“I don’t think I mean anything to you because you never bid me a tearful adieu when you head back to Singapore. I’m the one crying buckets,” I’d always say to her. Each time I would drop her off at the airport, she’d carry a tissue pouch to handle the ‘water works’. “That’s not true. My heart sinks too and I just don’t show it,” would be her response.
This time, it was different.
I wanted her to go back to Singapore and pick up life from where she left. But I wanted her to stay here too. “I really want to go back soon. I am already missing so much at Google,” she said. Agreeing with her, I replied, “You will very soon. I can’t wait to see this Googler in action.” Wait, did I feel that lump in my throat, as I said it?
There was a lot to be done before her return. It seemed better to focus on this long list. It made me feel like her return lied ages away.
As always, my friend took out her notepad and wrote the headline: Things to do. This included ‘thank you’ gifts to the doctors who treated her, doctors who gave their second opinion, doctors who operated on her, doctors who advised and guided us out of sheer goodwill. That’s not all. We had to thank a lot of my friends, who gave me the right contacts, who supported me when I was in a spot, who arranged last-minute items needed for my friend. We also had to thank her friends who helped her sail through this journey from Bengaluru, Chennai to even Singapore. This covered her school gang, college mates, gym buddies and her work friends. Then we had a whole bunch of relatives to thank for their timely help when the family was stranded during emergencies. And finally, those well-wishers, who brought a smile to our faces while passing through those difficult chapters of life.
“This is indeed a team effort, baby,” my friend observed. I concurred. We settled on giving them plants with a personalised, hand-written message for each. “Plants are a good idea, baby. I was wondering if the doctors might hesitate when we give them gifts. But they seem to like plants,” she noted excitedly.
The personalised message was different for the hero we admire - her oncologist. “When are you leaving?” was the first question he asked when my friend entered his room. “Thank you very much,” she said, with a pout and a wink. The room resounded with our laughter. The hand-written note contained a record of his dialogues that we often fondly recollect. I still remember the times when she’d return home from her chemo, almost ready to collapse, but flashing a faint smile while mouthing the oncologist’s ‘dialogue of the day’. My friend can never design things without tables and charts. This card was specially printed at a photo studio with a table that explained the context, date and the punch dialogues of our real-life Superstar. “This is different. I will read it at leisure,” he said.
While we were making our rounds thanking those who made a difference, she constantly complained about her vision and her headache. “I still can’t see, and my headache shoots up when I look into the monitor,” she complained, while slowly easing herself into meetings. She constantly sported a wrinkled brow and swallowed an Ultracet.
We decided to get her eyes checked. The ophthalmologist explained that this could be a migraine and prescribed Naxdom. The doctor also suggested that she consider progressive lens if her vision doesn’t improve. However, Naxdom was of no use. “Ultracet seems to work better. But flashy lights and hunger trigger my headache, which is very migraine-like,” she commented.
Otherwise, she was doing okay. Her appetite was back. “Voracious appetite this is,” she remarked. Her general physician did say that this was natural. A body starved for months due to chemo can try to overcompensate once better. We just need to give it time.
The review was closing in. She met almost everyone. We had to plan hard to make time for this ‘thanksgiving’ activity as each of our folks were now yearning to spend private time with us respectively. We also wanted to roam the streets of Bengaluru. “I want to walk down Malleswaram’s 8th cross like we did in college,” she remarked. Our bucket list comprised: watching the latest Kamal Haasan movie, visiting the latest coffee shop opened in the city, walking down Church Street, dining at the latest 5-star hotel and having breakfast at popular restaurants. “I wouldn’t have done all this, if not for you,” she purred. “Yes, otherwise you are very boring,” I mumbled. Trust me when I say this. She is a home bird.
And man, by the time we ticked all that we finalised in that wishlist, it was a nightmare. Managing parents’ demands, curfews and family obligations, and executing our plan was akin to a NASA scientist launching a rocket while he had a gun pointed at him. “I should build a temple in your name for handling all this patiently and diplomatically,” she teased.
The headache was still a bother all along.
The oncologist suggested we meet a neurologist, who is also a headache specialist. During our consultation, the neurologist said that this looked more like “status migrainosus”, where the migraine lasts for more than 72 hours. At the same time, he recommended an MRI in the background of cancer. “This is just to rule out anything,” he announced. As we walked out, I was terrified. “Shall I book the MRI slot?” I asked her, trying hard to swallow my tears. “Calm down. Don’t be silly. With cancer, any doctor will suggest a scan first,” she said, hugging me. Tears of panic rolled down my cheeks. No matter how strong you are, you can never stop dreading Tilotama’s return.
We decided to let our oncologist take the final call. He said the MRI scan is not necessary now. “Onco said no need. I like our onco!” was a line she kept humming as we drove home.
She opted for progressive lens. Her headache was a wax and wane issue. She managed with Magrium tablets (containing magnesium), prescribed for two weeks. “I strongly feel these lenses will help me with my vision and headache,” she claimed. I just hoped her claims would be proven true soon. It may be a minor headache, after all, for many. But when Tilotama’s horrors lurk in the background, a headache is no longer trivial.
Headache aside, there were many challenges before her return. Her landlord had increased the rent and she was wondering if it would be worth it to find a new place. She virtually hunted for many accommodations, but the soaring prices and the added pressure of shifting home as soon as she landed there drove us into abandoning the plan altogether. “I think I’ll just continue here with the new rent. Perhaps after a year, I can consider moving. For now, I’ll have a home when I get there,” she declared. It made sense. There were added expenses in the form of cleaning, changing bulbs and servicing the AC.
Another challenge was an e-mail from Google questioning her status on the booster vaccine and questions raised by the Singapore ministry. When she received the notification from the ministry reminding her about the due date for the booster dose, she was halfway through her chemotherapy. She sent them a detailed e-mail explaining her condition, but did not keep Google in the loop. “I just don’t know how that slipped my mind. These days, I forget a lot of things. I guess it’s chemo brain,” she said. I’ve noticed the same. If there is an interruption, she forgets her trail of thought. Unlikely for a person who’s middle name is ‘multitasker’. Meanwhile, Google was intimated and the staff there obliged to help her out. “I have to take that vaccine soon as I land,” she added.
Her review was done and everything seemed good so far. When she was earlier confronted with challenges, she wanted me to travel with her to Singapore to help her settle down. I thought it best to travel later when her parents are back in India. I felt that’s the time she’s going to be lonely. Of course, thereafter she’ll have to manage life on her own. So, the tickets were booked for August 4 for my friend and her parents from Bengaluru to Singapore.
We were busy the week before her return; packing and re-packing, weighing and re-arranging. “Looks like we need to send one package through an agent,” she said, and that was organised too. With her parents heading with her, and items accumulated during her one-year stay, there were cartloads of clothes, medicines, food items, cosmetics and more. Another issue is these items are mainly used only by her. It’s better that she takes them along. I was quite shocked to find that I had one large suitcase too with my items alone. That means, I am heading back to my place, bag and baggage.
It was D-day. I started the day with a message to my mom. “Don’t worry. Think of Singapore as another area in Bengaluru. You can keep visiting this backyard,” was her heartwarming reply, followed by a GIF. I don’t know how she does that. She manages to find the right GIF for the right mood or occasion putting an unexpected smile on my face. Through all these months, she has been a silent force of unending support with her listening ears and her lending hands.
My mind raced back to August 29 last year when my friend arrived dragging her feet. We have come a long way, haven’t we? She sure knew what I was thinking. “You know I’ll always take care of you. And will remain ever grateful?” she affirmed. I didn’t make an attempt to stop my tears. They just kept rolling. She came to me with a tissue box and scooped me in her arms. I sobbed uncontrollably.
Her favourite aunt and cousin came home to bid farewell. Some of her aunts got together and gifted her a pair of earrings and a pendant. She looked elegant when she wore them. “Do you like it?” She bellowed. “Absolutely!” I whispered.
It was time to head to the airport. My dad called to say that his left leg was giving him trouble. “There’s acute pain and I'm unable to walk,” he cried. My friend asked him to stay home and rest, but he insisted on travelling to the airport to send her off. After all, we were all there together to receive her last year.
As we entered the airport, I felt my heart fall to pieces. I took a deep breath and got out of the car. I tried to keep my thoughts on helping them with the baggage trolley and arranging the porter, when she suddenly hugged me tight and said, “You’ve become a habit. It’s hard to say bye to you. Don’t make me miss you too much. Come to Singapore soon. Thank you for putting your life on hold for me. I promise I won’t rest until I put your life back on track.” Whoa! Did I hear her reduce to tears? I burst into tears as well. Her parents were silently weeping with their hands folded, expressing gratitude.
My friend quickly composed herself, took charge and led her parents into the terminal, all the while waving goodbye to me as I stood at the departure gate. I waved back with my mind dancing with glee (looking forward to her new life) and my heart drowning in sorrow (thinking old habits die hard).
We drove back home in silence.
P.S.: They say great villains make a great story. So, thank you Tilotama!
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