“I’m stuck here because of COVID. I hope I’ll be able to travel in 6 months. I want to be there for your surgery,” my friend said, sitting in Singapore during the advent of the pandemic. I was found to have a fibroid in the uterus, which needed to be surgically removed. I decided to postpone the surgery keeping in mind the uncertainty of the raging virus and my friend’s absence.
In 2021: “I think you need to get that fibroid surgery done. I can’t see you in pain each month and I want you to be fit since you are going to take care of me through this long, arduous journey with Tilotama,” my friend insisted, when she was diagnosed with Lymphoma and was getting set for her first chemo. I gave it serious thought and came back to her. “If I get the surgery done, I need to rest for a week. Also, I might be restricted from carrying heavy things. With your chemo scheduled every alternate week, I don’t want to be in a position where I’m unable to hold you, should you fall or trip or remain incapacitated. I don’t know what to expect from these chemo sessions,” I stated, fraught with ambiguities.
She tried her best to convince me, but I was adamant.
It was the first week of June, 2022. “I guess it is now time to focus on you. I want to be there is what I told you, right? Let’s get that surgery done,” my friend ordered. “But on one condition,” I cut in. She looked up, quizzical. “I want to enjoy a solo trip. I just want that break, away from everything and everyone,” I said, expecting this overprotective figure to get into combative mode to deny my wish. “Go ahead, I’ll book your tickets. Have you thought of a place?” she asked. I jumped in joy.
If you thought this seemed easy, a challenge came in the form of my father, who wasn’t too happy with this solo trip plan. “Don’t you want to go with your family? Have we become strangers to you?” was his instant remark, laced with sarcasm. It took me exactly 14 days to convince my family, decide on the destination, make the booking (actually my friend did), and get set to fly to Mangalore. I took the help of my dad to arrange the cab and accommodation so he can be at peace knowing he is sending his daughter to a known location.
While I know Tilotama gave my friend a hard time, I had my share of troubles - handling people, making time for each, worrying about those I couldn’t make time for, handling those who were sensitive and insensitive to the situation - all this while stressing over her health. I was buoyantly headed to the airport when she called, “Have you made an itinerary of the places to visit there?” I responded saying yes. “Okay, send it to me so I will remind you,” she remarked. I interrupted, “No way. I don’t want you chasing me with your ‘it’s late, get ready’ and ‘it’s late, get back to the hotel’.” We both laughed and she agreed she wouldn’t bother me with her fastidious nature.
The two days of my trip flew by. I went to the beach, kept watching the waves wash away the mindless vandals residing in my brain. I gorged on chaat items and Mangalorean delicacies (strictly vegetarian). I walked the lengths and breadths of the city’s shopping streets, vlogging the journey too. I met a few friends, some even sent a few goodies to my room. I sailed on a boat, dancing to the backwaters rippling under. I spent quiet evenings with a drink. I even tried the native arrack. I dawdled back to Bengaluru.
I returned just in time as my surgery was scheduled the very next day - June 21. We rushed to the hospital with my parents and my friend. My parents kept saying, “Why are you troubling your friend? She is just recovering.” They never believed me when I said, “To her, this means the world. She wants to be there and she won’t take no for an answer - be it me, you or her folks.” I know the feeling. Just as I wouldn’t rest in peace if I weren’t there when she is unwell, forget being hospitalised.
We didn’t sleep that night. I was on edge, and I knew all of them were too. We arranged three passes at the hospital. Nobody was willing to stay back at home. Whenever my friend was hospitalised, she never let me sit on the patient’s bed. This time, she didn’t let me sit on the bed, nor wear the patient’s gown until it was time for surgery. When the IV needle was inserted, she was, as usual, holding her breath. “You can apply this Prilox. It will numb the skin there,” she told me, biting her nails. I asked her to close her eyes. The cannula was set and I was steadily wheeled into the operation theatre.
Oh! I forgot to mention that I had a swollen lump below the jaw on my left a day before the surgery. The anesthetist examined me at the operation theatre and said that a tube would be inserted down my throat to facilitate my breathing while I’m knocked out. “I don’t think that should interfere with this swelling. Seems like an enlarged lymph node pointing to an infection. Anyway, we’ll complete this surgery first,” he commented. I was made to lie down on a flat, metal bed. It was mighty cold. I saw my gynecologist who said hi. I was just thinking if my friend would have found all this overwhelming when she was in the OT. That was the last thought and I was out like the light.
I woke up groggy. My eyes kept closing and my body kept shivering. I felt pain in my abdomen. “No, not pain. It’s those cramps,” I screamed. It was still dark. I felt a nurse cover me with blankets. I was familiar with this. I have seen nurses do the same to my friend at the recovery room. “Am I in the recovery room?” I blurted aloud. My eyes opened a bit. I saw several beds. I saw a few nurses running helter skelter. I felt that pain. My abdomen was cramping. I held my hand out trying to call the nurse. I told her about the cramps. It’s like period cramps. “Calm down. You are on painkillers,” she comforted me, while adjusting the warm bags near my ears. “Ah! I like that,” I said, before drifting back to sleep.
After another ten minutes, I woke up and I saw the time. 11.30 am. I was wheeled in at 8.30 am. What could have taken so long, I wondered. I saw the nurse frantically dialing a number at the desk. I called out to her to find out if she was trying to reach my folks. She nodded. I gave her my friend’s number and stated, “I’m sure she must be waiting outside.”
There she was as I was wheeled out. “Hi baby!” she exclaimed. I smiled. She tagged along as I was shifted to the ward. My parents were waiting for me there, feeling miserable that their numbers weren’t reachable when the nurse tried calling. “Don’t worry. I know this girl would have insisted on staying there throughout,” I mentioned. All agreed. “I didn’t even want to go up for breakfast. I knew you were there for me throughout,” she gasped, “I even wanted to buy some juice and keep it with me, just like you did.”
“The nurses will give me juice here,” I croaked. My throat was sore and dry. I was still very sleepy. They narrated to me the entire ordeal outside the operation theatre, while I was under GA. Apparently, the 15-minute surgery went on for nearly an hour. The doctor was supposed to insert a hormonal intrauterine device called Mirena, which acts like a contraception, but could be useful for my periods. “The doctor decided against it,” my mother said. Just when I wondered why, the gynecologist walked in.
She is tall and very smart. Hearing our conversation, she explained, “I took out 90% of your fibroid and I am very happy. It was CT-guided and I successfully managed this. That’s why the surgery took time. If I wasn’t able to succeed in that, I’d have opted for Mirena.” I questioned her about the persistent cramp-like pain. She said it would be there for a day or two and that I could take a Dolo. She also examined the swelling and that's when my genius buddy revealed to the doctor about the cavity in my mouth. The doc put me on antibiotics and asked me to visit her a week later.
I was bleeding. The pain lingered through the day. My friend was on her toes and I didn’t even ask her if she was feeling okay. She helped me to the restroom, fed me, tucked me in my bed, and fussed over me. Of course, my parents were anxious and putting themselves out because this is the first time they are seeing their daughter in the hospital. I slept better but I don’t think others did.
The next day, I was better. I was ready to be discharged from the hospital. I felt a bit exhausted and I couldn’t fathom what my friend would have gone through in the last few months. She kept a reminder for my tablets, she’d even hand deliver them. I just don’t know how she found the energy or the resolve. She was there through the entire week, taking care of my every need.
The review went okay. I completed my cycle before the visit to the hospital. I was definitely getting better with the cramps. The scan went well. The swelling receded. I was advised to visit the dentist soon but I did suffer from constipation. The doc advised me to ensure loose stools and I was good to go.
“See baby, I’m back in action. This was my test. My endurance test. I pulled it off, right!” she beamed. I hugged her tight. I couldn’t thank her enough. “Just like you’d say, I couldn’t have done this without you,” I asserted. I realised the importance of good support systems in recovery, and we found that in each other. We’ll continue to.
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