Mental health is a subject close to my heart.
Most of us, who have never suffered and overcome mental health or looked after a serious mental health patient will never realise how fortunate we are to have what we have and to see and experience the world in the way that we do.
Most of us who have never suffered with a serious disorder of the mind, unfortunately also end up grumbling about life and the lumpy bits; we can’t see the wood for the trees. Happiness, peace and contentment are a far off fancy. Chasing our desires and constantly full of expectation of others and ourselves takes up all our energy, leaving little room for seeing the bigger picture.
For a many years I’ve been up close and personal with a number of schizophrenia patients who are at various stages of deterioration and recovery. I’d written about some of it in my Marijuana and Mental Health series and I’ll be writing more about schizophrenia in particular from some very personal experiences in a near future post.
My journey of understanding mental health now continues by being face to face with dementia on a regular basis in the hospitals and care homes around London where I never expected to be spending my time, but I am so grateful for the opportunity to find myself and to serve in what little way I can.
Nursing/care homes and dementia wards in hospitals can be the heart-breaking reality of people who have lived full lives but have now been forced to succumb to the challenges of the mind and body that come with mental and physical illness and old age. And some of these patients, I have seen, have few to no visitors; their families either live far away or they simply have no one. It can happen to anyone; our life circumstances can change in an instant. Absolutely nothing is guaranteed.
The first time I went to meet a dying man in hospital last year in Surrey, I had never had such an interaction before. This elderly man was very poorly and a mental health patient. He had no family that visited him. His few remaining loved ones lived in other countries and weren’t able to do much for him. It was one of them who was in contact with Mitesh Om and asked if he could go and see him as they had been notified that their Uncle was at the end of his life. Mitesh asked if I would accompany him to pray for the man.
It would take the whole morning on trains and busses to get to the county on other side of London to meet a stranger who had no idea we were coming, but I knew I had to go.
All we knew about Mama ji (A Hindi term for maternal Uncle) was that he was nearing the end of his life. I wasn’t sure what state he would be in and how I would react. I prayed to Swami ji to give me strength and guidance.
The hospital ward that Mama ji was in, we saw, was full of elderly men, all with mental health diagnoses such as schizophrenia and dementia. They were here as they were also physically very unwell too. I’d been to visit a young, physically healthy person with schizophrenia in a mental health institution before, but here, without youth on their side and with scant mental or physical health to hold on to, each man’s condition was beyond bear to witness.
After some asking around, we found Mama ji curled up on his side like a sleeping baby in his hospital bed. Although a tall man (over 6ft), he looked tiny. He weighed, as written on the whiteboard above his bed, only 45kg. Mama ji was being treated by IV for an infection.
My initial hesitation and nervousness gave way quickly. My heart poured with love upon seeing Mama ji. Performing the sacred mudras that Swami ji had shown His initiates on Guru Purnima, I chanted my mantra and called upon the power of our lineage to do what was best for Mama ji as soon as possible. Mitesh whispered ‘Om Swami’ in his ear. I held Mama ji’s hand and stroked his head a while, talking to him gently in Hindi, letting him know who we were, giving him reassurance that he was not alone. Throughout the visit, Mama ji’s eyes remained closed, his limbs floppy and unresponsive and his tongue lolling to one side. It was hard not to break down and cry right there.
Mama ji’s niece and two elderly sisters who had called us, had not seen or spoken to him for three decades. He didn’t have a phone and because of his deteriorating mental health, he had stopped all contact with his family. One of his sisters, who doesn’t speak English very well had only email contact between herself and the care home that he lived in since he became a ward of the state.
I spoke with the doctors about his condition, he was very poorly, his kidneys had taken a hit, and he had an infection. The prognosis was not good. We did a video call with his sisters to update them. Mama ji was the youngest of the siblings and his sisters saw him as an old man for the very first time. We put the phone to his ear in the hope that he might hear them. They spoke loving words like a concerned mother would and addressed him by the pet name they had called him as a child. Although Mama ji couldn’t respond, I felt the love would reach his soul. It was a very moving moment to witness.
Before leaving the hospital, I noticed Mama ji’s birthdate on the whiteboard chart and realised his 70th birthday was in two days’ time. Naina Mata ji was organising a huge celebration for VP’s 70th birthday later in the year and it pained my heart to know that Mama ji probably hadn’t ever had such a celebration and he either wouldn’t make it to his birthday, or it would come and go and he wouldn’t even have an idea about it.
I resolved to come back if he were still alive and spend his birthday with him.
I called the hospital the morning of to confirm whether he was still there.
And to my surprise, he was.
Mitesh was unable to make it so I went alone. When I arrived at the hospital, I was expecting Mama ji to be in the same condition I had left him in, but when I enquired about him at the nurse’s desk, they told me he was awake; he had pulled out his IV drip and was eating food by himself.
I think they were as surprised as I was. As I entered the ward, I saw Mama ji was still lying in bed but he was more upright, and his eyes, although unable to focus, were open.
“Happy Birthday, Mamaji,” I said to him.
He perked up and although he couldn’t lift his head much, speak clearly or focus his eyes very well, he said, “Yes, yes,” in Hindi followed by what sounded like, “Happy Birthday.”
I was over the moon! Swami ji had practically brought him back from the dead.
I video called his sisters and niece again. This time they saw him awake. This time when they spoke, he could respond. His words were not clear but he definitely knew whose voices he was hearing. When they wished him a happy birthday he understood and when they asked if he remembered them, he said yes. It was better than any birthday gift I could imagine for him. I told Mama ji that I would come back and see him. I kept reassuring him that he wasn’t alone.
I called the hospital every day for an update until he was discharged and sent back to the care home where he lived.
When I telephoned the staff at the care home to see how Mama ji was doing, I asked about his daily routine and life there. There wasn’t much, they told me. And in all the years he had lived there, he had never had a visitor.
I made a plan to visit him.
And I really wanted him to be able to listen to music and Swami ji’s discourses. If he could hear and understand Swami ji’s words, I knew it would be life changing for him.
It had been a few weeks since Mama ji had been discharged. I hadn’t had a free day to go and visit him again as I was busy with my duties here (and reconnecting with my son 🙂) and then I fell ill for a while. But my mind went constantly to Mama ji; I felt awful that he was in that state, alone, no visitors, nothing to occupy his mind with. Not even some music to listen to.
When we both had a free day, my son bought a small tablet and packed some clothes for Mama ji and some other things that would help him feel comfortable and drove us to the care home.
We were excited to set up the tablet for him. We thought we would ask the carers to put on Swami ji’s channel so that Mama ji could listen and we could show them some Indian music too that he might like.
Sadly though, at reception, they told us, although they were very happy he finally had visitors, Mama ji couldn’t have the tablet as it was likely to get stolen. Of course. I hadn’t thought of that. My heart sank thinking of the long hours he would continue to spend alone in his room, day in day out.
But when I entered his room, what I saw was not what I expected at all. Mama ji was no longer frail and pale. He had put on weight, he had colour back in his face. He looked so healthy. Mama ji was sitting in his chair, his hair was neat and he was drinking tea from an adult sippy cup, and, lo and behold, he was listening to 90’s Bollywood music coming from a TV on the wall of this room! I was more surprised than ever.
The TV I learned had been installed only a couple of weeks prior. Nobody in particular had ordered it or asked for it. The technicians simply showed up one day and fitted the TV. As Mama ji was a ward of the state, it was all paid for by the NHS.
And here Mama ji was now, sitting peacefully, drinking tea and listening to music. Right behind Mama ji, on the windowsil was a little statue of Mother Divine. The staff told me that when he came to the home he had only his clothes and Her. I knew in that instant that Swami Ma had heard all my prayers for Mama ji and had swiftly put them into action. He was Her child after all.
My son and I spent some time sitting with Mama ji. He seemed to remember me. We spoke with the staff and carers who were doing a wonderful job. They told us that, before, he couldn’t speak at all. All these years was never able to communicate anything. And they said that when he was taken to the hospital, he was so unwell, they were certain he wouldn’t come back. They were shocked beyond belief that not only did he come back and get physically healthy again, but that he could now speak some words and seemed to understand what the carers were saying. They now know how much he enjoys tea and he can ask for it whenever he wants. It was a truly miraculous recovery. It was more than I could ever have hoped for.
We expressed our gratitude to the staff and carers there for taking such good care of Mama ji. When we showed them Swami ji’s discourse channel on YouTube, they put it on on the TV straight away.
We also sorted out Skype/Zoom communication between the care home and Mama ji’s sisters abroad. They could now keep in regular touch with him and he would be able to see and hear them and know that they were still in his life and he was loved.
His niece, who had last seen Mama ji around forty years ago, even flew to London a couple of months ago and I took her to visit him. Mama ji remembered her. It was a momentous visit for them both and Mama ji looked better and better each time I saw him.
When we said our thank yous and goodbyes, my heart was full. We left watching Mamaji gazing up towards Swami ji on the TV as he carried on speaking His healing words to Mama ji’s soul.
Thank You, Swami ji. My most humble and grateful obeisance at Your feet for taking Mama ji’s life from unbearable to one knowing love 🙇🏻♀️
Never underestimate the power of Divine Love and Divine Grace. And when you find your self mumbling about the lumpy bits, or even when going through some of the toughest phases of live, try to remember Mama ji and the countless others just like him. There’s always something to be grateful for, even if it’s just a chat with someone, or a cup of tea 🧡