Sick Guys
There are some nights when you realise how far away from home you really are. Not because you are homesick.
Not because you miss your favourite food or your old bedroom or the familiar streets.
But because you are sick, your child is sick, your husband is barely able to stand—and there is no one you can call to come and help. That was one of those nights for us. All three of us were badly ill. And honestly, I felt like I was losing control of everything.
A house full of sickness
Hithesh was coughing terribly. That kind of cough that makes a mother stop whatever she is doing and listen carefully. Read here
He was tired and miserable, lying beside me, coughing again and again. And I was sick too.
I was vomiting no strength left in my body. Even simple things felt like huge tasks.
Then I looked at my husband. He was bit ok. But completely exhausted.
There we were.
Three people in a little house in Japan, all unwell at the same time. Three people in a little house in Japan, all unwell at the same time.
And the house? A complete mess. Things everywhere
The baby wasn’t feeling well. We weren’t feeling well. Nothing had been properly cleaned or organized. Food was unfinished. Laundry was waiting. Toys were scattered around. Normally, I would feel guilty seeing the house like that. That night, I didn’t.
The dishes could wait. The laundry could wait. The mess could wait.
We just needed to get through the night.
And then the worry started
As a mother, you can be sick yourself and somehow still keep thinking about your child.
Even while I was vomiting, my mind was with Hithesh.
Is his breathing okay?
Why is he coughing so much?
Is his fever going up?
Is he going to sleep?
Does he need a doctor?
Should we go now?
Should we wait until morning?
And then another thought came:
Where do we even go at this hour?
It was already around 9 p.m.
We are foreigners living in Japan.
We don’t have grandparents living nearby.
No mother can suddenly arrive at the door with a pot of warm food.
No sister can take the baby for a few hours while you lie down.
No neighbour is waiting for you to knock and say, “I’m not feeling well. Can you help me?”
It was just us.
Searching for a doctor at 9 p.m.
So, somehow, we started looking for a doctor.
Around 9 p.m., we were searching for somewhere we could take Hithesh.
When you are healthy, finding a hospital in Japan is one thing.
When you are sick, your toddler is coughing badly, your husband is exhausted, and it is nighttime, it feels completely different.
You are trying to understand where to go.
Is it open?
Will they see a child?
Do we need to call first?
Can we explain the symptoms properly?
What Japanese words do we need?
What if they don’t understand us?
What if we go all the way there and they tell us to go somewhere else?
These are the things people don’t always see when they look at a foreign family living abroad.
From outside, it can look exciting.
Japan.
A new country.
A new life.
Beautiful seasons.
Cute little Japanese shops.
Family outings.
But there are nights like this too.
Nights when you suddenly understand what “being far from home” really means.
The strength we don’t talk about
Eventually, we managed. We got ourselves together enough to go looking for medical help. I don’t even know where that strength came from.
Maybe motherhood gives you a strange kind of strength. You can feel like you are going to collapse, but when your child needs you, you stand up.
Your body says, I can’t.
Your heart says, I have to.
And your husband is doing the same beside you.
We weren’t strong that night.
We were actually very weak.
But somehow, we kept moving. That is different from being strong.
Sometimes strength isn’t feeling brave. Sometimes strength is being terrified, exhausted and sick—and still putting on your shoes because your child needs a doctor.
When there is no village
People often say that raising a child takes a village.
I believe that now more than ever. When you live close to your parents, siblings and relatives, there are so many little things you don’t even notice.
Someone can cook, Someone can watch the baby, Someone can bring medicine. Someone can make tea. Someone can simply sit beside you and say,
“Don’t worry. I’m here.”
Living abroad teaches you the value of those simple things.
Because sometimes there is nobody.
There is only your little family.
And you have to become the village for each other.
That night, my husband and I were not only parents.
We were each other’s support system.
Even though both of us were struggling.
I cried too
I don’t want to write this story as though I handled everything perfectly. I didn’t. I cried. I felt overwhelmed.
There were moments when I wondered how I was supposed to take care of a sick toddler when I could barely take care of myself.
I felt helpless.
I wanted my mother.
I wanted someone older to come into the house and simply take over for a while.
I wanted to lie down without thinking about the next cough.
I wanted somebody to say, “You rest. I’ll look after him.”
But that person wasn’t there.
So I wiped my tears and carried on. Maybe this is one of the hidden sides of motherhood. Nobody sees all the small moments when you quietly fall apart and then put yourself back together before your child notices
To another foreign mother
If you are also raising your child away from your family, I want you to know something.
You don’t have to be the perfect mother every day.
You don’t have to compare yourself with mothers who have grandparents, relatives and friends living nearby.
Your circumstances may be completely different.
Some days, motherhood abroad is simply:
Hold the baby.
Check the temperature.
Give the medicine.
Drink some water.
Search for a doctor.
Cry a little.
Try again.
And that counts.
It counts more than you think.
We are still here
That night reminded me of something.
We came to Japan looking for a better life. But building a life in another country isn’t always beautiful. Sometimes it is lonely. Sometimes it is frightening.
Sometimes it is three sick people sitting in a messy house, trying to figure out what to do next.
And sometimes, despite everything, there is something beautiful in that too.
Because Papa was sick.
Mama was sick.
Hithesh was sick.
But we were together.
No grandparents nearby.
No relatives knocking on the door.
No one else to take over.
Just the three of us.
Trying our best.
And maybe that is what our little family has been doing all along.
Learning how to stand together, even when we don’t feel strong enough to stand at all.
Tonight, I don’t need a perfect house.
I don’t need a perfect life.
I just want my little family to get better.
And tomorrow, when we have a little more strength, we’ll clean the mess.
But tonight—
the mess can wait.
