{"id":902171,"date":"2026-08-14T10:19:38","date_gmt":"2026-08-14T10:19:38","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/iapsm.org\/blog\/?p=902171"},"modified":"2026-08-14T10:19:38","modified_gmt":"2026-08-14T10:19:38","slug":"mmr-more-than-a-number-a-human-heartbeat","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/iapsm.org\/blog\/mmr-more-than-a-number-a-human-heartbeat\/","title":{"rendered":"MMR \u2014 More Than a Number, A Human Heartbeat"},"content":{"rendered":"

\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

It was October 2017 when I attended a National-Level Maternal Death Surveillance Response (MDSR) meeting at Sevagram, Wardha in Maharashtra. Six of us had been selected from Gujarat as subject experts.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The first day of the meeting was rich with data, research findings, and statistical analyses. The next day, we were taken for field visits to various healthcare facilities in Maharashtra to understand their systems and identify practices Gujarat could adopt.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

One of the most important tools in reducing maternal deaths is a Verbal Autopsy\u2014a structured interaction with the family of a deceased mother to understand the circumstances surrounding her death, identify gaps, and prevent similar tragedies. My team, comprising doctors from across India, was assigned a home visit.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Around ten in the morning, we reached the house where a young mother had died just a few days earlier. From a distance, it belonged to a modest middle-class family: two small rooms, a kitchen, and a veranda. It looked as though it hadn’t been cleaned for days\u2014perhaps because the woman who cared for it no longer existed in this world.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The husband was waiting for us. Just a week ago, this house had been full of life. Today, he sat there alone.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Arrangements had been made for us to sit on the floor. Dr. Abhishek, a team member fluent in Marathi, led the conversation.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

At first, the husband spoke normally about ordinary days. How she woke up, prepared breakfast, and got their five-year-old son ready for school. As the conversation moved deeper into memories, a softness entered his voice. Then came the discussion about the day she died.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

He remembered everything. What she cooked, what they laughed about, when she kissed their son on the cheek for the last time, and the dreams they held for their unborn child. Every detail remained alive inside him. As he spoke, his voice began trembling.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

There was still about a month left for delivery. At around one in the morning, his wife suddenly developed severe abdominal pain and heavy bleeding. Panicked, they left their sleeping child with a neighbor and rushed to the nearest health center. Due to a lack of facilities, they were referred to the medical college hospital in Wardha.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Precious hours were lost. Throughout the ride, he held her hand tightly, reassuring her. They reached the hospital around 2:30 a.m., but before treatment could even begin, she died. Even in her final moments, they were holding hands.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Tears streamed endlessly down his face. The conversation happened in Marathi, yet every person sitting there understood perfectly. To understand grief, language is never necessary. Finally, with tear-filled eyes, he whispered, \u201cShe was a very good woman\u2026\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Suddenly, he looked at the clock. It was almost noon.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cSir\u2026 please excuse me for two minutes,” he said, standing up. “My five-year-old son, Sonu, must be returning from school. His mother used to receive him from the bus every day. For the past three days, I\u2019ve been going myself. If he doesn\u2019t see me, he\u2019ll remember his mother and cry. I\u2019ll just come back.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

He quickly wiped his tears, splashed water on his face, and walked out. Minutes later, he returned, carrying his son lovingly in his arms, smiling and talking cheerfully. We sat silently, realizing how excruciating it must be to carry so much pain inside, yet smile outside just so a child does not break down.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

As he sat down again, he spoke one final sentence that pierced directly through our hearts:<\/p>\n

\u201cSir\u2026 yesterday he asked me, \u2018Papa, can\u2019t Mama come back just for one day?\u2019 Tell me, Sir\u2026 what answer should I give him?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

While returning on the bus, I kept staring out the window. A thought stayed with me throughout the journey. If that little child could write a letter to his mother, perhaps it would sound something like this:<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

My Dearest Mother,<\/strong><\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

I hope you are happy wherever you are. But Papa and I are not happy here without you. Every morning, I forget for a moment that you are gone. I wait to hear your voice saying, \u201cWake up quickly, or you\u2019ll be late.\u201d But your voice never comes.<\/em><\/strong><\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

When the school bus leaves, my hand automatically stretches toward the balcony to wave goodbye. When I don\u2019t see you, I wave toward the sky instead. Maybe you are waving back.<\/em><\/strong><\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

When I return home, I shout \u201cMama!\u201d loudly, but my voice only hits the empty kitchen walls. Earlier, you used to feed me, and I would make silly demands. Now, I quietly eat whatever Papa cooks. You always complained that I scattered my toys, but if you see my room now, you\u2019ll be happy. I keep everything neatly arranged.<\/em><\/strong><\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

At night, I hug your photograph tightly to my chest. Night is the only time I cry fully without hiding, hoping tomorrow you will come back. Everyone says you have gone to God\u2019s home. But every day I pray to God to send you back. Is His house so far away?<\/em><\/strong><\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

Whenever boys trouble me in school, I tell them: \u201cWait till my mother comes back\u2026 then I\u2019ll complain to her.\u201d And they laugh. Mama, you will come back, won\u2019t you?<\/em><\/strong><\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

Please ask God for permission and come back for just one day.<\/em><\/strong><\/strong><\/p>\n