The Cells must be crazy

The word ‘cancer’ and its associations is probably the strongest signal of impending mortality to the human mind. I remember how, when we were first faced with its inevitability, everyone would whisper the word softly and deferentially, in a tone that indicates fearful respect for something that one does not really understand. Almost like we were in a temple or a church.

So a cancer hospital seems to be an unlikely place to make new friends and revive broken and forgotten relationships. But when you remember the coming of winter by ‘that time when we were in room 304’, the hospital does become your second home. You start recognizing not just the doctors, nurses and the staff, but also the other ‘regulars’. You exchange notes on treatments and medicines and kids and hopes and dreams. You think about all that you have done and all that is still left to be done, and wonder if you can get the fickle caravan of time to stay awhile with you.

It is not a pretty sight, but in a strange and perverse way, it also gives you strength. You see little kids with their heads shaved off for the treatment – some smile mischievously through the pain, others howl with an agony that haunts you for days. Any feelings you may have of ‘why me/why my family’ disappear when you hear a 25 year old man talk reassuringly to his wife after his first chemo session – she is not at his bedside because she has just given birth to their first child.

So it didn’t appear that strange after all that Dad mended the breach with one of his oldest friends at his bedside in the hospital. Or that a dear friend with whom he had lost contact some years ago should emerge from the room next to his, herself undergoing chemotherapy. He also made a lot of new friends, and surprisingly, not just with the nurses (whose phone numbers and e-mails he assiduously noted in his notepad – a job that was later entrusted to us when his cataract started troubling him more).

Of all the new friends we made, probably the closest bond was with a brother-sister duo, whose father had been admitted in the room next to ours with lung cancer. Uncle was a role model – he ate and lived healthy (we heard him advising his daughter against all ‘white’ stuff while refusing sugar in his tea), shunned drinking and smoking, had been managing the entire household (including washing & cleaning) as his wife was an invalid, and faced his unexpected illness with cheerfulness and optimism. Mridula-di and Vishal clearly worshipped him, and why not?

Uncle’s first visit to the hospital coincided with dad’s later cycles, and they would often ‘consult’ with us veterans. Dad stayed in touch with Vishal, while I exchanged an occasional email with Mridula-di. Dad’s visits to the hospital reduced (touch wood), but sometimes he would run into Vishal, in which case he would always pass on detailed updates on Uncle to me.

Over the months, life limped on and then gathered momentum, and communication dwindled. Last week when I was in Delhi, Dad asked me if I’d heard from Mridula-di. He’d called Vishal a few days ago, but hadn’t got a response. We hoped Uncle was better.

Vishal called Dad today to tell him that Uncle died a few weeks ago. Apparently, Dr Chaturvedi, the friendly doctor who loved talking about his son’s video games when he caught me watching movies on my laptop, hadn’t given him much of a chance. But when you are battling the errant cells in your own body, the faintest chance can offer brilliant hope.

I wonder what Dad told Vishal when he heard the news. It is difficult mouthing clichés about death when you know how close you came to it yourself. All you can say is a silent thank you – to Life for giving you company, to Death for staying away. Amen.