On a Sabbatical in New York City

What has happened in the last 18 months with a tiny kitchen, an idyllic island, and a miscarriage.

I sleep hard these days. It has become something sort of a ritual. Dinner with Netflix or the husband, warm chamomile tea, a stream of TikTok videos, and some cuddles. I wake up late and talk to Amma, sometimes Akka, over FaceTime. And almost every day, Amma asks, “Why so late? I was waiting for you.” I mouth a sheepish sorry and proceed to make coffee — a serving of collagen powder, one tablespoon of instant coffee, and a hint of brown sugar.

Amma tells me of all that has happened in Chennai in the last 24 hours, including the latest Covid numbers — no deaths, only 20 new cases today. I tell her about my plans for the day. I tell her about New York City’s weather. We talk about when we’d meet next. We assure each other that it’d be soon. Very soon.

Ben and I got married in January 2020, weeks before the world as we knew it changed. I returned to the Netherlands and Ben, to the States. We were to live our single lives till we found a way to be together again. And we did. In October 2020, I made the biggest decision of my life. I quit my job of ~10 years to move to New York City. I wanted to take a sabbatical, mainly to focus on writing and my mental health. We were to also try for a baby.

But life, unsurprisingly, had other plans. In the last 18 months, I have faced parts of myself, I thought never existed. I have tried to come to terms with my limitations, my fears, and my disabilities. I have also discovered weird little likes of mine; things I thought were conflictory to the feminist I thought I was.

One of the first things that happened after I moved here was an anxiety attack triggered by the most mundane phone call. I was, at that time, struggling with shoulder pain and was trying to set up an appointment with a specialist. In response, the customer executive told me that the next available appointment was in January. I was talking to them in early November. They also told me that an X-ray without insurance would cost me $600. They couldn’t understand my accent. They called me 5 times after that first phone call just to confirm and reconfirm my birth date. They mixed the J with a G in my name. They said that my insurance wasn’t coming up. They said the appointment slot got taken — even January was no longer possible.

I broke down after that final phone call. My brain, sick with health anxiety was convincing me that I had bone cancer. I was rapidly spiralling down. I was bawling. I was telling myself that I was worth nothing — no job, no income, not even a proper accent, and now an illness? What the fuck was I even thinking when I wrote that resignation email?

The attacks grew worse with time. Once I got through the shoulder pain, I started feeling pain in my fingers. This time, I was convinced it was rheumatism. The specialist who saw me was kind enough to take me seriously. He ordered a bunch of tests so I will be at peace. I saw my results, felt better, and went to bed.

The next morning I discovered I was pregnant. I have never been particularly interested in motherhood, but somehow the prospect of sharing this responsibility with Ben felt right. The thought of a little thing running around, with us on the couch laughing at the silliest of jokes seemed like a nice idea.

Days went by. A week. 2 weeks. Blood. Everyone I spoke to said it was fine. A little blood is perfectly fine. Chill now. Lie down. Except the GP; she wanted me at the emergency room. After 8 excruciating hours I left the hospital with the realisation that I was having a miscarriage. I was too exhausted to cry. I did not know if I needed to cry. Isn’t that what people do? I drifted to sleep as Ben held me.

I thought the worst was over. All I had to do — all we had to do was try again. I was fine; my body was fine. In the weeks that followed, I got my Covid vaccine. I was feeling lucky; moving to a 1st world country had its perks. Insurance sucks, yes, but vaccines, nah. The morning after my 2nd shot, my supraclavicular lymph nodes (the ones along the collar bone) were fully swollen. They were the size of a quarter.

The anxiety spiral I went into after this lasted five full months. The days were bad. The nights were the worst. I would be awake for hours, checking and rechecking my lymph nodes. Have they gone down? Is there another one? Am I dying? The skin on my neck became sore with all the touching. It was a sad sight. I was a sad sight.

Someone would ask me what was I so scared of? Death? To be honest, death would have been a sweet relief. It was tiring to wake up everyday and go about life, wishing for it to end because the fear of it ending was too much to take. Not that it was ending; my mind just believed it was and was killing me in the course of it.

I felt like I was inside a well, like the one in the Haunting of Bly Manor. Deep, dark, inescapable.

What finally interrupted this horror show was a tiny molecule called Sertraline — popularly known as Zoloft. I was also prescribed Lorazepam for recurring panic attacks.

Ben and I also moved houses a little less than a year ago. We moved from Riverdale (likely the one in Archie comics) to New York city’s ‘best kept secret’ — Roosevelt Island. It’s not really a secret of course; New Yorkers just don’t care enough to visit this place. For those who aren’t familiar, it’s a narrow strip of land that lies in between Manhattan and Queens. There are 4 ways in and out of the island: a tramway (the most touristy), the ferry (the lesser known), the F train (that’s frustratingly slow or late), and the Roosevelt Island bridge (that lifts up to allow ships to go through). The island is surrounded by the East River, has the most beautiful views of Manhattan, and is home to a few snobbish residents that ‘try hard to keep the island safe from miscreants’.

This place doesn’t have much going in terms of food or shopping, but it has helped me heal in ways no other neighborhood in the city could have. The wake from every boat. The tide. The occasional splash of water droplets. The fall foliage. The spring blossoms. The farmer’s market every Saturday. The old church building with a massive bell next to it. The meditation steps. The lighthouse. The ruins of an old smallpox hospital. Idyllic?

Couple of months after we moved, we hosted a little housewarming party on labor day. And for the first time (for me), I could hope for a few friends in the city. A sci-fi writer. A human rights lawyer. A public health researcher. An award winning author. A young bunch from Columbia. Some strangers. I made moilee — with atlantic salmon and acorn squash, a combination I’m very proud of. A friend helped with some grilled chicken. Ben got the terrace ready. It was starting to feel a bit like home. But not much. Not yet.

That party however led to several others. And somehow the tiny kitchen in our one-bedroom apartment did not stop me from playing hostess. I started trying my hand at new recipes. Stuffed mushrooms with mozzarella, spring onions, and bacon crumbles. Zucchini fritters with bell pepper and parmesan. Rice paper pockets with pretty much anything, including the likes of Kale and cabbage. Coconut milk rice — a recipe from Amma and Ben’s mom, quickly became a staple for Sundays. Mutton biryani finally became a success. Idlis with peanut chutney was no longer a distant dream.

I also finished a few home projects. I flipped an old chest of drawers and a drab document cabinet. I refurbished a bookshelf. I upholstered a set of 4 dining chairs with a spare bed sheet and scraps from a lace curtain. I learnt how to use a power drill and frame a picture. I set up our house with gifts from Buy Nothing and quirky finds from thrift stores. My absolute favourite is a brass colored frame that I carried all the way from Staten Island, through New York City’s subway and cat calls. I sit on our teal couch and gaze at it while I sip masala chai.

Among many others things, my anxiety disorder also took away my ability to write. The ability to string words into sentences. The courage to go through an editing process and to have someone else judge me for it. You could say it destroyed my confidence — something that I had worked on for more than 3 decades. People around me would ask me about my book and why I wasn’t writing these days. Why no stories on instagram? Why no twitter? All OK?

No, not OK, not by any stretch. Because I had so much time in my hands, all the trauma I had accumulated over the years, was staring at me dead in the eyes, waiting to be dealt with. The fear. The petrifying feeling. The sickness in my stomach. Of being rejected. Of being excluded. Of being unloved. It wouldn’t allow me to think, leave alone be able to write. It wouldn’t let me go near a book or consume a story. Everything needed to take a backseat.

After about 60 days of sertraline, I was starting to feel slightly better. I was on a plateau of sorts. Not great, not bad either. We left for California for the loveliest of vacations. We stayed at a friend’s, who was visiting his hometown; so we had the entire house to ourselves. A backyard with an apple and a pear tree. Herbs — mint, oregano, chillies, and rosemary. I also met a sister in the South Bay, who had the most wonderful things to share. She felt like a breath of fresh air. She felt like hope. I returned to NYC with a little more spirit and a lot more joy.

Three months in, I’d like to believe I’m on the mend. Of course, it’s far from where I want to be. I still obsess over the most innocuous things. I wonder why I never got a reply. I lose sleep over a hurtful comment made by a careless person. I think the only reason why someone would exclude me is because they hate me. I’m only a trigger away from feeling sullen.

It’s a bit of a problem; this recurring deposit of an anxiety. Like limescale that demands cleaning every now and then.

But I’m doing all that I should. I borrow books often. I’m part of a church community — the type that helps you move houses. I sing — hymns and hillsongs alike. Once in a while, I make my way to the Rose Main Reading Room — one of NYPL’s most iconic offerings. I write. I read. I think. I’m slowly getting back to social media. I laugh like a child with Ben. Every other week, I catch up with friends. But mostly, I wake up late and talk to Amma…