, and it was going well­—until the 26^th that is.

Things were upended (again) with my mother’s latest heart attack. For those new to my blog, she had a heart bypass surgery in 2024, one fraught with risks considering that she was then a 76-year-old diabetic with renal failure.

One would think, the heart is all good now, after all, isn’t that why she endured such a traumatic open-heart surgery? And a terrible recovery bedridden in hospital with non-stop complications for four months post-operation? What’s this about a heart attack?

One Blow After Another.

But, no. Other vessels in the heart can still get blocked and that’s what happened this time. Other than doing an angioplasty to open up the vessel, some new, big things happened.

One, her blood pressure dropped so critically low that doctors told family members to come over as they were not sure if she would make it through the night. She did.

A few days later, her heart stopped for eight seconds. Not a good thing. So then, there were discussions about her having yet another surgical procedure; by now she is even sicker than when she went for bypass, but… she went through to have a pacemaker put in.

After the heart was dealt with, the brain decided to make its presence known. She started having seizure-like symptoms—violently jerking her hands, they couldn’t hold on to anything, they had a mind of their own. So, neurologists jumped in and discovered lesions in her brain and abnormal brain waves. They wanted to do a procedure but eventually, decided to revisit this when her heart-related matters were settled.

Then came the nephrologists. (I always feel funny saying that word, makes me think of nefarious nephrologists.) My mother has been on dialysis since 2021 and while the first couple of years were okay, issues have cropped up in recent years, mostly centring around being unable to breathe. Definitely not a good thing.

The hospital doctors sorted out the dialysis protocol, discharged her and just when we thought—after a month of her in hospital—that we could catch a break, that same night, she was breathless again. She called herself an ambulance at 4am and was admitted. I am so numb, I am not shocked by this. I feel that it’s more bizarre than anything­—to be finally discharged, then to be admitted again in a few hours.

Tears, Screams and Weariness.

So here I am, not exactly having a PBJ start to the year. This round of admission has got me more stressed and anxious than even the four months during the bypass recovery. I think it is because this is the umpteenth time that I have had to deal with her health issues and hospitalisations over the decades.

I try so hard as a mental health advocate to practise what I espouse—maintain balance. But it has been hard this time. I never saw myself as one to scream into the wind as I ran—but I did. (I did have enough presence of mind to ensure no one else was nearby, though.)

Another example. I thought I had been managing well enough but there I was, at my physiotherapy appointment which might as well have been a psychotherapy appointment because I burst into tears as soon as I walked in. (I had just come off yet another call with the hospital.)

I have not been able to focus on my work, I have been listless, feeling down and wearily questioning—how long will this go on for and for what quality of life?

It’s Objective and Subjective, All at Once.

When people talk about caregiving burden, there is often a negative connotation to the word “burden”. But to the researchers and health professionals, a burden is neither positive nor negative. Instead, there are two components—the Objective and the Subjective.

Objective Burden of Caregiving
This refers to the tangible, observable, and measurable aspects of providing care such as time spent and financial costs. It is often described as the “what” of caregiving.

Subjective Burden of Caregiving
This refers to the caregiver’s perception and physical, emotional and psychological reactions to the caregiving role. It is the “feeling” of being burdened.

Which do you think is harder to deal with? In my case, the subjective wins the race.

When the doctors called saying that she was in a critical condition or when they told me that her heart had stopped or when they discovered lesions in her brain, I was steady. I had tangible items to follow up on—update family, get more information from doctors on the procedures so I could help her decide on next steps, assist the helper with grocery shopping, speak with the social worker regarding support for her and so on. The tactical stuff, I could do.

But the subjective burden came in the form of anxiety. Anxiety about my phone ringing and being on high alert about what’s happening and is there yet another thing I need to worry about or follow up on. Anxiety about missing doctors’ precious calls—I clung to my phone even when I had to use the bathroom because once you miss them, there doesn’t seem to be a way to get in touch with the doctor again. Anxiety about making my own appointments because I was worried I might need to cancel them at the last minute.

And, the Biggest Anxiety is…

That of actually interacting with her. The entire month of hospitalisation, every visit or phone call with her saw her piteously (or angrily) crying about how helpless she is, her suffering, her constant whimpering that she wants to die­. At one point, she was asking me to call her dead mother to take her away—she wants to die, why isn’t she dying, she kept asking. Me, the doctor or god, I don’t know. If every interaction were like that, how would you feel?

This is when she is in great pain or so out of it, that all she can do is weep. But as soon as she feels even an inch better, the lamenting starts. We have to endure her protests about how she has no one to talk, meaning complain, to (yes, while we are standing right there, listening to her—the irony is clearly lost on her). And, her dissatisfaction with her helper. The one helper we feel has been more competent and caring than any others she has had.

Okay, so just listen to her—one ear in, one ear out, no? After all, she is such a sickly, old woman. Sure, but when they start feeling like accusations and criticism (direct or veiled), there’s only so much one can take.

Feelings very quickly devolved into dread at the thought of speaking to or seeing her. It is already a stressful situation for all, we do not need additional drama! I truly wonder if she realises that when she is hospitalised, we are stressed and anxious, too. To hear her say each time that “you all don’t know how I am suffering” and to demand that we listen to the repeated grievances with nary a thought as to our own concerns is simply oblivious.

When the Family Baggage Rolls in.

I know she wants someone to listen to her, to console her, to give her all the emotional support she needs. And that she wishes that were me. But, here’s the thing. I have never had that from her. Years ago, when I was seeing a therapist to help me deal with the impact of being the sibling of a mentally ill brother, she had asked me to whom I ran when I had any concerns in my childhood—and my mind drew a blank. In fact, it was always the other way around. As soon as I was in my late teens, I felt as though I became a sounding board for her. Every night after work, as I sat eating my dinner, I’d be greeted with the latest round of the same, old grumbles. I never felt as though there was space for my issues. Some call this parentification; I simply call it “complaint trauma.”

How ironic is it to assume that I will be able to provide the emotional support when this is precisely my trauma—growing up emotionally neglected, invisible in the household, where I had to learn to soothe myself, no matter how horribly I was feeling?

When family members carry their own emotional baggage, we’re often limited in how much support we can give. Sometimes professional support is the more compassionate path.

Ambitions Paused, Self-Care Chosen.

In 2023, I started work on a memoir about growing up the “well sibling” of a high-needs child. My manuscript was polished and completed last year, and 2026 is supposed to be the year I work on getting it published. I spent early January prepping the “pitch” letter and shortlisting agents to approach… and then this happened. I had a calendar full of opportunities to connect with other mental well-being collaborators to volunteer with and support people in this space. I was looking forward to meeting other writers and being part of that community.

But… I can barely do the minimum. My mind is just not there. I have decided that the only thing I can do is self-care. Give myself the space and the grace to take some time off my ambitions. Which I do, but I also accept the resentment that the never-ending issues continue to cloud my mind and spirit, making each day a bit of a battle to stay grounded and positive. After one month, I am slowly clawing back my time (starting with this post, for one). And, I am grateful as always that I don’t have deadlines cast in stone or colleagues or clients waiting on me, and that I have the best support system in the world, my husband.

So, all I can do in this moment of immense pressure is to just take it one day at a time and… breathe.