7

Surgery

‘And sometimes, against all odds, against all logic, we still hope.’

—Unknown

10 December 2012

And, finally, it was the day of my surgery.

My mind kept playing the powerful, hope-filled exchange I had had with Dr Chi in a loop.

‘Dr Chi, how long did that patient live?’

‘She is alive and doing fine.’

I felt a rush of energy travelling through my veins, like swift little silverfish making their way upstream.

I had gone into the operation theatre riding on that wave of hope.

That morning at our hotel was tense. Nobody spoke. Yet we all understood. All of us headed towards the hospital quietly.

Reaching there at 10 a.m., we all felt that we had made the best choice. We also knew that we were yet to face the ordeal.

Within a few minutes of our arrival, I was wheeled into the holding area. My family stood by my side. We had to wait for around four hours before I would be taken into the anaesthesia room. It was an emotional moment for all of us. I could not find the right parting words to say.

Do not grieve too much for me?

or

I am so sorry I have put you all through so much pain.

or

Be strong. I’ll be out and will be fine.

I said nothing. Instead, I looked lovingly at each person there in a bid to stamp their beloved faces on my heart.

I remember my friend Paulomi wrap her off-white shawl around me to keep me from shivering in the cold hospital room. I was touched by this gesture, for all of us knew that the shawl would be removed the moment I went inside and changed into the patient’s uniform.

Without warning, the grim words that would be printed on Indian newspapers tomorrow flashed before my eyes: Noted actor Manisha Koirala succumbs to cancer in New York.

Horrified, I brushed that terrible thought away.

As I waited to be wheeled in, I thought to myself: How bad would it actually be to die?

Without warning, a funny thought emerged. Images of all those who had crossed over to the other side came to mind. They were actually giving me a champagne toast and telling me, ‘You know, it’s not too bad up here.’

All of them seemed bathed in golden sunlight and I could see right through them. I saw Karen Aunty smiling down at me. She was an Elizabeth Taylor lookalike and had a glass of champagne in her hand.

‘It’s not so bad this side, you know, Manisha!’

For a nanosecond, I actually wished I could join her there instead of being here in such pain and fear.

Soon, I was wheeled inside. The last thing I remember was seeing the kind, smiling face of nurse Nalini. She kept introducing herself and reassuring me in the sweetest way that everything would be fine. I slipped into a deep sleep.

Outside in the waiting room, my relatives paced anxiously. Dr Chi came out in his scrubs to speak with my mother and father.

Mom approached him nervously and very reluctantly asked him, ‘I know you don’t believe in this, but doctor, could you please keep this rudraksha mala with you while you perform the operation? We have faith that it can win over ill health.’ She extended the mala towards him, afraid that he might refuse.

To further get her point across, she said, ‘Lord Shiva will get you through the operation. Please help my daughter.’

Dr Chi smiled and nodded.

‘I will keep it but I probably need to sterilize it first,’ he said, smiling, and placed it in his pocket. ‘You must worry only if I return quickly. If I take time, consider it a good sign,’ he said reassuringly and turned to go.

Inside, in the sterile cold of the operation table, I faded in and out of anaesthesia, hallucinating that I was in a war zone. I was surrounded by tanks, artillery and fumes, the enemy flashing huge lights on me. Why, I asked? And then I slipped into unconsciousness.

The surgery lasted around eleven hours. Despite their worry and extreme exhaustion, my family kept their faith alive. They held on to the hope given by Dr Chi’s words, ‘Worry only if I return quickly.’

Outside, my mother kept chanting the powerful death-conquering mantra like one possessed:

Om tryambakam yajamahe sugandhim pustivardhanam . . .

She paced the floor, begging god to heal her precious daughter.

As the hours passed, exhausted, she fell asleep, chanting in the waiting room. A stranger tucked a pillow under her head and covered her with a blanket.

My father, an introvert, went out of the hospital into the snowy, windy night to talk to strangers. This was his way of dealing with his stress.

Thank god for caring relatives! Later on, Praveen Da, very methodically, captured the entire scene beautifully for me in an email I read later.

It was evening. We came down and sat in front of the waiting area facing the street. There, Nanu Di [my mom] crossed her legs on the sofa and began praying. She was dressed in heavy winter clothes. It was funny. The other visitors at the hospital hurriedly left that sofa area for us. Perhaps they thought we were Bin Laden followers—about to blow up the place.

Chetna went out with another relative, Mridula. I stayed behind with Nanu Di in case the doctor came looking for us. I had been through Chetna’s surgeries several months ago and remembered the shock of the doctor coming out and telling me that she was critical. Thank goodness she had recovered and was with me tonight.

Later in the evening, we went to the upstairs waiting area and sat there until Dr Chi came. He told us we would get to visit you soon. But there was no one in the hospital and we went door to door looking for you. We finally found you in the recovery room at the back, towards the right-hand side. You were pretty much sedated.

When you came out of the recovery room to your hospital room in the morning, you looked very good. I remember the nurse telling us how beautiful you looked even after the surgery. I told her that you were once known as ‘the prettiest face in Asia’. (P.S. So I don’t get into trouble, you still are!) You gave us the thumbs up as I took the picture (which you have).

Overall, your dad remained very calm in the days before and during the surgery. In retrospect, however, I see that he must have been very troubled and was hiding his pain as he did not want to burden the family. That may have been why he kept going downstairs, outside in the cold, quite often. It was snowing and the weather was harsh and windy. I could see him going out to relieve his stress and talk to others. This was his way of dealing with the turmoil.

Your bhai was managing everything and so he was able to keep his mind on the logistics after your recovery. He probably bore the brunt of everyone’s frustration in the days following the surgery when things were uncertain in terms of logistics, prep, etc. But as I told him then, he was doing a great job overall and people were complaining to him as they were all struggling to find a way to deal with your illness.

It was almost 2 a.m. when Dr Chi came out of the theatre. My anxious family huddled around him as if he were a war hero.

Quietly, he handed the rudraksha mala back to Mom and said humbly, ‘This mala has done the magic. The operation has been successful.’

Praveen Da asked him, ‘Will she recover?’ To which Dr Chi said, ‘We have to be positive and assume full recovery.’

He explained to my family that the reason the surgery had taken a long time was because the cancer had spread like a bowl of Rice Krispies thrown all over the organs. He had to pick them up one by one. He had performed an optimal debulking surgery. He felt hopeful that 95 per cent—if not more—of the cancer cells had been removed.

There was not a single dry eye surrounding Dr Chi at that moment.

He informed my family that I would now be taken to the recovery room and then to a hospital room the next morning where the family would be able to meet me. But my mom insisted that she wanted to see me right then, even if for a few minutes.

But it was twelve hours later that they finally got to see me—through the glass window of the recovery room. Mom told me later that she saw that my face was swollen and I was tethered to an IV pole, monitors tracing the beats of my heart. She told me that when I sensed her near me, even in my unconscious state, I cried silent tears. Frantically, she made gestures at me. She kept signalling to me through the window to not cry. Her face was wet with tears, but she kept telling me that I would be fine.

That night, I was kept in the recovery room. I kept slipping in and out of consciousness. In one of my conscious moments, I recalled, with perfect clarity, the time I had met two Maori healers at a friend’s apartment in Mumbai in June 2012. Those were the days when I used to be carefree.

In my friend’s classy apartment, my mother and I had submitted our bodies to be examined by the two women healers. It just seemed such a cool, interesting thing to do. The main healer had checked my mom and immediately declared she was fine. The younger healer seemed puzzled when she began checking me. Her hands, hovering over my body, stopped just above my ovaries. Unsure, she checked again.

Then, she called the older Maori healer to be sure. The lady looked sombre after her hands hovered over me and said, ‘Your ovaries are red hot. It seems like you are very angry with them. You need to send love to your ovaries.’

I had not taken her words seriously. I did not know how to send love to my ovaries. Does anybody know that? I simply shrugged and forgot about it.

But the import of that suddenly hit me now. The Maori healers had used their unique scanning system to diagnose me much before the doctors did!

Next morning, at 9.38 a.m., I was transferred to another room. I write this with precision because my uncle kept track of the exact time. That’s what family members do.

I regained consciousness many hours later, but kept falling in and out of sleep. I was eager to talk to Dr Chi but he was nowhere to be seen.

Then, the following day, I finally woke up, fully conscious. I looked around and noticed that there were three beds in my room that could be divided into three separate sections by white curtains. There was a common bathroom for three patients.

I was lucky that I was on the far right. From my vantage point, I could see the sun filtering in through the window. In front of our beds was another window. I avoided looking at it. The only view was that of morose buildings. Above each bed there was a television. I did not want it switched on. I could sense multiple switches behind my bed. There were also gadgets to call the nurse or recline the bed myself.

I was confused and my eyelids felt heavy. My mouth just could not form the many questions I had. I looked up wearily.

I first saw Dad walk in. He was followed by the rest of my family. My eyes looked for my mother. Amidst the mayhem of my growing-up years and my tumultuous and hectic film career, she had been my solid rock. Today, I looked forward to receiving her brand of support and unconditional love. I needed them in huge doses today. I sought out her eyes. Her strong gaze has always been very reassuring for me.

My heart missed a beat.

She is going to tell me the good news. But why are her eyes averted? Why is she not smiling? Why is she not meeting my eyes with that happy, tender look she always gives me?

Where is Dr Chi—my saviour? What is happening?

Mom did not meet my eyes fully. I felt cold. But she smiled and the moment she took my hand into hers, I felt secure. The warmth of her fingers entwined into mine seemed to restore me to life.

An avid reader, I have always taken succour in literature, like a child running to its mother’s lap. At that moment, Robert Frost’s words from the poem ‘Birches’ seemed to speak to me about my state of swinging between life and death.

And life is too much like a pathless wood

Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs

Broken across it, and one eye is weeping

From a twig’s having lashed across it open.

I’d like to get away from earth awhile

And then come back to it and begin over.

Dr Chi finally came to meet me on his rounds. I wanted to sit up, but found my body refusing to cooperate.

Perhaps now we will all laugh at it as if it were a bad dream. Perhaps now I will start living my life again.

But one look at him and I felt anxious. His face looked crestfallen; his eyes tired.

‘What’s wrong?’ I asked, suddenly aware of the painful hollow in my stomach.

Quietly, holding my breath, I asked him, ‘Was the surgery successful?’

There was total silence in the room. It was filled with my loved ones—my parents, some relatives, a few friends. But it was as if everybody were holding his or her breath. It was as if no one were in the room. We waited for Dr Chi’s response.

‘Yes,’ he said quietly.

I smiled at Dr Chi and asked him brightly, ‘So will I live for twenty-five more years?’

In my mind were stuck Zakia’s hope-filled words. She had said to me that her cancer-afflicted sister was doing well even after twenty-five years. Dr Chi himself had mentioned that he knew a survivor who had lived that many years. I knew that he was always checking which of his patients had lived beyond twenty-five years. Thus it became a standard in my head.

He shrugged his shoulders. Silence again.

‘Then?’

‘During the surgery, I saw the extent of how much your cancer had spread. I wasn’t expecting it. We took out everything we could. So in that sense the surgery was successful. But I don’t know how well you will react to chemo, so I can’t say,’ he explained. ‘Cancer is not like cough and cold—I can’t tell you for certain if taking some medication will cure it completely. I need to know how well you will respond to the chemo for me to honestly answer that question,’ he explained.

His words made my heart sink.

This very doctor had given me hope. How unfair that now I had to wait for chemotherapy to find out whether I had a chance at life?

I had felt so hopeful just a few minutes ago. And here was my doctor telling me it wasn’t going to be. I looked around at everyone, and that’s when I realized that my loved ones had known it all along. While I was surfacing from and sinking into my anaesthetic sleep, they had been told.

I felt tears welling up inside me. Emotions clamoured to express themselves, fighting past the operated emptiness of my mutilated body.

Was I going to live? Was I going to die? This state of not knowing was the worst.