I had two bunnies over a year ago. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a proper environment for them, just a large cage in the courtyard. During the day, they would roam freely, and I would lock them in the cage at night for their safety.
They were very dear to me. I talked to them, cuddled them, and let them eat whatever I ate. They loved eating from my hands. I adored their adorable pink noses and cute whiskers, as well as the way they moved their ears in response to their surroundings.
They were so innocent.
I never realized how prolific rabbits can be. To me, they seemed like two innocent bunnies, but after a few weeks, they had babies, and the cycle continued very rapidly. So far, they have given birth to 30 babies this year. The challenges of caring for them became evident; they urinate a lot, eat a lot, produce a considerable amount of waste, and reproduce rapidly as well.
Taking care of them felt like a full-time job.
Additionally, they disown their young as soon as they are born, possibly because there is no soil in the area where I was keeping them. This made it very challenging to keep the newborns warm and to feed them milk with a dropper multiple times a day for nearly two weeks.
Caring for them requires significant time, patience, and dedication, much like looking after a human baby. I can honestly say I could not have managed this without the support of my siblings and parents.
It has been more than a year, and my family members are now exhausted from cleaning up after the bunnies every day and caring for so many babies. I have distributed many of them to different people, but they keep multiplying.
Last month, five of them died from the cold, and this month, four more died just two days after they were born. After the losses of these two batches, I realized that my family is tired, my bunnies are suffering, and I have no time to care for them as I am very busy these days. Unfortunately, no one is taking responsibility for them either. So, I made the difficult decision to distribute all of them, leaving me with no bunnies left.
My courtyard feels empty, and I miss them dearly. It saddens me to have made this choice because I never wanted to lose them.
They were my beloved pets who listened to me, looked at me with love, sat on my lap, and enjoyed being stroked. I kissed each of them every day, even though others thought it was gross. I often had to change my clothes multiple times a day, just thinking about how their hair got stuck in my outfits.
I felt very sad for the past two days. I had several crying spells, mostly while sitting in the library or wrapped up in my quilt.
Since childhood, I’ve learned that crying is often seen as a sign of weakness and that a person who cries frequently lacks control over their emotions. However, my eyes are like oceans, and I realize I’ve spent almost a quarter of my life crying, often in silence. This has become an art I’ve honed over the past 31 years.
Whenever I cried in front of anyone, I had to listen to comments like:
“Itni bari ho k b roti ho.”
“Na shukri!”
“Kesi doctor ho? Itnay beemar mareezon ka ilaaj krti ho phir b dil abhi tak chiriya jitna hai.”
“Kab bari hogi?”
“Dekho wo dekh raha hai/rahi hai, kya soche ga?”
I find crying to be cathartic, and I’m not entirely sure why. It feels to me like crying is a better outlet than sharing my feelings with someone else because, in my experience, people often don’t have the time for that. When you open up to your loved ones:
- They might become worried or anxious.
- They could feel uncomfortable.
- They may create their own theories and interpret your situation based on their perspectives.
- There’s a risk of judgment.
- They could be dealing with their own challenges, making it difficult for them to fully engage.
- They might be distracted or upset, and their reactions could inadvertently cause you to feel worse.
- In the worst-case scenario, they might blame themselves if they feel they cannot help and start wondering what they did wrong.
- If you tend to cry too often, like I do, they may eventually become bored or frustrated with the situation.
That’s why I have learned to cry with myself, and ultimately, I feel better after a good emotional release. The only downside is that my upper eyelids have become permanently swollen.
On sad days, a never-ending cycle of intrusive thoughts begins in my mind, causing me to overthink the reasons for my sadness.
Sometimes, I feel sad for no reason at all (at least, that’s how it is for me). On these days, memories of sad events from my childhood to the present start to replay in my mind.
First and foremost, I am grieving the loss of my bunnies. Secondly, I feel sad because it seems like nobody else in my family is grieving (they might even feel relieved). Thirdly, I am anxious about studying for an upcoming exam; my progress is too slow, I get distracted easily, and I really hate studying. This misery only adds to my crying spells.
After a pathetic day and with swollen eyes, I got home, had dinner, and went to sleep immediately, even though it was only 6 p.m. I had done very little studying, but I was exhausted, possibly from crying. The extended crying had given me a headache. After two to three hours of restful sleep, I felt much better, and the headache was gone.
Later, I received a call from a friend who lives in Karachi. She got married a few years ago and now has two children, making her a homemaker. She graduated a couple of years before me, and we worked together in the same department for about one or two years. After her marriage, she moved to another city and, due to her young kids, decided to take a break.
Her story is very sad. She is the only daughter in her family. One of her brothers is an anesthesiologist who lives in the U.S. with his family, while the other brother lives with their parents here in Islamabad. Her mother was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2010 at a very young age. Although she was cured, the cancer relapsed in 2020 after ten years. Since then, she has been undergoing treatment, but the cancer has slowly progressed to stage four. She has been receiving chemotherapy and immunotherapy during this time.
Last year, her father, who was 60, was diagnosed with stage four liver cancer. This devastating news greatly affected the family. For the past year, she has been traveling back and forth between Karachi and Islamabad to care for her parents.
I must say that she and her brother are incredibly strong individuals. Taking care of two-stage four cancer patients while living far away is no easy task. The treatment they both needed cost millions, but her brother, who lives in the U.S., arranged for all the necessary medications, even those that weren’t available in Pakistan. She often calls me to consult about various issues concerning them, and to be honest, I am always worried about their well-being.
A year after her father’s disease progressed, he sadly passed away three weeks ago.
Today, when I received a call from her, she was crying a lot. She shared that her mother had been drowsy for the past two days, and despite her efforts, nothing seemed to help.
Following her father’s death, she returned to Karachi because her eldest daughter had final exams. She was upset that she couldn’t find a ticket to reach Islamabad as soon as possible.
I recognized the situation and sent the mother to the ER, arranging for her brain scan and blood work, along with everything else needed. Now, I am waiting for her results, reflecting on how ungrateful I’ve been. People around me are facing far more stressful and painful circumstances, dealing with life-and-death situations. I had been crying simply over losing some bunnies or an exam.
I am grateful that I am not in a miserable situation like hers and that my loved ones are healthy. Of course, I am concerned for her mother, and I want to be there for them, but this is the kind of situation that no one would ever wish for themselves.
It’s interesting to reflect on my different personalities. One of them is a cancer doctor who is rational, competent and makes fair decisions while also being empathetic.
I took charge of all the decisions regarding her mother’s care, determining what should be prioritized and what could wait. I brought on board a radiologist, an oncologist, and a palliative care physician. I discussed everything in detail with them while staying in touch with my friend and her brother. I made the decision that her mother should not be resuscitated in case of an emergency, and the family understood this choice.
No matter how close they were to me, I remained level-headed and acted professionally without allowing my emotions to cloud my judgment.
I am truly thankful for the blessings in my life and for being in a position to care for people around me. However, I struggle with a part of myself that becomes emotional over various losses and different situations.
For instance, I often find myself teary-eyed when I see someone getting hurt or poorly treated, when I witness people feeling alone or unloved, or when I lose something precious to me.
I particularly feel overwhelmed after a patient passes away, especially if I have been seeing them for a long time or when a patient who was once well suddenly becomes so ill that they require intubation or a transfer to the intensive care unit. I also find it hard to cope when I see the loved ones of patients crying in anguish over their loss.
A few days ago, my younger brother shared a story about his friend who got beaten up badly by another classmate. I told him how much that must have hurt and how hard he would have cried. He replied: “Nahi daman aapi, wo bilkul b nahi roya, wo mature enough hai.”
Feeling and hearing the perspective about crying from people around me and society since childhood has been disheartening. The idea that people who cry are immature has created a split within me.
On one side, I am a mature and brave doctor who cares for cancer patients. On the other side, I feel like an immature child with a heart as delicate as a sparrow’s, who wants to cry freely but feels she is not allowed to. What should I do? I have no answer.
I believe that everyone expresses and experiences emotions differently. A loss or a heartbreak, whether minor or major, can be a setback for anyone. Sometimes, people appear strong on the outside, yet they may be broken on the inside. Additionally, individuals who seem emotionally immature in certain areas of their lives may actually be thriving in others.
Life should not be about comparisons; everyone faces their own unique battles and perceives situations differently. Each person on this planet is unique, with varying strengths, weaknesses, and coping mechanisms. And I’ve concluded that our society’s and cultural beliefs can limit our perspective on certain topics. A few days ago, I read the following saying:
“Body is purified by water. Ego by tears. Intellect is purified by knowledge. And soul is purified with love.”
― Ali Ibn Abi Talib, Nahjul balaaghah
Damane Zehra is a radiation oncology resident in Pakistan.
