The Knot in my stomach

The Knot in My Stomach When someone close to you is suffering, you begin to see parallels everywhere. Experiences that might otherwise feel unrelated suddenly bring you back to places in your life you thought you had already learned to navigate. Leaving India this time was incredibly hard. My mother was not well, and almost every week I was there, there seemed to be something new—a new ailment, a new concern, another reason to worry. I found myself caught between gratitude for the time I could spend with her and the fear of what might happen when I was no longer there. And then, almost without warning, I was back in those hospital days with Sana. When Sana was in the hospital, every day seemed to bring a new development. Just when we thought we understood what was happening, something else would change. Another test. Another conversation. Another complication. Another uncertainty. I remember how I used to detach myself when I went to work. For those few hours, I had to function. I had to teach, talk, smile, and carry on as though life was ordinary. But underneath it all was the knowledge that nothing was ordinary. And then I would leave work and head home. That was when the knot in my stomach would begin. *Will everything be okay? What will I find when I get there? Will there be another phone call? Another change?* I recognize that feeling now. Every time I call my mother, there is that same knot. Before she answers, a part of me is already preparing for bad news. I listen carefully to her voice. I notice things she says—or doesn't say. I wonder what has changed since the last conversation. And suddenly, I am that same person again—the mother waiting for news from the hospital, hoping that the next phone call will bring reassurance rather than fear. Grief has a strange way of rewiring you. Once you have lived through the uncertainty of losing someone you love, another person's illness can awaken feelings you thought belonged only to the past. I know my mother is not Sana. I know this is a different journey, a different chapter, a different kind of worry. But my body remembers. My heart remembers. And sometimes, before my mind has even had time to process what is happening, that familiar knot appears. Maybe this is another part of grief no one talks about—the way loss changes how we experience future uncertainty. Once you have experienced the unimaginable, you know it is possible. You can no longer tell yourself, *It will never happen to me.* Because it did. I lost Sana. And now, when someone I love is suffering, I cannot simply assume everything will be okay. So I am learning to sit with the uncertainty. To be present with my mother. To cherish the time I have with her without allowing fear of tomorrow to steal today. But I also understand now that the mother who sat beside Sana in that hospital is still with me. She never really left. She is the part of me that listens more carefully, worries more deeply, and feels every change with an intensity I did not know was possible. And perhaps that is what grief does. It doesn't just make you miss the person you lost. It changes the way you love everyone who remains.