8

Dr Makker Enters My Life

‘Life is filled with detours and dead-ends, trials and challenges of every kind. Each of us has likely had times when distress, anguish, and despair almost consumed us.’

—Russell M. Nelson

Have you ever wondered what emotions a cancer patient goes through? Let me tell you that they are probably worse than what a prisoner on death row feels.

Of course there is a feeling of gloom and doom. But there is also the feeling of extreme hopelessness, helplessness and powerlessness.

Your physical body—the one you either took for granted or took pride in as your ally suddenly betrays you, leaving you shocked.

Your mind, which wove dreams and plans for your future, unexpectedly finds that everything has come to a standstill.

And your spirit? Not too long back it soared. It now lies defeated and punctured, trapped within your physical boundaries, enslaved to a bed.

Yet, very much like a prisoner on death row, a strange flicker of hope continues to burn timidly in the wounded heart. Like the feeble wick of an oil lamp fighting against a strong breeze. Both the prisoner and the patient hope desperately for a reprieve—a magical intervention from a higher force which, at the last moment, will save them from death.

In my case, I felt that magical person was going to be Dr Vicky Makker, who Dr Chi had referred me to.

On the morning following my operation, my body felt strange. It was a mass of conflicting sensations. I was on pins and needles. At once light and heavy, weak and strong, familiar and unfamiliar, identifiable and nameless, mine and not mine. I could move my fingers. Also my toes. Yet the length of my body felt broken and repaired, fragmented and smashed, disjointed and jerky. And, despite the painkillers, that heavy, numbing pain remained a constant. My mouth tasted acrid. Dr Chi’s words had sent my spirits dashing to the ground. My last hope was this new doctor. There were two things in her favour: first, she was a woman, and second, she was a young Punjabi of Indian origin. I felt that my comfort level with a woman doctor of Indian origin would be more. Not that her being a woman mattered to me much, but her being of Indian origin did make me feel relieved. She would probably have heard of me. This would make it easier for me to ask questions. I could confide in her about my worries. I hoped we could be friends. In fact I felt certain she would become not only my soul-sister but also my saviour, my redeemer, my life-giver.

Dr Makker had received her medical degree from the University of Florida College of Medicine and had been practising for almost twenty years. I felt fortunate that I would be under her experienced care at the hospital.

She had received great reviews on Vitals.com. The comments under ‘Patient Reviews’ said she was ‘amazing’, ‘very knowledgeable’, ‘caring’ and ‘professional’. Now that suited me just fine. I was ready to become her best friend for life.

Those were my emotions when this stunning woman, garlanded with a stethoscope, walked in. She looked confident, on top of her game, and smiled brightly. Not a hair was out of place, neither was a single tooth in that dazzling even row of white. What really caught my attention, however, were the strikingly huge solitaire diamonds she wore on her ears.

For a minute, I could not help the fashionista in me from surfacing. I too love diamonds. I have noticed that most Indians love rock diamonds, unlike Westerners. I have always joked about the fact that a small house could be bought from the shine on our earlobes.

So that means our tastes are similar. Another reason why we will bond!

In a bid to charm her and acknowledge our mutual fashion sense, I pointed to her ears and said, ‘Those are pretty. I love them!’

She flashed a bright smile back and said, ‘I love the man who gave them to me!’

Having established our mutual ground, I quickly figured our relationship out in my head. This angel would take care of me tenderly. She would comfort me, bond with me and hold my hand lovingly through several rounds of chemotherapy. I kept smiling in a knowing manner, all the time looking at her. But what my eyes saw did not match the image in my head.

What’s wrong? Why is she not responding with the same warmth? Why is she going out of her way to be distant, aloof, strict? Why is she not behaving like my soul-sister?

I was dismayed that she simply did not see me as her BFF! I asked her in a back-to-business voice to give me statistics about the survival rates for late-stage ovarian cancer patients.

She looked directly into my eyes and did not mince any words: ‘The statistics are not good, Manisha. The five-year survival rate is . . .’ My mind froze the moment she said five. What she said after that got lost in the flood that arose within me. I could see her speaking, moving her lips. But the content eluded me completely.

I interpreted that she meant I would live up to five years at best. I burst into tears.

I was not even going to live five years?

I could see my mom stepping forward to hold me and console me.

‘Beta, that is not what she meant . . .’

But I did not care for any explanations. Nothing registered in my brain. I was done with receiving bad news all the time. It had come pouring in at me: first the doctor in Kathmandu, then Dr Advani in Mumbai and then Dr Chi in New York.

My last hope had been Dr Makker. She too had shattered my fragile hold on optimism. I wanted to scream, to run away, to do something outrageous.

My emotions were in shreds. They had been on a rollercoaster ride for far too long. It’s not easy to live constantly under the shadow of looming death.

As a child, I remember once watching a magnificent, gloriously coloured butterfly perch blissfully on a flower. Its beautiful blue wings reminded me of the stained glass windows of a church. Daintily, it sucked nectar from the red flower, as if from a straw, its wings folded neatly upwards.

Just then, before my horrified eyes, a noisy group of girls broke into the idyllic scene. They captured this unsuspecting ‘flower in the sky’ and swiftly, stuffed it into a glass jar with a very tiny hole.

‘Caught another one!’ they giggled triumphantly, ignoring my protests.

I looked sadly at the butterfly flapping its brilliant coloured wings inside the glass jar. Born to fly freely in the sky, it felt puzzled by the imprisonment. It began struggling furiously to escape. With its fragile, delicate, flimsy wings flapping, it flew to the top of the jar, willing it to open . . . again and again.

The brave butterfly, despite its air supply getting cut off, kept trying. I noticed how its wings looked like painted silk and as delicate as rice paper. It was born beautiful, but now destined to die.

My heart went out to it. I could empathize with its struggle for survival . . . Its struggle to breathe . . . its struggle to be free. I could relate perfectly with its agony.

I too felt exactly like it. Trapped. With no hope of escape.