Chemotherapy and I have had some fleeting trysts. My mother Kamala gave us a few scares as before she actually was attacked by cancer, she had a had a few lumps that needed to be excised and then the ensuing biopsies. Thankfully they were all clear with no malignancy but in hindsight I think they did one big damage to Kamala's mind and spirit: they made the fear of cancer take over her life. By that time chemotherapy was talked about a lot and its side effects were almost commonplace. Along the way they surreptitiously embedded themselves in her mind and instilling a fear that I guess she did not even understand but triggering a response and a road map that she would follow when the time came.
When the opacity in her lung was diagnosed in the summer of 87 the had a small stroke, or so one thinks. She fainted for a few minutes and when she came out of the faint she behaved as if she had lost her recent recall memory and travelled in the past to happier times. Each time we would suggest any form of conventional investigation a stubborn little child appeared and threw a tantrum no one could control. Once she had won her game, she would retreat back into the past. In hindsight again I am convinced that it was more of a crafty game she would play when needed: refuse a CT scan, run out half clad of the one she was coaxed into, refuse any medication and so on. We only guessed she had cancer of we quite do not know what but which gnawed at her slowly in front of our helpless eyes. he pains did come. Horrible and excruciating but she bore them telling us that when she screamed she felt better. How could we tell her it was killing Papa and I.
She bore it all with rare dignity and grit. At one point she stopped anyone from helping her bathe. She did not want anyone except Papa to see her ravaged and emaciated. Once she was partially dressed, I took over combing her hair, applying her make up - she had to every day till the last - and then come out to take on the day. As in her game she had to be the one who had lost her recent memory, she would go along with the ploy papa had come up with: write a daily diary under his dictation so that if someone came she could find an excuse to pop into her room and read the previous day' entry and engage in a normal conversation.
Till the moment she breathed her last, the word C was not mentioned in the house. And as far as any treatment was concerned it was a big no no! Kamala did not want to loose her hair. Actually I think she knew that there was much more at stake and she had somehow decided that she had paid her tithe over and over again to the medical fraternity and the world of allopathy. Now she wanted to live on her own terms. Without hospitals and people in white, and needles in her arms in tubes down her throat. When Papa mentioned Sloan Kettering she answered Habib Sahib! The noted Habib was her coiffeur and believe it or not he use to come and do her hair at home. She had a beauty session every day: her feet, her hands. An aunt who had done aromatherapy came daily to massage her. Papa took her out to lunch and they discovered all the new restaurants that opened. She went to plays, impeccably groomed and enjoyed herself. It was only in the last few weeks of her life that she suffered pain. But she refused any palliative care as she wanted to LIVE aware till her least breath.
She died in my arms. She had won her battle against chemotherapy in her own inimitable way.
As I said earlier, Mama played a game she invented and set the rules of. And she duped us all. Hers was a star performance. How could I have not guessed it as there were moments when she showed her legendary lucidity and wisdom. Was she not the woman who had taken her life in her own hands at a time when young girls simply followed set rules. She studied when no girl did, decided not to marry till her country was independent; drove trucks into the boonies to give women their rights; live alone in a big city when girls barely stepped out of the house. Then how could she have succumbed to simple fear. No she once again wanted to live and die on her own terms.
She once told me that she would have borne all the ills of chemo had I been a child and needed her, but she has seen it all: her son-in-law, her grandchildren and she had extracted a promise from her beloved husband on the first day of her marriage: she would go before him and dressed as a bride. She did.
The C word appeared again in my life 16 months later. We had been posted to Paris but I was bound by a promise I have her on her dead bed: to look after papa till his last day! Papa was in good health and our departure was scheduled a month ahead. I shared my angst with him and he told me to leave it to Guru Maharaj. I was surprised by his words but said nothing. A day later he told me he was bleeding but felt it was his old piles. We went to the doctor. It was cancer of the colon and I was caught in the vortex of medical protocols: surgery, chemo... He was operated upon and died 29 days later. Chemo never entered my life. He too had will his exit!
Now in 3 hours I will again be caught in the same eddy but this time it seems I have no escape. Only time will tell how the battle goes.
When the opacity in her lung was diagnosed in the summer of 87 the had a small stroke, or so one thinks. She fainted for a few minutes and when she came out of the faint she behaved as if she had lost her recent recall memory and travelled in the past to happier times. Each time we would suggest any form of conventional investigation a stubborn little child appeared and threw a tantrum no one could control. Once she had won her game, she would retreat back into the past. In hindsight again I am convinced that it was more of a crafty game she would play when needed: refuse a CT scan, run out half clad of the one she was coaxed into, refuse any medication and so on. We only guessed she had cancer of we quite do not know what but which gnawed at her slowly in front of our helpless eyes. he pains did come. Horrible and excruciating but she bore them telling us that when she screamed she felt better. How could we tell her it was killing Papa and I.
She bore it all with rare dignity and grit. At one point she stopped anyone from helping her bathe. She did not want anyone except Papa to see her ravaged and emaciated. Once she was partially dressed, I took over combing her hair, applying her make up - she had to every day till the last - and then come out to take on the day. As in her game she had to be the one who had lost her recent memory, she would go along with the ploy papa had come up with: write a daily diary under his dictation so that if someone came she could find an excuse to pop into her room and read the previous day' entry and engage in a normal conversation.
Till the moment she breathed her last, the word C was not mentioned in the house. And as far as any treatment was concerned it was a big no no! Kamala did not want to loose her hair. Actually I think she knew that there was much more at stake and she had somehow decided that she had paid her tithe over and over again to the medical fraternity and the world of allopathy. Now she wanted to live on her own terms. Without hospitals and people in white, and needles in her arms in tubes down her throat. When Papa mentioned Sloan Kettering she answered Habib Sahib! The noted Habib was her coiffeur and believe it or not he use to come and do her hair at home. She had a beauty session every day: her feet, her hands. An aunt who had done aromatherapy came daily to massage her. Papa took her out to lunch and they discovered all the new restaurants that opened. She went to plays, impeccably groomed and enjoyed herself. It was only in the last few weeks of her life that she suffered pain. But she refused any palliative care as she wanted to LIVE aware till her least breath.
She died in my arms. She had won her battle against chemotherapy in her own inimitable way.
As I said earlier, Mama played a game she invented and set the rules of. And she duped us all. Hers was a star performance. How could I have not guessed it as there were moments when she showed her legendary lucidity and wisdom. Was she not the woman who had taken her life in her own hands at a time when young girls simply followed set rules. She studied when no girl did, decided not to marry till her country was independent; drove trucks into the boonies to give women their rights; live alone in a big city when girls barely stepped out of the house. Then how could she have succumbed to simple fear. No she once again wanted to live and die on her own terms.
She once told me that she would have borne all the ills of chemo had I been a child and needed her, but she has seen it all: her son-in-law, her grandchildren and she had extracted a promise from her beloved husband on the first day of her marriage: she would go before him and dressed as a bride. She did.
The C word appeared again in my life 16 months later. We had been posted to Paris but I was bound by a promise I have her on her dead bed: to look after papa till his last day! Papa was in good health and our departure was scheduled a month ahead. I shared my angst with him and he told me to leave it to Guru Maharaj. I was surprised by his words but said nothing. A day later he told me he was bleeding but felt it was his old piles. We went to the doctor. It was cancer of the colon and I was caught in the vortex of medical protocols: surgery, chemo... He was operated upon and died 29 days later. Chemo never entered my life. He too had will his exit!
Now in 3 hours I will again be caught in the same eddy but this time it seems I have no escape. Only time will tell how the battle goes.
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