Notes from the hospital

Every two weeks, M and I have to spend an entire day at the hospital, taking care of someone at home who is undergoing chemotherapy. ‘Cancer’ is a scary word. In movies, cancer is a convenient way to kill off a character. You don’t have to explain what cancer it is, which stage it is in, what are the treatment options and so on. The word cancer is presented to the audience as a death sentence; everyone weeps and the next thing you know, the character is dead. The graphic visuals that we have to watch in the ads against tobacco also cement the perception that cancer means death, and that it’s your fault you’re here.

Perhaps it is because of this, there’s so much fear and stigma associated with the word. When we heard the news, it wasn’t easy to digest. We knew that the road ahead was going to be difficult, and that we would have to make significant adjustments to our current lifestyle to get through this.

The diagnosis came months after grappling with various assorted symptoms that could have been just about anything — and it is in retrospect that it all made sense. The bad guy was cancer. Sneaky little bitch.

The patient is obviously at the centre of things, but the process takes a toll on caregivers too. How much information do you share with someone who is already in a vulnerable space? Does Googling various studies help you come to terms with it, or does it just make you feel all the more hopeless? Are you allowed to laugh and joke around like you used to? Is it all right to feel frustrated, resentful even, that your life has been suddenly altered? Is it so wrong to want a break from it all?

After the PET scan confirmed what the doctor had suspected, we had to do a biopsy to figure out what cancer it is. But nothing is so simple. Fighting cancer is like going to war. You need an army of doctors, and they have to know everything there is to know about the patient before they can think of slaying the beast.

The commander of this army that we chose is Dr SP. He’s a tall man with an imposing nose and a French beard. If you replace his white coat with black robes, he will fit right into Hogwarts. Whenever he passes by me (he never makes eye contact with anyone unless necessary), I have to resist the urge to get up and bow. I won’t be surprised at all to discover that he moonlights as a wizard and has a wand inside his coat. I don’t know if all oncologists have this commanding presence, given the enemy that they’re fighting, but Dr SP certainly does. M and I are like obedient children when he’s around, not daring to speak unless he speaks first.

We did all the tests that Dr SP wanted done before we could begin. The patient under our care was in a fragile state at this point — physically and mentally. Even walking from the parking lot to the hospital involved a Herculean effort. It was difficult to watch someone we cared about struggling so much. But as much as possible, I was determined to be cheerful. It’s my natural state of existence, and I didn’t think altering it was going to benefit anyone.

M and I agreed that turning the house into a place of moaning and groaning wasn’t going to help. This was going to take time, and we had to keep a ‘chin up’ attitude if we were to survive it. So, we cracked silly jokes, turned up the music in the car when we were taking the patient to the hospital, asked him questions about his childhood and growing up years — and generally behaved like nothing earth-shattering was happening. At home, we told our daughter the truth but added that we would keep things as close to normalcy as possible. She took it like a champ.

We had to wait for nearly two weeks after the biopsy to know what sort of cancer it was because the sample had to be sent to an expert in another city. There came the silver lining in the clouds — it was diagnosed as Hodgkins Lymphoma, a type of cancer that’s considered treatable even in advanced stages. We broke the news to the patient — and that was an evening when everyone at home was sad and depressed, so we shall fast forward to better days. Just imagine SPB singing to Ilaiyaraaja’s music to fill the gap.

So, chemo was set to begin. But of course, there were more tests to be done before that. I’ve lost count of how many we have done so far. Most days that would take several hours at the hospital, M and I went together so we could take turns at being with the patient. Being together helped us share the emotional load of what was happening. This meant us missing out on work and leisure hours, but we found ways to reach out to each other and make sure that we were doing okay. We communicated like our cat sometimes — slow blinking to tell the other person that we cared — in a crowded room.

We’re used to chemo days now. We know what to pack, how long each drip will take, when to ask the patient to take bathroom breaks, which nurse has the biggest smile, which food items to order for the patient, which beverage at the canteen is the best, what lunch to get for ourselves and so on. We’re semi-veterans at the art of this war now.

But Day 1 of chemo was difficult because we didn’t know what to expect. Will the patient be able to take it? Will we be strong enough to watch from the sidelines? What about the effects later? Will we be able to manage at home? Still, the daughter baked an ‘All the Best’ cake for all of us, and especially the patient, before this D-day. We were determined to stay positive because…well, what other choice did we have?

But surprisingly, chemo wasn’t as bad as we feared it to be. M and I took turns sitting with the patient in the chemo ward, talking to him about this and that. The idea was to talk to him about anything and everything except the illness. We frequently laughed. Slowly, over the days and weeks and months, we began observing changes in the patient. From not being able to pull up his own socks, he started going for walks and even lifting my spare set of dumbbells. He read Kalki’s novels.

In all this time, I learnt a lot about the gossamer thread that we call life. There was S, who came on the same days as our patient, for her chemo. She was only 43 and had breast cancer. By the third time we saw her, she was bald and had covered her head with a dupatta. I never commented on it but gave her a bright smile whenever I saw her and wished her luck.

There was J, a sprightly, elderly man who had received his diagnosis just a week ago. Small intestine cancer. He was sitting next to me in the waiting area and had so many questions about chemo. How long would it take? What would the side effects be? How expensive was it going to be? I answered all his questions as much as I could, and then noticed that he kept asking me the same questions again and again. J was nervous. He just wanted to talk. So, I cracked my bad jokes with him. And then, I told him that there was hope and that he would be okay soon. I didn’t know if this was the right thing to say, but I sensed that this was what he wanted to hear. Suddenly, his eyes filled with tears, and he looked away. Then, he turned and smiled at me, and I smiled back at him.

There was N, a middle-aged woman whose husband was diagnosed with cancer last year. They’ve done multiple surgeries on him, but it keeps coming back. N was exhausted. She didn’t think her husband was going to make it. Their daughter had a busy career and N was making the hospital runs by herself. I knew my words of consolation would be of no use to her. N had spent a long time in this battlefield, she knew it like the back of her hand. So, I just listened as she ranted. When it was time to go, I squeezed her hand and left.

Most times, I keep my spirits up. I think about the lemon tea at the canteen that I really like. I make faces at the kids I see around. I try to make friends with the cats that jump from the trees to the roof. I take my laptop along with me and try to finish work. Sometimes, I call up celebrities I have to speak to for my articles, sometimes I edit assignments from my creative writing workshop, sometimes I read thrillers on my Kindle. Sometimes, I stand and stare at the wind moving through the leaves.

Just sometimes, my heart breaks when I see a seven-year-old being taken inside for a PET scan, his face alive with mischief.

We are better than where we were at the beginning of this rocky road. At least, we know the terrain now. Somewhat. There’s still a long battle left. We know this isn’t over yet, not by a long shot. But we’re trudging along. One foot ahead of the other, one day at a time. One song at a time, one bad joke at a time. One breath at a time. But together, all together.