Whacked on Tuesday,
Slept on Wednesday and Thursday
Rise up on Friday.
Where are the colours?
To try to prepare me as best they could, multiple people described what the process would do to me, and it all seemed really grey.
A dull shade of grey.
I had been so adamant with my oncologist.
“No, I am not going to agree to any chemotherapy.”
The surgeon and oncologist gently persuaded me to take a test called oncotype dx, and the result was not grey, but pretty black and white. My score was more than the acceptable 25%, and the decision was to go for chemotherapy, with grace and acceptance, since this would be beneficial for me in the long run.
And so it was decided – the colourless decision, and the day arrived.
We were in the hospital onco day care at the crack of dawn, to try and nab one of the two private rooms, which were given extremely fairly on a “first-come” basis. The colour of the room was also a shade of grey, although the nurses were in blue, and the doctor in white.
Initially a lot of transparent fluids went down the body, as if in preparation for the onslaught of the first red liquid. This was fast, and raced through in less than fifteen minutes, after which the pee turned into a bright orange, and stayed that way for a while.
Until now, other than the fact that I was sitting on a hospital bed, with at least one person to offer care and support, in the presence of the most empathetic nurses I have ever met, the process was quite uneventful. I found it difficult to read or listen to music or even engage in banter, so I would carry heaps of coloured paper, and spend my time making origami cranes, boxes, butterflies, fish, hearts, and soon my white hospital sheet would burst in colour. My room too, became more colourful as I invited the staff to select a paper item of their fancy.
I had learned origami from two Japanese exchange students who stayed with us decades ago, and every evening, when tired they would take out some paper and simply fold. The memory, the touch, the sight and smell grounded me during the hospital day of chemo, and for this I feel eternally grateful for having picked up the art.
The second drug was slow and colourless, and had the ability to make me sluggish as well. As I waited for it to seep into my cells, I would sleep a little, chat a little, and simply wait for the process to end a little so that I could go home.
It was the monsoon season, and often the journey back was equally grey.
rain cascades
as I watch damp walls
grow fungus like my cancer
I lay on my bed, and watched the growth on the ceiling, spore by spore, until it covered the whole surface, shrieking for a coat of white paint. Hopefully the cancer was on a reverse journey of reduction!
Two days after the treatment, I simply slept, and perhaps that was the best and only way for me to overcome any feelings of nausea or fatigue. After the first cycle, I thought I would be able to stomach “khichdi”, which is a mixture of dal and rice, cooked really soft. It is considered comfort food in our culture, and I remember my mother feeding me as a child during every minor illness such as the flu. However, I simply couldn’t bear the smell of the rice, and the yellow colour was repulsive. I could not bring myself to eat even a teaspoonful, as the smell of the turmeric and the colour induced even more feelings of nausea.
Marie Biscuits zindabad!
My cousin reminded me that when we were pregnant, simple Marie Biscuits helped us counter the morning sickness. How strange that the aftermath of chemotherapy is like having a baby – well, nausea certainly does not wait for one or the other.
For two days I lived on a diet of Marie Biscuits and curd and rice, the light beige and white colours patterned into my stomach, and suddenly it was Friday.
I woke up ravenous!
The warm yellow of scrambled eggs and brown multi-grain toast were both welcome.
And so the weekend was filled with shades of hunger, the body asking for the nourishment it probably needed.
Week two was interspersed with some tiredness, for which the best antidote was sleep.
Week three burst into colour, as if nothing had ever happened in my life!
Until Monday morning blues arrived in week four, to await whacky Tuesday once more.
Four such cycles,
A myriad colours,
Six months go by,
It’s now over!
Comments
Post a Comment