10

New Apartment Joys

‘Hope smiles from the threshold of the year to come, whispering, “It will be happier.”’

—Alfred Lord Tennyson

‘Lots of air, sunshine and no dark corners’ were the list of criteria I had given Bhai when he started looking for an apartment for us to stay in after leaving the Plaza. I was just giving voice to my soul.

After listing it out, my lips curled into a smile. My baby brother had evolved into a responsible young man during this entire crisis. Earlier, I liked to think that I was his protector. Suddenly, there had been a role reversal.

In his growing-up years, I had almost been a mother figure to him. When Mom and Dad were away from Nepal for some time, he had come over to stay with me in Mumbai. During this period, I became his mom, teacher, guide and friend. Our relationship remained like that. In any crisis, he would look up to his didi and I would be there for him.

Yet now his beloved sister was flat on her back, incapable of taking any decisions. My parents were equally nervous and shaken up. Bhai realized that he had to now lead the family out of this crisis. So he took on the reins in his hands—running
around to fill out the countless forms required for admitting international patients, completing all the paperwork, handling our finances, paying bills, arranging cars, setting up appointments with doctors and nurses, checking the medicines and doing everything that needed to be done. He took complete control of the situation.

Since he was the youngest in the group, he was at the receiving end of everyone’s complaints and demands. Everyone wanted something to be organized, something to be done. His own sister had certain requirements for the apartment’s location, appeal and aesthetics. He had to run around in an unfamiliar city to find the right place. I can imagine the pressure on his young shoulders. He also had to take a lot of flak, like anyone who has to do so much and cater to so many people is bound to get. But he never once complained, nor lost his calm. He felt hugely responsible.

My eyes fill up with tears even now when I recall those days. I am overcome with admiration for my brattish young brother who emerged as a mature, responsible man in the face of a family crisis. For the first time I saw my little brother transform into a level-headed man. He truly rose to the occasion and I feel so very proud of him.

It had been planned that after my operation and subsequent discharge from the hospital, we would shift to an apartment in a week. We had taken this decision because my immune system was going to get weaker after chemotherapy. Sanitization would become crucial. Mom would also be able to cook food for me in an apartment of our own.

Of course, I was nervous about moving out because of the comfort the hotel provided. Help was just a call away. In the interest of my likely weakness and compromised immune system, however, we had to take the decision to move out.

We wanted to be closer to the hospital in case any emergency occurred. I had a few relatives in Jackson Heights and New Jersey and they had graciously offered their homes to me. But I knew we needed a place near the hospital. Apartment prices, however, are steep around Manhattan.

So there were two battles ahead: first was moving homes and the second was chemo. But in my newly discovered resolve to become a ‘moment-to moment’ person, I decided to make the most of my week at the Plaza.

Mom could not bear to look at the hideous wounds on my stomach, and I still felt dizzy when I did. So we had to find a home-care specialist who would come to dress my wounds. And thus we found Sheila, a residential nurse. She was efficient and made me feel comfortable.

But the stitches did not hold my stomach well.

‘Why are the holes still there?’ I asked her.

‘It’s probably some stitching inside gone awry. But don’t you worry, these are all soluble stitches and they will heal soon.’

I realized I would just have to wait it out.

Intezaar is a Hindi word that I feel describes perfectly the endless spells of waiting a cancer patient has to go through. Usually a confident, impatient person who likes to get things done fast, I had been subjected to large doses of it. I had gone through it in Kathmandu, waiting for Dr Ghimire’s report; I had experienced it during my nail-biting wait for Dr Advani’s, Dr Chi’s and Dr Makker’s opinions about the gravity of my condition; and I now had to wait for these gaping holes on my body to heal before I could start my last shot at life—chemotherapy. Okay, I sighed. I would endure the healing of my wounds too.

In its wisdom, time was gently replacing my impulsiveness with maturity; the old controlling-me with the new surrendering-me. I was surprised how I was actually going with the flow.

This time too Sahara Shree’s people, among others, came to my rescue, helping us move into a comfortable apartment near the hospital’s emergency section. My brother had worked very hard to find the right flat.

So finally we bade goodbye to the luxury of Plaza Hotel and moved into our new apartment. It was a small two-bedroom flat with balconies, a living room and an open kitchen. The entire building had a positive vibe. It even had a small park attached to it, which my brother felt suited me fine if I could not go on long walks.

It was late December by the time we moved—Dad, Mom, my brother and I. I was looking forward to ringing in the New Year here with my family.

My body was still weak. But my mind told me that I must prepare it for the long battle ahead. New York lay glittering in the afterglow of Christmas and the anticipation of New Year.

***

I have always been ‘Daddy’s girl’ since childhood. I can only imagine the pain he went through on seeing me in that condition. But not once did he put it into words. Even now, if I ask him about it, he will probably not make a big deal of it. He has never been one to complain or express his feelings if he is in any kind of discomfort. That is why none of us can ever know what he is actually going through unless one is very observant. But my uncle and brother can vouch for the way he handled his own grief so silently and in such a dignified manner.

Dad has been a voracious reader and is a very well-read man. During those days, he would read one newspaper several times over. That was his only way of coping. If the day’s newspaper did not come in, he would continue reading the old one over and over. Or whatever he could lay his hands on. He did not know how else to handle his sorrow.

The anxiety of possibly losing his precious daughter had made a big difference to his daily routine. He could not bring upon himself to step out to get the newspaper. He drowned his sorrow in reading the old ones again and again. This silent activity became his refuge. When later my brother told me this, it hit me hard.

Before my illness, he would sip some wine once in a while but he stopped that habit completely. Slowly, once the initial shock had seeped in, he began going out for early morning walks. On one of these outings, he discovered a Bangladeshi newspaper stall nearby. Gradually, he included evening walks into his routine too.

But Dad took time to get used to this routine. Back from his walk, he would come back quietly and sit with me. Most of the time, however, he would be in his own space, slightly away from me, yet keeping an eye on me.

Dad became our inspiration for leading a healthy lifestyle. He still is an epitome of good health and we love him more for it.

***

A few days after moving into our own space, I peeped outside. A snowstorm was building up and made everything look pretty. With a jolt, I realized that I had not stepped out of the apartment in a long time.

What a pity, I thought! When it was sunny, I had been unwell and now when my strength was coming back, it had begun to snow!

So I decided on two things. First, I would walk either in my corridor or in my room for at least thirty minutes a day. I had spent the previous day just watching TV. This was not helping me. Staying in my bed, I felt weak and miserable. I felt alone.

Second, I would work on my posture. After surgery, I had begun to stoop a little. This was not good at all. I did not want to form a lifelong habit of stooping. So I decided to correct my posture and get rid of my stoop.

***

For me, family time is always celebration time. With New Year round the corner and a person as effervescent as Shail Mama to keep us in high spirits, we were in a festive mood. To add to the cheer, Mama brought along a gift for everyone—designer caps, mufflers, gloves, socks and ties. We had a merry time trying each one out. There was a lot of laughter.

Finally, it was midnight. The old year was gone. A new year had dawned. Not any day, but a New Year’s Day. As everyone around me hugged and wished each other, I became pensive.

Life was offering me a fresh new start. A new chapter was waiting to be written. On my life’s freshly opened page, I decided I was going to be the writer. It would be a transformative year for me, one in which I would take the controls back into my hands. It would be a year of embracing, forgiving and loving.

I would ask new questions and hug new answers, however frightening they might appear to be. I would delight in my self-discovery. I would dream once more.

That’s when I stated my brave New Year resolution: I will live.