“I got through all seven rounds and in the end, was rejected,” my friend once said, disappointed that she didn’t get through. She was desperate to get into her dream company. She was so hopeful. “When I cleared every round, I stuck my neck out and flashed a bright smile. And God finally ensured to bury me underground again,” she then added, “I’m sad.”
I am with her. We always need to bend backwards to realise our dreams. They are never served on a silver platter. The moment we think we are nearing success, I would tell her, “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Failure is listening to us and scheming against us with its ready volunteers.” And we would laugh it away only to be challenged by those volunteers sooner than we imagined.
This time, after the emergency admission, things weren’t any different.
We didn’t sleep well. She was sweating and shivering alternately, and I kept switching between the fan and the AC to keep her as comfortable as possible. “It’s weird baby. I’m swea… on the head, the neck, under… arms and ba… of my knees. But my fore… arms, thighs and fa… ce… feel col... How can I hav… diff… temper… atures… in… same bo… dy…?” she expressed.
She was able to slowly and steadily complete sentences on day two. She smiled. Having read my thoughts, she said, “I am spea…in… better.”
Her joy knew no bounds. She never would show her teeth even while posing for a photo. This time, she was smiling ear to ear.
“I want to video ca… my par… ents,” she said. I chipped in when she was intermittently gasping for breath. She was still in need of the oxygen mask and her pulse rate was still high. She was struggling to swallow and her lips were cracking to the point of bleeding. But, she could connect sentences. That’s all that mattered for now. She was telling her parents, “My onco… said he’d fix me!”
She was talking to everyone - the nurses, the cleaning staff, the pantry fellow. She was telling them all about her job, her family and friends. She didn’t stop there. She asked each one, “Did you eat? Are you okay? How are things at your home? Thank you for taking care of me. I’m sorry for troubling you here. Shall I get you something that you like once I get discharged? What do you like?”
People could understand some of what she spoke, and if they didn’t, they simply nodded in acknowledgement. They turned to me, urging me to stop her from speaking so much. We were worried she was straining herself.
“Give your voice some rest. Remember, your throat is still dry. You are unable to drink water so frequently,” I said, while she agreed. Yet, when the nurse stepped in, she said, “Hi sis… I was jus… thin… king… o.. you.”
The day did bring in joy, though infinitesimal in quantity. I was thanking all the stars. The night then again was the same - a struggle between hot and cold. This time, we had to keep changing the pillow covers that were drenched in sweat.
The next morning, she woke up to a sudden bout of loose motion. She was drained. I took the help of the nurse on duty to shuttle her between the bed and the restroom. She couldn’t walk after three hours of this unending trauma. The doctor rushed in and sought a stool report, immediately put her on fluids again. One of the strong antibiotics prescribed for her - Piptaz - was suspected to cause this reaction, according to the doctor.
“We will change her antibiotics. The CT scan report points to PCP. Good we started her medication. We will monitor this closely,” the oncologist stressed. One of the team doctors pointed out that my friend had earlier complained of shortness of breath. An athlete in the past with shortness of breath is what led them to believe that she could perhaps have a lung infection. I was amazed by these doctors and the mystery of medical science. I remembered the way my friend talked around 15 days ago. She would say, “There are times when I complete my sitz bath and feel quite exhausted like now.” And she would stop to catch her breath. I felt a pang of guilt. Did I take her complaints too lightly?
She wasn’t eating much. I tried my best to make things interesting for her. While her mother sent some food, I ordered some soya milk, porridge and soup from the pantry. I tried to warm her food by placing the small cup of cooked rice or even milk in the kettle with boiling water. I didn’t want to leave her alone and run up to the microwave oven placed at the other end of the corridor. I kept feeding her every three hours - starting with coffee, fruits (with outer skin that can be peeled like banana, pomegranate, apple, cantelope, mango), soup, mixed rice with veggies to porridge, biscuits, badam milk, curd rice with vegetable gravy, Horlicks, etc. I felt like I was running a restaurant with limited resources that can provide my friend variety and keep her healthy.
That night, she felt dejected. “I was happy yesterday. I thought I was getting better. This seems like those job rejections. Each time I pop my head up, something hits me. I can’t take this any more. Let’s stop the chemo. I’ll live with Tilotama. Please baby. I just want to be,” she whispered.
I tried to cheer her up. “Didn’t our oncologist promise to fix you? He will be walking in here tomorrow with the perfect plan. You always look forward to his visit with 20 questions right? Let’s grill him tomorrow,” I said, as my heart felt as heavy as a 100-ton truck.
“I’m not writing any questions. I don’t want to ask anything. Let’s just quit all this. I want to call it quits,” she mumbled.
“What about me? Once all this is over, I was planning to amass your wealth in return for all this favour,” I joked.
“I will write the will right away,” she stated. She meant every word. She was ready to choose flight over fight.
I was stupefied. And she was sullen.
We couldn’t sleep. We were lost in darkness.
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