11

Chemotherapy

‘Waiting is painful. Forgetting is painful. But not knowing which to do is the worst kind of suffering.’

—Paulo Coelho

After my operation, much before my chemo started, Dr Makker invited me to her chamber to check my wound. The two holes on my stomach had not yet healed after the operation and needed to be dressed every day by a nurse. Through it, I could see something white inside. I did not know whether it was pus or something else.

Dr Makker explained the process of chemotherapy. I was informed that in the next six months, I would be given eighteen sessions of chemo. I trembled.

After that, a nurse gave me a paper to sign. My horrified eyes read the dangers I was exposing myself to by agreeing to get chemotherapy done. Permanent heart damage, permanent ear damage, permanent neuropathic problems, blackening of the nails, a metallic taste in the mouth and the possibility of shaky hands throughout my life.

‘Then why?’ I asked mournfully to the nurse who had given me the paper.

‘So that we can hope your cancer does not come back,’ she explained.

That silenced me.

I desperately tried to un-learn whatever I had read. But the horrible images of what I could turn into kept whirring in my brain, like a swarm of angry bees.

Despite how I felt, I was in a hurry to begin my chemotherapy sessions. A twinge of disappointment pricked at me when I learnt that my first chemo appointment, scheduled for 2 January, had been postponed because my freshly operated body was weak and still under attack. The two gaping holes in my abdomen hadn’t healed. Chemo at that time would have not only delayed the healing process but also put me at risk of contracting some infection.

Finally, on 8 January, my doctor decided to go ahead with my session in spite of my open wounds. I remember her saying that any delay could be fatal.

The thought of putting chemical substances into my body made me turn icy cold. I do not know how people can remain brave through this process. I was not.

I felt as if I were falling into a bottomless void—like free matter drifting in space.

I recalled the feelings I had gone through earlier while waiting for my blood work (the American term for blood tests). Compared to the general section, the women’s section, where I would wait for my tests or appointments, was fairly empty.

I remember noticing that on one side were the cancer patients—grim and sombre-looking with specks of death floating in their weary eyes. On the other were the nurses—smiling gloriously and bursting forth with life. I remember noticing their high fashion boots and sparkling eyes.

I felt an invisible line dividing us—the world of dying patients and the world of the living.

When had I crossed that invisible line?

***

As a family, on the day before my chemo, we fell silent. Words became redundant. Only feelings lay heavy, like a quilt, suffocating us with its weight.

The day we had all been dreading, 8 January, finally dawned. I watched Mom prepare a healthy breakfast for us all. She woke up at 4 a.m. to bathe and pray for mercy to the divine. The house smelt of incense sticks—I think it was mogra (jasmine) that tickled us with its smell. Quickly, she checked to see if I had dressed appropriately. I had. I wore a loose dress—since I had been told by the doctors that my stomach would bloat—a cap and a borrowed winter coat.

Our family friend Biru had flown in from Delhi to accompany us to the hospital. Bhai had arranged cabs for all of us. Hurriedly, we got into them and Bhai asked the drivers to take us to 53rd Street between Third and Lexington.

New York scenes whizzed past me. I was completely wrapped up in my cocoon of fear. On reaching the hospital, we stopped at a different section of Sloane. This was the chemo centre. I was in a complete daze—like a lamb being taken to a slaughterhouse. All I wanted was to curl up and die.

When we walked into the chemo centre I was sure we all looked quite a sight—eight sad-looking Asians walking solemnly, their lips moving in soundless prayer.

We were met by Dr Makker. She looked amused, yet stern.

‘Manisha, you need to have fewer people around you. There is space for only two in the chemo area.’

As if on cue, all others faded guiltily into the background as Mom accompanied me in.

My respect for Mom went up by leaps and bounds during this period. As a child, living with my grandmother, I had never discovered this side of her. But now I was amazed by her unwavering focus on my welfare. Her determination was strong. As were her prayers. I trusted her to be my intermediary with the divine, putting forth strong arguments of why I should be spared.

I lay quietly in my room, lost in my thoughts, clinging to the security I drew from my tulsi bead mala. Everything around me seemed to be collapsing. Only the touch of the hard, grainy beads was reassuring. I had been told that the 108 beads on the mala represented the different stages of the human soul’s journey, each being progressive and on a continuum. There is often an overlap between each of these phases—sariyai, kiriyai, yogam and jnanam—until one finally merges with god. The 108 beads are strung along with a ‘guru bead’, the beads turning like planets around the sun as the mantra is repeated.

In Hinduism, the number 108 has profound significance. It is considered the number of the wholeness of existence. The average distance of the sun and moon to earth is 108 times their respective diameters; there are 108 pithas, or sacred sites, throughout India in yogic tradition; 108 Upanishads; 108 marma points, or sacred places, in the body; and 108 sun salutations can be offered in a yoga mala.

O divine, if this is the final stage of my journey in this physical life, I beg you to make it painless. I have suffered enough for one lifetime.

Sweat poured down my cheeks. I wiped it off with fingers that were ice-cold.

Will my body be able to withstand this onslaught? And for how long?

***

At first it was just one vicious wolf hurtling forward at top speed inside me.

And suddenly there was a pack of them. Dark, wild wolves, their mouths open, fangs bared, seeking out each vein of my body, tearing forward at great speed, hell-bent on destruction.

Hungrily, they began devouring everything in sight—my organs, my blood, my veins, my bones. It was maddening. I knew I would not live through this. My face became flushed, my skin broke out in angry rashes. My stomach hurt and I had a strong desire to throw up.

The nurses panicked.

‘The blood pressure is up—the heart rate is shooting up! Stop the infusion!’

An authoritative voice called out: ‘Page Dr Makker urgently! Get her here! Tell her it’s an emergency!’

***

As I lay in the hospital bed, I trembled. I had two ports inserted into my body to infuse the drugs—one was below my right shoulder and the other on my left side, near my stomach. The nurse on duty came and put a tube into one of the ports. I shut my eyes.

O merciful divine! Let the process be painless please!

I heard my mom’s chants floating into the room. I felt drugged. I think I even drifted into a fitful sleep.

At some point, the heavy chemotherapy liquid began dripping into my body.

And then, its horrible reactions.

I felt intense heat coming out of my stomach. It began to hurt badly. My body burst into red rashes. My heart began to pound. I was overcome by sudden nausea and lower back pain.

I knew I was having an allergic reaction.

‘Call Dr Makker! Quick!’

When Dr Makker arrived a few minutes later, she seemed visibly upset with the developments. She had not expected my body to react in this manner to the drugs.

Heart pounding, breathing ragged, vision blurred, I lay quietly—a mask of calmness on my face.

Seeing her visibly shaken, I mustered up courage and spoke in a voice trembling with pain, ‘Doc, can you please change the chemo? Obviously this concoction is not working.’

I had read on the Internet that some people react very badly to chemotherapy. Some patients have allergic reactions and in such cases the body rejects the medicines. I do not remember where exactly I had read this as I had become a compulsive googler and kept reading a lot about my condition and treatment. As you know, when you are driven by fear, your eyes seek out only negative things on the Net.

Dr Makker looked amused, but stern: ‘This cocktail of drugs is the best for your kind of cancer. Let me do what I know best. I am going to give it another try. You should be fine.’

I was beyond caring. My body was now feeling numb. I remember being given a medicine to make me drowsy.

I looked at Dr Makker through the haze of drowsiness, like a defeated prisoner.

I was surprised to see how confident and gritty she was. With great earnestness she said, ‘Manisha, please do not worry. I am 100 per cent with you. This mix is right for you—it is the best choice for your cancer type.’ With her sitting there, I felt slightly more confident.

An hour later, she infused Benadryle into me to calm my nerves. Then she administered the same chemotherapy cocktail very slowly—drop by drop. She had explained to me earlier that this was a ‘first-priority drug’ for my condition. Thankfully, my body did not go into shock this time and I had no allergic reaction. The session went off smoothly. In fact I became so relaxed that I slept off. Dr Makker remained constantly by my side.

Around five hours later, we drove back to our apartment.

Surprisingly, my head was filled with thoughts of not my allergic reaction to the infusion but of Dr Makker. I had seen her in a new light that day and I liked what I saw. She possessed a razor-sharp mind and knew exactly how to handle emergencies.

My first chemo session had made my confidence in myself dip. I had pretended to be confident while actually I was gripped by fear. The allergic reaction had shaken me up.

Yet, after seeing how expertly Dr Makker had handled the crisis—insisting that I take the same drug under her supervision—I felt relieved. My doctors knew exactly what to do with me. That raised my confidence in them.

With these professionals, I felt safe.

***

With no option left, I decided to become a ‘professional patient’. Diligently, I began obeying every instruction given to me. I told myself several times that each session was meant to destroy my errant cells permanently. That gave me hope.

But the feeling of pessimism and despair refused to leave me. It was gloomy and cold outside. So was my mood.

I desperately wanted to throw up, but remembered Dr Makker telling me to control myself. So I did. But the thoughts were more difficult to control.

Will I be able to survive six months of chemo? Dr Makker seems to have more confidence in my strength than I have in mine. Is she right?

The doctors had warned me that my second round would be the toughest and I would have to bear it stoically. I had been told that the liquid would fill up my stomach.

When the medicine dripped into me, I felt like a river of hot and cold was entering my stomach.

By the end of the session, my tummy felt stretched and ready to burst. Even sitting in the cab on the way back home proved to be painful. In my mouth was an acrid, metallic taste that refused every food my mother diligently tried to tempt me with.

In fact, the very sight of food began to make me feel nauseous. Any smells drifting into my nostrils made me want to throw up, but I controlled myself, keeping in mind Dr Makker’s advice.

Mom wore a worried expression one day. I was supposed to walk every day, but I had not been doing it.

My mother explained to me that I must walk. ‘Come out, Dad is waiting.’

Weakly, I hid my face inside the blanket. ‘Ama, I can’t walk.’

As if on cue, Dad appeared, ready to help me.

I can argue with my mom, but never with him.

He came up to me and gently pulled me to my feet. They felt wobbly.

‘Come on, Manisha! Get up. Just one step, try one step. Now you can take another step. There, see? You can do it. Just walk up to that plant.’

‘No, Dad. It’s too far.’

‘Just a few more steps. Slowly, one step at a time. Good! Now let’s walk only up to that plant at the end of the hallway.’

My feet felt like jelly. I could not feel them. But I also could not refuse Dad.

‘I’ll hold you.’

Surprisingly, I managed to walk up to the plant. I stood still there, drained with the effort.

‘Now stand next to this plant, Manisha. Take a few deep breaths. Phycus is among those plants that releases a good amount of oxygen.’

A smile curled at the corners of my lips. It must have been very difficult for Dad to express his emotions. He had always been a man of few words and a reservoir of unexpressed emotions. My mother used to tease him about this, coaxing him to say ‘I love you’ to her. And not rest until she succeeded.

I was very happy to see this tender side of Dad. I loved him more for the effort he had taken to break his self-imposed barriers. He had succeeded in getting his beloved daughter to do what he thought was best for her health.

My progress was slow. First a few steps in my bedroom, then my living room, then a few rounds of it and then into the corridor. This was my routine after every chemo session. Each dosage would bring my strength back to zero. I had to struggle to get it back up again.

I was very weak but Dad insisted that I take daily walks in the corridor of our apartment building. Looking back, that tender scene of my father helping me walk will remain etched in my mind.

Gradually, I could walk around the small garden outside my apartment, then a few blocks, until one day I managed to walk alongside the river!

***

Back in the apartment, Mom went fully into Annapurna mode. In Hindu mythology, goddess Annapurna is the incarnation of Parvati, wife of Shiva. Anna means ‘food’ in Sanskrit and purna means ‘filled completely’. Annapurna is thus considered the goddess of the kitchen.

Mom was armed to the hilt with information gathered from my nani, an expert in home remedies, and her scientist and doctor friends. She decided that it would be only pure, unadulterated nourishment that would go into her precious daughter’s body now! She had donned the same avatar when my father had fallen sick many years ago. She had rested only after he had bounced back to health completely.

Once again, Mom became a woman on a mission. After waking up at 3 a.m. and doing an elaborate puja, she would launch into her task of preparing something she was certain would make me strong again—Paya soup made of goat hooves. To this she added ginger, garlic, garam masala and fresh cinnamon. The concoction would take nine full hours to prepare, as she lovingly slow-cooked it so that I got its full benefits.

My mother is a doctor in the kitchen. She instinctively knows what to do whenever I have a pain, ache or any other problem. She learnt the art of healing naturally with food from Nani, who is an expert in the area of nutrition. My mother also meticulously planned my schedule based on the precious knowledge passed on by my grandmother. My mother excels in carrying on this tradition. To back up her knowledge, she takes the advice of her scientist friends.

This was my diet: a cup of turmeric milk in the morning; a hot breakfast consisting of two eggs, muesli with dry fruits and a little bit of milk; freshly squeezed pomegranate juice in the mid-morning; mutton soup, fish, vegetables, saag (greens), beans and rice for lunch; and beetroot, carrot and apple juice or fruit in the evening. Dinner was a regular meal, followed by turmeric milk before bed. When she first handed over the milk to me, she said with a lot of glee that she had added curcumin to it. I knew that she had spent hours slow-cooking this milk to get the full benefit of turmeric. My father had read in Dr Andrew Weil’s Guide to Optimum Health that organic curcumin had anti-cancerous properties.

Mom began sourcing everything she heard was good for me. She managed to get the soft hilsa fish from her Bengali friend Dr Mukul Singh and asked my friend Avinash to get custard apple and ramphal (bell fruit, dadam or berry fruit in Hindi) as she had heard that it contained strong anti-cancer properties. She’s a woman who will not rest until she has had her way.

But she is also like an enthusiastic, innocent child. One afternoon, she rushed into the apartment, her face bright with enthusiasm. She had asked her taxi driver—a Sikh man—to take her to the Queens area to buy Indian spices at the grocery store. Hearing that she needed groceries to provide me nutritious meals during my chemo breaks, the kind cabbie had invited her to his home. She had gone to an Indian grocery store from there and shopped for all the Indian and Nepalese items she missed sorely in New York.

From there the cabbie took her to a Sikh gurudwara where, much to her relief, everyone said that they would pray for her daughter and she would definitely get well. In gratitude, Mom stayed back to do seva. She made tea and rolled out rotis for all. This had been the perfect day for her!

With so much happening to ensure I became strong and healthy, I felt emboldened to face my next sessions of chemo. Soon I learnt, however, that being brave is only half the battle won. The chemo journey, like life, is dotted with unimaginable pitfalls and surprises that test your nerves.

I faced many roadblocks during my treatment. It started with urine and gum infections. I realized then the importance of maintaining the highest quality of personal hygiene during chemotherapy. Later, the catheter attached to a port in my abdomen got blocked due to some tissues and a surgery had to be performed to replace it. Just before the operation, one of the nurses asked me, ‘Do you have any wish?’

Promptly I replied, ‘To have a successful surgery and get my catheter implanted.’

My wish came true. After six hours I woke up to find that my operation had been successful. I had a big smile on my face when I was wheeled out and made to sit in a cab to go home.

One of the major side effects of chemotherapy is that, while chasing the rogue cells, it also kills the white blood cells in the body—the very cells that are supposed to guard you from illnesses.

But during one of my sessions, my white blood cells plummeted so low that it became a matter of huge concern for the doctors. An emergency injection was administered immediately.

How can I ever forget the pain of this injection? A long, pointed needle was pushed deep into me in a bid to awaken my bones. It was meant to nudge them to begin producing white blood cells once again.

I cringed, as the pain shot through me like fire. Colourful spots danced before my eyes.

My bones began to hurt badly. Bhai hurried over towards me and said in a near-scolding voice, ‘You are giving up now? How can you? You are a fighter! FIGHT!’

The bone pain I experienced after this injection was unlike anything I had felt before.

Realizing my agony, my brother sat down next to me and pressed my legs lovingly. He continued to do so for several hours, as if he wanted to press the pain out of my body. I was grateful for his loving care, but the pain didn’t subside. It felt as if someone were hammering me inside constantly.

The end result of this torture, however, turned out to be positive. I began to appreciate the tiniest of miracles that came my way.

To be truthful, despite all the discomfort and grumbling, after undergoing many sessions, I was fast becoming a veteran. I tried to handle the chemo sessions maturely, without unnecessary drama. I focused on finishing the entire procedure fast so that I could be done with it.

Just when I thought we were progressing steadily, one day I was refused chemo. I was hugely disappointed, as this would significantly put me back in my schedule. I remember feeling crushed when I was told that my platelet count had dipped so low that it was not advisable to go ahead with my chemo session. I was told to go back home and rest for two to three weeks.

Fear, disappointment and frustration swept through me.

I went over to the nurses and doctors and pleaded, ‘Please let me have my chemo!’ They remained unmoved, quoting protocol. So, with a heavy heart, I resigned to a three-week break before my next session.

But what about my survival? Hadn’t Dr Chi stressed the importance of getting chemo on time? The right dose at the right time?

‘Please, do not refuse me chemo!’

I was surprised at the passion with which I kept begging the nurse on duty. While people usually run away from chemo, here I was, begging for it. My mother looked at my disappointed face and, like always, came up with a solution.

She would get me to chew young papaya leaves. This, she had heard, was the miracle solution for getting platelet counts to shoot up. But the problem was finding tender young papaya leaves in the midst of a New York winter!

Frantically, Mom called up her friends in Mumbai and asked if anyone were planning to come to New York. They were all ready to do their bit to save my life. They would get not only papaya leaves but the entire tree, if Mom desired. There was one hitch, however. An unforeseen one. The Department of Agriculture and the Transportation Security Administration (TSA) considered it illegal to allow fruits and leaves from other countries to pass through customs.

Mom was stumped.

I didn’t want to see her in such a situation.

So I contacted Naman-ji of Oneness University located in Varadaiahpalem, Chennai. The founders of the university—Sri Bhagavan and Amma—are believed to be divine avatars. According to Bhagavan, the university was created for just one purpose, ‘To set man totally and unconditionally free, bringing about the Golden Age of Enlightenment.’ I have been going to this sacred place in search of peace, tranquillity and divinity.

Naman-ji, despite being a spiritual guru of repute, is a brother to me—affectionate and dependable. Regardless of how busy he is, he always responds to me in a crisis. His parents had wanted him to be a chartered accountant, but he donned the white kurta-pyjama of spirituality and announced to them that his path and destination was god.

As usual, he gave me wise counsel. After listening to my fears, he simply said, ‘Pray deeply to the padukas.’ I had the silver footwear or padukas that I had brought along with me from India. They were considered powerful. You had to pray earnestly to the padukas, the feet of the divine, to connect. I did that.

To my delight, my prayers worked. Just a week later, I discovered that my platelet count had indeed become normal enough for me to get on with my chemo session. Excitedly, I lay down on the narrow hospital bed, eager to get on and be done with it.

During my chemo sessions, I started psyching myself into thinking I was getting vitamin shots, as Zakia had suggested. I looked at the inverted bottle on the IV tube attached to me as if we were old friends.

‘This is a vitamin shot, not chemotherapy. Vitamin, not chemo. Vitamin . . . Vitamin . . . Vitamin . . .’

Once in our apartment, my desire was only to be with myself. I wanted no human contact. I became disinterested in what people were saying and confined myself completely to my room and bed. I was in non-thinking mode, suspended between life and death.

***

As the days rolled into months, and I continued with my chemo sessions, I hoped against hope that nothing untoward would occur. As the sessions progressed and the side effects of chemo took over, I turned into a dull, defeated person. The fear of death and the oncoming session of chemo began to loom constantly over my head.

There was a constant buzzing sound in my ears. I felt disoriented all the time. Like someone lost in a deep forest. Like someone who did not know where she was meant to go. Worse, like someone who did not know who she was.

Lying long hours on the bed, waiting for the chemo drips to chase the deadly villains out of my body, I went through every emotion possible—the excitement of coming closer to the finish line, pride at my own strength, the desperation at realizing that I may perhaps not survive it, the exhaustion of being ravaged.

Whenever I looked at the eyes of patients sitting outside, they seemed dead and defeated. With a jolt I remembered having broken my own promise to myself. I had resolved to not become like them. But I had. With great effort, each time I was photographed, I would enlarge my eyes to show I was still alive.

I had taken on self-healing as my pastime. Besides chanting Louise Hay’s visualizations and affirmations for healing, I also started talking to my body.

One day, when Mom walked in, she was shocked to hear me speak in a voice that dripped honey, ‘Beloved, you’ve done such great work looking after me. You’ve been through such a massive surgery, yet you are serving me beautifully. I know that you have the intelligence to heal yourself. Please guide me on how to look after you better.’

Mom was startled.

‘Manu, who are you talking to?’

‘My ovaries.’

‘You’re talking to your ovaries?’

‘Yes, Ama. They’ve taken my ovaries out. But they still need my love. I’m also talking to my stomach and all my remaining organs. I am sending kind messages and gratitude to them.’

Mom went outside with a worried look on her face.

‘Prakash, our daughter is saying strange things!’

At night, I would chant the Gayatri Mantra. I would also do the tulsi mala japa a thousand times.

As if one possessed, I kept on repeating the autosuggestion I had heard works on patients. I would look into my eyes in the mirror and say: ‘I’m cured, I’m strong, I’m healthy, I’m fine, I’m cured.’

I was bent on not letting anything steal my rightful claim to positivity and abundance in health. I felt lucky. I had the best doctors looking after me in the hospital and the best Mom and Dad at home.

It was crucial that the chemo sessions ahead should go smoothly and uneventfully. But when has life followed our heart’s desires?

The next bump was lurking just around the corner.

***

It was a cold winter night in the middle of my treatment cycle. I felt unnaturally weak and feverish.

It was 4 a.m. I debated with myself. Should I wake up my brother?

‘Bhai, wake up,’ I whispered softly to him. He was sleeping on the couch. I did not want to disturb my parents’ sleep.

He looked up at me, confused and worried.

‘Can you take me to the emergency please?’

‘Now?’

‘Yes.’

Sensing the urgency, Bhai immediately got up from the couch, ready for action. In the freezing dawn, we headed towards the emergency.

Have you ever been to a hospital at this hour? I had not. Its eerie sight startled me.

There were fewer people, and they all looked forlorn, their tired eyes staring at the walls. Some people had come directly from the station to the hospital, along with their luggage, hoping to get admission. I also noticed some women who were unescorted. They seemed to be really sick, but why were they alone? For a person like me, who had always taken pride in falling back on my family whenever I was in need, this came as a sad revelation.

I was told that my fever was the result of a urinary tract infection and that I had to get admitted immediately.

Not again, please!

To my great disappointment, I was quarantined and put in a secluded room.

The nurses strictly instructed everyone to not come near me without an apron and gloves. I had heard that a young girl, her immune system compromised after chemo, had died due to multiple organ infection. Alone and frightened, I could literally visualize viruses attacking me. Did the same fate await me as that girl?

What was happening to me? Was I also going to succumb to death?

I had to stay imprisoned in that room for three long, lonely days. My parents were not allowed to visit me during my quarantine. Both of them had a cold at that time. For fear of passing it on to me, they remained in the apartment, taking medicines for it. After three days, when my infection healed, I went with Mridula Di to New Jersey, which was one or two hours away from the hospital. Here, we were offered a stay at Kumi Aunty’s apartment. Kumi Aunty is the late Vinod Khanna’s sister and was Shail Mama’s rakhi sister. I remained there with Mridula Di for 3–4 nights until I had completely healed. Once my parents responded to the medicines they were taking for their cold, I went and rejoined them in our New York apartment.

***

On one of the days during my hospital stay, Zeena-ji visited me. This time, she saw me not as the calm and collected woman who had been strong despite the bleak reports, but as someone who looked defeated and distressed. She continued visiting me each day, spending long hours with me. I asked her one day why she was doing all this for me.

‘So that someday you will do the same for somebody else.’

In that moment, our relationship progressed from just a patient–visitor to that of soul sisters. Her husband, Dr Narula, was also my rakhi brother. I was grateful that I could reach out to them at any time of the day or night for support.

My equation with my family changed permanently through the course of my treatment. Our roles reversed. Earlier, I had been the decision-maker and caretaker. Now it was them. I felt blessed to have them around me.

During one of my chemo cycles, while I was sitting in front of Dr Makker, she noticed that I was on the point of disintegration.

She had concern in her eyes. Listlessness was visible in my stance, my voice, my eyes.

‘Why don’t you step out, Manisha? The weather is getting better. There are parks, libraries and gardens with flowers around. Go to Central Park. Go to New York Library. Go to a Whole Foods store and educate yourself about healthy eating.’

In a small voice I told her I was afraid of contracting infection.

Seeing me look like a frightened child, she melted. ‘Don’t be afraid, Manisha. I’m here. I’ll handle if anything happens. Being stuck in a room, you’re shutting life out. Go out, enjoy the little things, invite some happiness in and your chemo will become more effective. Leave the worry to me.’

My self-confidence lay crumpled on the floor. How could I go to these places? But the universe has a way of sending you help when you need it most. There were caring friends like Zeena-ji and her daughter who took it upon themselves to walk me out of my dullness.

One day, while Zeena-ji was helping me cross a road, my feet felt shaky and my head spun. My face paled and my eyebrows furrowed.

‘It’s a simple task—one you’ve done a million times before!’ I told my brain. ‘Just put this leg forward, then the next, then the first one and continue this for about thirty steps.’

But my feet were wobbly. I had simply forgotten how to cross a road! Why was this simple, everyday task so difficult?

Yet my caring friends continued trying to restore my lost self-confidence.

Dr Narayan Naidu, an accomplished scientist, flew all the way from the West Coast to the East Coast to boost my self-confidence. He would lighten our moods by taking us out for dinner and engaging us in deep conversations about spirituality and his journey. I was pleasantly surprised that a top scientist like him had a spiritual side to him. He gave me a lot of hope and became a strong rock for me during that period. I feel deeply indebted to him.

When Dr Makker asked me lovingly to take in some fresh air from outside, I felt like a lost child who had been reunited with her family. Dr Makker was kind, warm, compassionate—and caring!

Soon, I became close to her. One day I asked her why she had been so aloof, knowing my fears. Very gently she explained to me that this was the best way to be. She had adopted this approach because often patients became overly dependent on her and then, when they went away, it became emotionally difficult to snap ties. I looked at her with understanding and admiration. I soon began to see the affectionate side of my doctors.

***

It had been a particularly painful and exhausting chemotherapy session that day. I felt drained. Feeling trapped and at the end of my tether, I opened my eyes weakly to find Dr Chi holding my hand in his. His eyes said that he could read every thought in my exhausted body. He smiled his special kind of smile that radiated compassion and understanding. At that moment, he appeared to be god incarnate to me.

Soundlessly, without forming words, I said: Doc, I have followed your advice as much as I could. Can you now tell me if I will live for long? I feel like my brain is running on 2 per cent battery.

I felt he heard each word I had meant to say.

I closed my eyes, tears streaming down.

Outside, the desolation of winter was giving way to spring. Trees and flowers were waking up after their long sleep. Nature was rejuvenating herself. Everything was new and alive.

When would spring come into my life?

Would it ever?