The Day I Fainted

It was supposed to be a celebration. My mother-in-law had just retired as a school teacher, and our family gathered at a cozy restaurant to mark the occasion. My little boy Vihaan sat beside me, his eyes full of wonder. My brother, brother-in-law, and other close relatives filled the table with laughter and warmth. With Pulkit away on a project in the U.S., my mother-in-law’s decision to stay with us felt like a blessing. I had just resumed work as a Communications Specialist, and everything seemed to be falling into place.

Until it didn’t.

Midway through lunch, I collapsed. My vision blurred, my thoughts scattered, and the world fell silent. Cutlery clattered to a halt. Chairs scraped back. Vihaan cried out, frightened. My mother-in-law held him close, my brother-in-law called for help, and my brother gently tapped my cheek, trying to keep me conscious.

I was rushed to the hospital. Tests followed. The doctors suspected exhaustion, stress, maybe something neurological. I had been juggling too much — work, motherhood, and the emotional weight of Pulkit’s absence. That night marked a turning point.

I had suffered a stroke.

Thirteen days passed in a coma. During that time, my in-laws became my lifeline. My mother-in-law fielded calls, updates, and prayers. My father-in-law stood steady beside her. They had been like parents to me ever since I lost my own. Their love during those uncertain days grounded our family.

When I finally woke, Pulkit’s face was the first I saw. I thought I’d been hospitalized for a headache. I didn’t know a blood clot had formed in the left hemisphere of my brain. I didn’t know I had global aphasia.

I tried to ask for ice cream — a simple comfort — but no words came out. Just silence. I gestured, desperate to explain. And something inside me broke. Trauma. Grief. A loss of identity.

My job, my PhD, my dreams — they all felt distant. I drifted into sleep and dreamt of a flooded city, paddling a boat from home to office. When I woke, I whispered, “Even if the city floods, I’m not going back to office anymore.” It wasn’t just a statement. It was a decision. The collapse wasn’t just physical — it was existential.

Ashwani, my best friend, visited. Her presence was soothing, but I could barely speak. Just fragments. Gibberish. A month earlier, my voice could carry from the ninth floor to the first. Now, I was quiet. Hollow.

I longed to see Vihaan. To hold him. To lie beside him in our comfy bed, his tiny fingers curled around mine. But the nurses wouldn’t allow him in. The risk of infection was too high.
It broke me.

The silence of the hospital room was unbearable without his laughter. I stared at the ceiling, imagining his voice, the way he’d say “Mumma” with that spark in his eyes. How could I explain to him what had happened? I had rehearsed the words: “My nerves in the brain got tangled, sweetheart. And they can’t be untangled anymore.” But aphasia stood in the way. It tangled my thoughts and silenced my voice. The explanation remained locked inside me. I wanted to reassure him, to let him know I was still his mumma. But all I could do was gesture and hope he felt the love I couldn’t express. How could I teach him the alphabet, poems, songs, when I was relearning them myself?

I watched television for hours, hoping something would spark. Bollywood songs played, and I remember watching Malaa (a Bollywood Movie), a 2019 film. The melodies were beautiful, but the lyrics slipped away. Stress, anxiety… or maybe something deeper.

Aphasia.

It’s not just forgetting words — it’s losing the bridge between thought and speech. And it’s cruelly ironic how hard it is to pronounce “aphasia” when you can’t even say your own name.
But in that silence, I found something unexpected: a new way to connect. Through gestures, expressions, and shared glances. Vihaan didn’t need perfect words — he needed presence. And slowly, we began to relearn together. One letter, one song, one moment at a time.

One morning, Pulkit sat beside me and said gently, “We’re going to a different hospital for your speech and physical recovery.” His voice was calm, but filled with hope.

A new chapter was beginning—one I hadn’t asked for, but one I was ready to face.