Dying To Be Me

by Anita Moorjani

  PROLOGUE

  The Day I “Died”

  Oh my God, I feel incredible! I’m so free and light! How come I’m not feeling any more pain in my body? Where has it all gone? Hey, why does it seem like my surroundings are moving away from me? But I’m not scared! Why am I not scared? Where has my fear gone? Oh wow, I can’t find the fear anymore!

  These were some of my thoughts as I was being rushed to the hospital. The world around me started to appear surreal and dreamlike, and I could feel myself slip farther and farther away from consciousness and into a coma. My organs were beginning to shut down as I succumbed to the cancer that had ravaged—no, devoured—my body for the past four years.

  It was February 2, 2006, a day that will be etched in my memory forever as the day I “died.”

  Although in a coma, I was acutely aware of everything that was happening around me, including the sense of urgency and emotional frenzy of my family as they rushed me to the hospital. When we arrived, the moment the oncologist saw me, her face filled with shock.

  “Your wife’s heart may still be beating,” she told my husband, Danny, “but, she’s not really in there. It’s too late to save her.”

  Who is the doctor talking about? I wondered. I’ve never felt better in my life! And why do Mum and Danny look so frightened and worried? Mum, please don’t cry. What’s wrong? Are you crying because of me? Don’t cry! I’m fine, really, dear Mama, I am!

  I thought I was speaking those words aloud, but nothing came out. I had no voice.

  I wanted to hug my mother, comfort her and tell her that I was fine, and I couldn’t comprehend why I was unable to do so. Why was my physical body not cooperating? Why was I just lying there, lifeless and limp, when all I wanted to do was to hug my beloved husband and mother, assuring them that I was fine and no longer in pain?

  Look, Danny—I can move around without my wheelchair. This feels so amazing! And I’m not connected to the oxygen tank anymore. Oh wow, my breathing is no longer labored, and my skin lesions are gone! They’re no longer weeping and painful. After four agonizing years, I’m finally healed!

  I was in a state of pure joy and jubilation. Finally, I was free from the pain caused by the cancer that had ravaged my body. I wanted them to be happy for me. Why weren’t they happy that my struggle was finally over, that their struggle was over? Why weren’t they sharing my jubilation? Couldn’t they see the joy I was feeling?

  “Please, there must be something you can do,” Danny and my mother pleaded with the doctor.

  “It’s only a matter of hours for her,” the oncologist argued. “Why didn’t your other doctors send her to us earlier? Her organs are already shutting down, and that’s why she has slipped into a coma. She won’t even make it through the night. You’re asking for the impossible. Whatever we administer at this stage could prove too toxic and fatal for her body, as her organs aren’t even functioning!”

  “Well, maybe,” Danny insisted, “but I’m not giving up on her!”

  My husband held my limp hand tightly as I lay there, and I was aware of the combination of anguish and helplessness in his voice. I wanted more than anything to relieve him of his suffering. I wanted him to know how wonderful I was feeling, but I felt helpless in trying to convey it.

  Don’t listen to the doctor, Danny; please don’t listen to her! Why is she saying that? I’m still here, and I’m fine. Better than fine—in fact, I feel great!

  I couldn’t understand why, but I experienced what everyone was going through—both my family members as well as the doctor. I could actually feel their fear, anxiety, helplessness, and despair. It was as though their emotions were mine. It was as though I became them.

  I’m feeling your pain, darling—I can feel all your emotions. Please don’t cry for me, and tell Mum not to cry for me, either. Please tell her!

  But as soon as I started to get emotionally attached to the drama taking place around me, I also felt myself being simultaneously pulled away, as though there were a bigger picture, a grander plan that was unfolding. I could feel my attachment to the scene receding as I began to realize that everything was perfect and going according to plan in the greater tapestry.

  It was then that the realization truly set in that I was actually dying.

  Ohh…I’m dying! Is this what it feels like? It’s nothing like I ever imagined. I feel so beautifully peaceful and calm…and I feel healed at last!

  I then understood that even if my physical body stopped, everything is still perfect in the greater tapestry of life, for we never truly die.

  I was still acutely aware of every detail unfolding before me as I observed the medical team wheeling my near-lifeless body to the intensive care unit. They were surrounding me in an emotional frenzy, hooking me up to machines while poking and prodding with needles and tubes.

  I felt no attachment to my limp body as it lay there on the hospital bed. It didn’t feel as though it were mine. It looked far too small and insignificant to house what I was experiencing. I felt free, liberated, and magnificent! Every pain, ache, sadness, and sorrow was gone. I was completely unencumbered, and I couldn’t recall feeling this way before—not ever.

  I then had a sense of being encompassed by something that I can only describe as pure, unconditional love, but even the word love doesn’t do it justice. It was the deepest kind of caring, and I’d never experienced it before. It was beyond any physical form of affection that we can imagine, and it was unconditional—this was mine, regardless of what I’d ever done. I didn’t have to do anything or behave a certain way to deserve it. This love was for me, no matter what!

  I felt completely bathed and renewed in this energy, and it made me feel as though I belonged, as though I’d finally arrived after all those years of struggle, pain, anxiety, and fear.

  I had finally come home.

  CHAPTER 1

  Growing Up Different

  India is a wonderful country, yet I wasn’t destined to live there. Although my parents are ethnically Indian, originating from Hyderabad Sindh, I was born in the beautiful country of Singapore.

  My paternal grandfather was a textile merchant who owned a family business in Sri Lanka, importing and exporting European, Indian, and Chinese textiles throughout the world. Because of the nature of our company, my father was required to travel around before finally settling down in what was the British colony of Hong Kong when I was just two years old.

  My origins immersed me in three cultures and languages simultaneously. Hong Kong, a vibrant and bustling metropolis, is a city predominantly populated by Chinese, so I learned to speak Cantonese with the local people. My parents sent both my brother, Anoop, and me to British schools, where the teaching was in English, and most of my schoolmates were British expatriates. At home, however, my family spoke our native Sindhi language and practiced the Hindu way of life.

  My father was a tall, handsome man, who commanded respect from his family. Although I knew he loved us, his manner was strict, and he expected us to conform to his rules. I was afraid of him, and as a child, I made sure that I never crossed him. In contrast, my mother was always kindly toward both my brother and myself, and I never feared sharing my feelings with her.

  I absolutely adored Anoop, and we’ve been very close our whole lives, even though he’s five years older than I am. For a child, this is a substantial age gap, so we rarely played together, nor did we ever squabble. Instead, I looked up to him, and he was very protective of me. I felt very safe when he was around, and knew that I could speak to him about anything. He has always been a stronger male influence in my life than my father.

  As traditional Hindus, my parents had an arranged marriage, and they hoped to someday set up suitable matches for Anoop and me when we were old enough. Also, traditionally, a woman would be required to be subservient to her husband and to the men of the household.

  Such gender inequality is rife in my culture. As a young child, however, I didn’t question these values and took for granted
that this is the way things were supposed to be. My first uncomfortable experience with this disparity came at the tender age of six when I overheard a conversation between another lady and my mother.

  “Were you disappointed that your second child was a girl when she was born?” this woman asked in our Indian dialect.

  I felt a sense of anxiety rise within me as I awaited the response.

  “No, of course not. I love my daughter!” my mother replied, much to my relief.

  “But girls are a problem, especially when they grow up,” the woman said. “With girls, you have to make sure they don’t get spoiled, otherwise they won’t get a good husband. And the amount of the dowry that’s required to get a daughter married only gets higher with each passing year!”

  “You can’t predict the future. Every child, whether girl or boy, brings with them their own fate,” I recall my mother replying wisely.

  “Well, I’m happy that I have two sons!” the woman said proudly. Even my young mind was able to detect the sense of achievement she felt as she made that statement.

  Later, when my mother and I were alone together, I asked, “Mama, is it true that girls are a problem?”

  “No, of course not, Beta darling,” she responded. (Beta is an affectionate term for “my child” in our dialect.)

  My mother pulled me close and gave me a hug, and at that moment, I recall thinking, I never want to be a problem to my parents just because I’m a girl. I don’t want them to ever wish I were born a boy.

  OUR FIRST HOME IN HONG KONG WAS an apartment in a nine-story building in Happy Valley overlooking the horse-racing track. I used to spend hours looking out the window at the jockeys in their colorful silks, training the horses for the weekend races.

  The tramline ran along the main road outside our apartment block, and the trams would noisily interrupt my daydreams as they rumbled past below me while I gazed out of our seventh-floor apartment window.

  Most mornings I’d roll myself out of bed to the familiar rich fragrance of sandalwood and rose-scented incense. I’ve always loved the aroma, as it offered me a sense of peace and serenity. I’d usually find my mother, dressed in one of her myriad colored salwaar kameez (traditional Indian dress), made mostly of fine Indian silks or French chiffons, about to enter our home shrine.

  Every morning, my parents meditated, prayed, and chanted mantras at our shrine in front of the deities Krishna, Laxmi, Shiva, Hanuman, and Ganesha. They did this to raise their consciousness for inner strength as they faced another day. My parents followed the scriptures contained within the Hindu Vedas, as well as the teachings of Guru Nanak and his holy book, the Guru Granth Sahib.

  I often sat in front of the shrine and watched my parents intently as they lit the incense and waved it in a circular motion in front of the little statues and pictures of the various gods and goddesses, while chanting their puja (Hindu prayer), and I would emulate them.

  Later on, I’d watch our Chinese nanny, Ah Fong, attend to her various chores as she chattered to me in Cantonese. Her tiny body, dressed in the traditional black-and-white samfoo (traditional Chinese dress), made quick little movements as she scurried through the house. I was very attached to Ah Fong. She’d been with us since I was two years old, and I couldn’t remember a time when she wasn’t part of our family.

  ON A TYPICAL WEEKDAY, I WOULDN’T SEE my parents until early evening. Ah Fong would pick me up from school, and after going home for lunch, she often took me to the market to purchase fresh food and produce for our household. We traveled by tram, and I used to delight in going with her on those outings.

  We hopped onto the tram as it stopped on the street right outside my apartment building. It was such an adventure for me. I gazed out the window as the tram made its way through the crowded, narrow streets of Hong Kong; through Happy Valley, Causeway Bay, and Wan Chai; and then we got off at the market, Ah Fong gripping my little hand tightly. I delighted in taking in all the sights, smells, and sounds of my surroundings. My parents never took me to such exciting places! They only traveled by car and shopped in department stores, which I thought was dull in comparison to this kaleidoscope of color and sensation.

  The markets sold everything, from fresh produce and household goods to trinkets and baubles. The vendors called out their wares, and the stalls were in no special order. Vegetable stalls were interspersed with stalls selling shoes, flowers, pots and pans, cheap plastic toys, colorful arrays of fresh fruit, costume jewelry, balloons, fresh fish, meat, socks and stockings, colorful napkins and towels, tablecloths, and so on, most of them with the wares spilling out onto the street. I was mesmerized for hours.

  “Ah Fong, Ah Fong! Look at that! What’s that man doing with the snake?” I cried out excitedly in my fluent Cantonese.

  “That’s a snake vendor. He’s going to tie up that snake, and that family is going to take it home to make snake soup,” Ah Fong replied.

  I continued to watch in wide-eyed wonder as the snake writhed to fight for its freedom in the skillful hands of its handler—but to no avail. I felt compassion for the poor creature as it was expertly tied up with bamboo strips and caged in wire meshing.

  Nevertheless, I absolutely loved going to the markets with Ah Fong. These little outings were a field day for my strong sense of adventure!

  EVEN AFTER MANY YEARS OF LIVING WITH US, Ah Fong still lowered her eyes and averted her gaze each time my mother or father entered the room. Being an inquisitive child, I flooded her with questions about everything, including her behavior. In my mind, I was always trying to reconcile the cultural differences between Ah Fong and my parents.

  “How come you do that?” my six-year-old self wanted to know.

  “How come I do what?” Ah Fong replied

  “How come you look down when my parents come near you?” I asked in Cantonese.

  “To show respect,” she explained

  “How come?”

  “Your parents are my employers. I want to show I respect them and realize that they are my superiors.”

  “Are they your superiors?” I was amazed by this piece of information.

  “Yes, because they give me work.”

  “Am I your superior?” I asked

  Ah Fong laughed good-naturedly, as she was used to my persistently inquiring mind.

  “No, you didn’t give me work. I’m here to look after you.”

  “Oh, okay,” I called back as I left to play with my new doll.

  I also loved playing with Ah Fong’s daughter, Ah Moh Yee. From the time I was about five years old, Ah Moh Yee came to stay with her mother at our home on the weekends. She was only a year older than I, and because I spoke fluent Cantonese, we became friends. I really enjoyed her company. We played together with my toys, and we also went to the nearby park together. My parents were very happy for me to have a live-in playmate every weekend.

  Sunday being Ah Fong’s day off, she took Ah Mo Yee out for lunch and then dropped her daughter back at her own parents’ home, where she lived during the week. (Although I never questioned it at the time, looking back, I realize that Ah Fong was a single mother, bringing up Ah Mo Yee with the help of her family.) Ah Fong took me with her if I wasn’t going out with my parents, and I really cherished those outings.

  As usual, we traveled everywhere by tram, beginning by going to a Chinese food stall for a meal. These places, called dai pai dong in Cantonese, were outdoors on the street, so we sat on little wooden stools, slurping bowls of hot noodles and dumplings in soup while traffic drove past. After the meal, Ah Fong took us to the home where Ah Mo Yee lived with her grandparents, a modest and sparsely furnished low-rise Chinese-style walk-up loft apartment. I made my way around the dark, stone interior of the apartment, my curious mind wanting to explore every corner, as Ah Fong sipped tea with her parents. They drank tea out of little cups with colorful enamel designs of the animals from the Chinese zodiac, such as dragons or tigers, while I had a glass tumbler filled with juice or sweet tea.

&n
bsp; I never got bored of going there, and even if I tired of the conversation, I enjoyed looking out of the large arched windows at the street below, where the dried-seafood vendors laid out fresh scallops and fish onto straw matting to dry out on the side of the road in the strong afternoon sun.

  THUS, MY CHILDHOOD WAS A MIXTURE of East and West. Since Hong Kong was a British colony mainly inhabited by Chinese, Christmas and Easter were celebrated with the same enthusiasm as the Hungry Ghost and Mid-Autumn Moon Festivals.

  Ah Fong and Ah Mo Yee taught me about Chinese traditions and beliefs, as well as the meaning behind all the festivals, and I loved the fact that Ah Mo Yee stayed with us during all her holidays. For example, the Hungry Ghost Festival was held on the 14th night of the seventh month of the lunar calendar. During that day, families prayed for the pains of their deceased relatives and gave offerings to their ancestors who had died.

  Anoop and I watched Ah Fong and Ah Mo Yee, as well as Ah Chun, the cook, make offerings to their deceased relatives by burning effigies of fine goods made of paper. They lit a fire inside a large urn at the back of our home, at the bottom of the stairwell behind the kitchen, and fed the paper to the fire. The effigies resembled cars, houses, and even fake money. It was anticipated that their ancestors were receiving these luxuries in the other realm.

  “Ah Fong, does your grandpa really receive a house in heaven if you burn that paper house?” I asked curiously.

  “Yes, Anita. My grandparents expect me to continue to remember them and support them, even in the afterlife. We all have to respect our ancestors,” she told me.

  Ah Fong, Ah Chun, and Ah Mo Yee then sat down to a meal at their table at the back of the kitchen, which Ah Chun had spent a fair part of the day preparing, with an extra place set at the table for the deceased relatives to join in the festivities. There were offerings of food in front of the extra place set for the departed. I often joined them for this meal, and showed genuine concern about whether the ancestors were getting enough food put in front of them!