Dying To Be Me

by Anita Moorjani

  The games we have the ability to play in our minds amaze me. As Saturday morning meandered into afternoon, I didn’t want anyone to know about the diagnosis. If no one found out, then I wouldn’t have to deal with it. I could escape in my mind if not in my body.

  “We’re going to have to tell our families, you know,” Danny said rationally.

  “I know, but they’ll all make such a big deal about the whole thing. Can I just have one more day of peace and solitude before we tell anyone?” I bargained.

  That afternoon, however, my mother called to ask why she hadn’t heard from me regarding the biopsy results. Danny broke the news to her, and the next thing I knew, she was booking a flight to come to Hong Kong. My brother called, telling me he was also making arrangements to come and be with me.

  I didn’t want them to take it so seriously; I didn’t want all this drama. It made the situation so real! Their loving reactions shoved reality into my face like a cold, dead fish. There was no longer a way around the truth of the diagnosis.

  ON MONDAY, DANNY AND I ONCE MORE found ourselves in the clinic, openly talking about the options. I’d just done the MRI, and the doctor was reviewing the results with a look of kind concern on his face.

  “It’s stage 2A,” he said gently.

  “What does that mean?” asked Danny.

  “It means that it’s spread down into the chest and underarm area, but it’s contained within the upper body,” the doctor answered patiently. “Now, let’s start looking at the options available to you. My suggestion would be possibly a combination of chemotherapy and radiation.”

  “I will not have chemotherapy!” I emphatically announced to the room.

  “But darling, that’s pretty well all that’s open to us,” Danny said in surprise, and I turned to him with a look of determination.

  “Look what chemotherapy is doing to Soni, and how about your sister’s husband?” I replied.

  I didn’t want to have this conversation. I wanted things to go back to the way they were. I buried my face in my hands and attempted to push away my thoughts.

  “Do you really want me to die like that?” I could hear the terror in my voice. “They’re just wasting away and…and in so much pain. I’d rather die this very moment than allow that to happen to me.”

  “I know,” Danny said as he reached out and placed his gentle palm over my cold hand, which lay limply on the doctor’s desk. “But I don’t want to lose you. What else can be done?”

  We’d been married six years. We had so many dreams to live for, places we wanted to go, and things we wanted to do. But like the crumbling glaciers of the north, our dreams seemed to dissolve before us.

  In an attempt to pull myself away from my fears, I tried to reassure him: “There are other methods.” I turned to the doctor, seeking support for my assertion. “I’m convinced there are ways to beat cancer without chemotherapy.”

  THAT DAY, DANNY AND I BEGAN A LONG JOURNEY. TOGETHER, we seemed to join the heroes of ancient mythology as we trekked onward, determined to beat this disease that was now starting to take over our lives. From the beginning, my journey was fraught with a roller coaster of emotions, ranging from hopefulness to disappointment, terror, and finally anger.

  Prior to my diagnosis, one of my biggest fears in life had been getting cancer—it seemed to be occurring with more frequency to people I knew. Receiving my diagnosis as I was witnessing the disease claiming the lives of both my best friend and Danny’s brother-in-law was just confirming my observation. I’d been watching helplessly as chemotherapy appeared to be destroying the very bodies that it was supposed to heal. And now, here it was invading our own lives…pillaging our world and ravaging all it found.

  Thoughts of these ill loved ones sent rage and panic storming through me. The fear of cancer now gripped me in its vice; it seemed to shove my stomach into my throat with a clenched fist. The effects of chemotherapy frightened me even more. Every muscle tightened in a protective clamp and held onto life.

  Over the months prior to my own diagnosis, I’d been watching Soni’s health deteriorate rapidly. During that time, I’d constantly felt bad if I went out or had fun while she was sick in the hospital. It somehow felt wrong to be enjoying myself while she was suffering. As her health continued to deteriorate, it became more and more difficult for me to find enjoyment in life or free myself from the feelings of guilt.

  Now that I was dealing with my own cancer, it became more and more difficult to watch my friend get sicker and sicker, and I found myself spending less time with her. When I saw Soni, I was unable to stay positive or optimistic for her, or even for myself. I reached a point where I didn’t think it was helping either of us to spend as much time together as we used to. It frightened me just to observe what the cancer was doing to her body—as well as the effects of the treatment. I felt vulnerable at the thought that the same fate was possibly in store for me, and it was all just too much handle.

  THE DAY I GOT A CALL FROM SONI’S SISTER TELLING ME that my best friend’s battle was over, I broke down and wept. She’d finally left us.

  Although I was overcome with emotion and ached at the thought that she was gone, a small part of me was relieved that she was no longer in pain.

  The day of Soni’s funeral will be etched in my memory forever. I still can see the look of devastation on the faces of her parents at losing their beloved daughter; the shock of her younger sister and older brother at losing their dear sibling; the grief and helplessness on her husband’s face as he was coming to terms with his loss. But most of all, I’ll never forget the tearstained, innocent faces of her little children and their look of horror as they watched their mother’s coffin being thrown into the fires of the crematorium. That memory will haunt me until the end of my days. And that was the day that anger was added into the mix of my spectrum of emotions toward my plight.

  And to make matters worse, it wasn’t long after the funeral that we received the call telling us that Danny’s brother-in-law had lost his battle as well. He, too, left behind a young spouse (Danny’s younger sister) and two small children.

  I was angry at the cruel joke we call life. I couldn’t understand what it was all for. It seemed as though we lived for a few years; we learned from our struggles; and finally, when we got the hang of things, we ended up thrown on a fire in a wooden box. Surely it wasn’t supposed to happen so soon. It all seemed so meaningless, somehow—so pointless.

  CHAPTER 6

  Seeking Salvation

  Anger.

  Dread.

  Frustration.

  Fear.

  Desperation.

  That was the spectrum of emotions that I dealt with following Soni’s death. From morning to night, each day was an intense roller-coaster ride as I questioned, challenged, raged, and despaired over my situation. I felt these emotions not only for myself, but also for my family. I dreaded the thought of them having to deal with my death.

  My fear and desperation continued to drive me to research everything I could about holistic health and well-being, including Eastern healing systems. I was seeing several specialists in natural disciplines, and I also participated in different types of healing modalities. I tried hypnotherapy, meditated, prayed, chanted mantras, and took Chinese herbal remedies. Finally, I quit my freelance work and traveled to India to follow the healing system of ayurveda, while Danny stayed in Hong Kong. He couldn’t come with me because of his job, but he visited me twice, for two weeks each time. We also spoke on the phone almost every day because he wanted to be kept informed of how I was doing.

  I went to the town of Pune, where my father had passed away, to learn more about yoga and ayurveda from one of the masters. I spent a total of six months in India, and during that time, I finally felt as though I were regaining my health. My yoga master put me through a grueling regimen. I had to follow a very specific diet of vegetarian food and herbal remedies, along with a routine of yoga asanas (poses) at sunrise and sunset.

&nb
sp; I did this for months and actually started to feel much better. He was an amazing guru, who didn’t even believe that I had cancer. I told him that the medical doctors had conducted tests and confirmed I had lymphoma, to which he said, “Cancer is just a word that creates fear. Forget about that word, and let’s just focus on balancing your body. All illnesses are just symptoms of imbalance. No illness can remain when your entire system is in balance.”

  I really enjoyed my time under my yoga master’s tutelage, and he helped alleviate my fears around cancer. At the end of six months, he was convinced that I was healed—and so was I. I felt victorious, as though I’d finally made the breakthrough, and I was anxious to go back home and reunite with Danny. I’d missed him terribly and had so much to share with him.

  When I returned home to Hong Kong, at first many people remarked on how well I looked. I certainly felt better than I had in a long time, both physically and emotionally, but my jubilation was short-lived. It wasn’t long before others wanted to know what I’d been doing for so long in India and how I’d healed. When I told them about my ayurvedic regimen, however, I received mainly fear-based and negative responses. These were well-meaning people who genuinely cared about me and my well-being, and they were skeptical about my choices, which is why they had such a great impact on me. Most believed that cancer couldn’t be treated in that way, and I slowly felt the doubts and fear creeping back into my psyche as I defended my position.

  In hindsight, when that began to happen, I should have gone back to India to regain my health again. Instead, I actually started to be influenced by the skepticism I was facing over my choice of treatment, so I remained in Hong Kong.

  I attempted to understand Traditional Chinese Medicine (TCM), since it’s commonly practiced here. However, because it conflicted so much with ayurveda, I was left feeling very confused. In ayurveda, you’re encouraged to be vegetarian; whereas in TCM, you’re encouraged to consume meat, particularly pork. In the Indian system, meats such as pork and beef are the worst things you can eat.

  To make matters worse, I turned to Western naturopathy for help because I was so bewildered. This not only added to the confusion, but also increased my fears. I was getting conflicting messages from every discipline. In Western naturopathic systems, sugar and dairy are considered absolute no-nos—in fact, they’re seen as foods that feed the growth of cancer cells. According to the systems I was researching, sugar feeds the mutated cells. In ayurveda, on the other hand, dairy is a must; and sugar and sweet foods are required as part of a balanced diet, based on balancing all the different taste buds.

  So I became very stressed about food and was afraid of eating almost anything. I didn’t know what was good for me and what wasn’t, because each system of healing espoused a different truth, and they all conflicted with each other. This confusion only added to my already overwhelming fears. And as the terror tightly gripped me in its vice once more, I watched helplessly as my health rapidly deteriorated.

  I FELT THE NEED TO BE ALONE MOST OF THE TIME and only let those closest to me into my life. I wanted to shut out reality in an attempt to shut out the truth. I couldn’t bear how people looked at me and treated me. As my health declined, I didn’t like the way others felt sorry for me and made allowances for me, as though I were different or not normal. I also felt very uncomfortable about the way those from my culture thought it was my karma—that I must have done something in a previous life to warrant this punishment. Because I, too, believed in karma, it made me feel as though I had done something to be ashamed of in order to deserve this. It seemed as if I were being judged, and it also made me feel helpless.

  If this is retribution for something I did in a previous life, I wondered, how can I change it? What can I possibly do about it now? Thoughts like this would leave me feeling completely hopeless about my situation.

  But through all this, I put up a front. I laughed and smiled and made small talk, even when I didn’t want to, because it was important to me not to cause concern or worry anyone else with my condition. I didn’t want others to feel upset or uncomfortable because of my situation, so I continued to put the feelings and needs of everyone else before my own. So many people remarked on how “brave” I was, and how they admired the way I was dealing with my illness. Many, many individuals also commented on how positive and happy I always was—but that’s not how I felt inside.

  Danny was the only person who really understood what was going on and how much being around other people took a toll on me, so he slowly began acting as a protective shell around me, shutting people out. In the presence of others, I always felt the need to perform at being happy and positive, because I never wanted anyone to feel bad for me, nor did I want them to worry. Eventually, this started to really drain me, and I wouldn’t even answer the phone because I didn’t want to talk about my illness, I didn’t want anybody’s advice on how to handle what was going on inside me, and I didn’t want to repeatedly answer the endless questions that people who care tend to ask.

  I stopped going out and stayed in the safety of my own home, because apart from feeling unwell, I physically appeared very sick. My breathing was labored; my limbs were very, very thin; and I had difficulty holding my head up. The looks and comments I got because of this bothered me. I knew that people weren’t staring at me out of contempt or displeasure, but rather out of curiosity and, perhaps, a sense of pity. When I caught them looking, they shifted their eyes away abruptly, and I sensed their discomfort. I recognized the emotion behind their expressions, as I’d often felt it myself when seeing someone who was ill. They felt sorry for me. I soon came to accept that reaction as the norm from people who saw or interacted with me, and I felt sorry that my presence made others feel so uncomfortable, so at this point I stopped going out in public altogether.

  Soon, I found myself locked in my own cage of fear and desperation, where my experience of life was getting smaller and smaller. Time slid by in a slippery descent. To me, anyone who didn’t have cancer was lucky. I envied every healthy person I met. It didn’t matter what their living conditions were; they were without the fiend that was relentlessly plundering my body…my mind…my life.

  Each morning, I woke up with a glimmer of hope: Today may just be the day that things turn around. But each evening would end with the familiar, heavy feeling, every night bringing a greater sense of defeat than the day before.

  Disillusioned, I started to question what I was fighting so hard to keep. What did it all mean anyway? In my pain and fear, I could no longer see the purpose in continuing, and I felt myself getting tired. I was beginning to give up. I was getting ready to admit that I was beaten.

  BY THIS TIME, I WAS GOING IN AND OUT OF THE HOSPITAL for blood transfusions and other treatments. When I was at home, I spent most of my days sleeping or resting. I couldn’t go out or walk around for prolonged periods of time. Just half an hour of activity left me tired and out of breath. I was losing weight fast and perpetually running a low-grade fever.

  “Do you think my condition can still improve at this stage?” I asked my doctor one day, immediately after he’d finished conducting a routine body scan to assess my situation.

  He averted his eyes as he said, “I’ll send the nurse in to help you get dressed.” What he didn’t tell me was that he wanted to talk to Danny in private.

  “There’s little we can do now,” the doctor told him once they were safely outside. He looked directly at my husband and continued, “She has about three months to live at best. The latest scans show that the tumors have grown and increased in number, and the cancer has spread quite aggressively throughout her lymphatic system. It’s too late even for chemotherapy—her body can’t handle the toxicity at this stage. She’s so weak that any treatment now will just weaken her further and bring her closer to death. I’m so sorry.”

  Although Danny put on a brave front and didn’t tell me what the doctor had said at that time (he shared it with me many months later), I could tell something wa
sn’t right. At that point, he’d barely been going to work, but from the day of that doctor’s visit, he stopped going in altogether. He seemed reluctant to ever leave my side.

  One day, I asked him, “Am I going to die?”

  “We’re all going to die sometime,” he said.

  “I know that, silly,” I countered. “I mean now, because of the cancer. What if I die?”

  “Then I’m going to come and get you, and bring you back,” he responded gently, stroking my head as I lay on the bed.

  This was about six weeks after the last meeting with the doctor. By now, breathing had become a labored task, and an oxygen tank was my permanent companion. I couldn’t lie down, needing to be propped up at all times to keep from drowning in my own fluids. Every time I tried to lie flat, I started choking and had difficulty breathing, so changing my position in bed became an impossible task. My body broke out in lesions all over. So many toxins had invaded my system that my skin was forced to open and release the poisons within.

  Many times I woke up in a heavy sweat, my clothes soaked through—night sweats being a common symptom of lymphoma. Often, my skin itched all over, as though ants were crawling all over me. I recall one night when the itching was so strong that no matter how much I scratched myself, it wouldn’t subside. Danny got ice cubes from the freezer and put them into ziplock bags, and we rubbed these ice packs all over my legs, arms, and body in order to soothe my inflamed skin. It took a long time, but the itchiness finally subsided.

  Most of our nights were sleepless, and by this point I was completely dependent on Danny to care for me. He anticipated my every need before it arose. He dressed my wounds and helped me wash my hair. Although I felt guilty about him having to spend his days caring for me in this way, I knew that he never, ever acted out of obligation, duty, or responsibility. Everything he did sprang from pure love for me.