Dying To Be Me

by Anita Moorjani

It was then that I understood that my body is only a reflection of my internal state. If my inner self were aware of its greatness and connection with All-that-is, my body would soon reflect that and heal rapidly.

  Even though I always had a choice, I also discerned that there was something more…. It feels as though I have a purpose of some sort yet to fulfill. But what is it? How do I go about finding it?

  I perceived that I wouldn’t have to go out and search for what I was supposed to do—it would unfold before me. It involved helping lots of people—thousands, maybe tens of thousands, perhaps to share a message with them. But I wouldn’t have to pursue anything or work at figuring out how I was going to achieve that. I simply had to allow it to unfold.

  To access this state of allowing, the only thing I had to do was be myself! I realized that all those years, all I ever had to do was be myself, without judgment or feeling that I was flawed. At the same time, I understood that at the core, our essence is made of pure love. We are pure love—every single one of us. How can we not be, if we come from the Whole and return to it? I knew that realizing this meant never being afraid of who we are. Therefore, being love and being our true self is one and the same thing!

  As I experienced my biggest revelation, it felt like a bolt of lightning. I understood that merely by being the love I truly am, I would heal both myself and others. I’d never understood this before, yet it seemed so obvious. If we’re all One, all facets of the same Whole, which is unconditional love, then of course who we are is love! I knew that was really the only purpose of life: to be our self, live our truth, and be the love that we are.

  As though to confirm my realization, I became aware of both my father and Soni communicating to me: Now that you know the truth of who you really are, go back and live your life fearlessly!

  CHAPTER 9

  Realizing the Miracle

  As I lay there in the hospital, even before anyone informed my brother that I was in a coma and my final stages of life, he sensed something was wrong. Anoop was living in Pune, India, and something compelled him to contact a travel agent and book a flight to Hong Kong. When he called, he requested a ticket for later that very day because he felt a sense of urgency. The agent said that flights out of Pune were already fully booked, but there was one from Mumbai. Anoop took it, and rented a car to drive the four hours to get on that flight to Hong Kong.

  When Danny called my brother’s home in Pune to inform him of my condition and tell him to come as soon as possible, my sister-in-law, Mona, picked up the phone and told Danny that Anoop was already on his way.

  When Mona, who’s Buddhist, became aware of just how dire my condition was, she urgently organized a group of fellow Buddhists to chant for my healing.

  Meanwhile, here in Hong Kong, my mother was pacing up and down the corridor of the hospital, praying to Shiva for my life. She felt helpless, not knowing what more she could do, so she made her way to the Hindu temple—the very same one that my parents took me to as a child. She walked up the wide staircase at the entrance, through the courtyard, and into the main prayer hall where the large, life-size statues of the deities Krishna, Shiva, and Ganesha on their pedestals lined the front wall, painted and adorned in bright colors. My mother covered her head and sat before them with her head slightly bowed, speaking with them and drawing comfort from their presence.

  At the same time, a close family friend of ours named Linda, who’s a devout Catholic, organized a prayer group at her church. She told the priest about my situation, and they offered my name in prayer.

  As I lay comatose on my bed, with all the tubes coming out of my nose, mouth, and arms, my husband stayed by my side, whispering to me in order to let me know that he was there, telling me to come back.

  “We still have so much to do together, my darling,” I could hear Danny whispering. “Please, please come back. I’m going to wait right here for you, even if it takes a lifetime.”

  He’d stayed awake the whole night, watching all the dials and meters above my bed, waiting, not wanting to miss it if I were to take my last breath, willing me to come back.

  Dear, dear Danny. I hope you’ll always know how much I love you, I found myself wanting to communicate with him. Please don’t worry about me. I’m fine. I wish I could share with you what I now know. That body whose hand you’re holding isn’t the real me. We’ll always be together, connected through all of time and space. Nothing can separate us. Even if I physically die, we’ll never be apart. Everything is perfect, just as it is. I know that now, and I want you to know it, too.

  Then, at about 4 a.m., my body suddenly started choking. I was gagging as though I couldn’t get air. Danny panicked, thinking this was my last moment, and rang the emergency alarm. The nurses rushed in and agreed that I was choking, and one of them called the doctor. Then they turned my body around and started hitting me on my back.

  It took about 20 minutes for the doctor to get there, and he told Danny that my lungs were filled with liquid, and I was choking on my own fluid. The doctor ordered the nurses to bring in a pleural-effusion kit. After they brought in what looked like a transparent bag with a long needle, he inserted the needle through my back and into my lung, drawing out some liquid, which drained into the transparent bag. He repeated this three or four times, until there was what looked like almost a liter of liquid in the bag, and then he removed the needle. I could still see my body, and it was breathing easier now.

  My husband continued to stay at my bedside throughout the morning and well into the day, watching all the dials and meters above me and holding my hand.

  My brother arrived in Hong Kong in the afternoon and called Danny from the airport on his mobile phone.

  Danny told him, “Don’t even go home to put your luggage down. Just come straight to the hospital in a taxi. We don’t know how long we’ve got,” so Anoop came straight to the hospital with his bags.

  MY EYES STARTED TO FLICKER OPEN AROUND 4 P.M., and my vision was very blurred. I could barely see that the outline of the figure standing over me was Danny, and then I heard his voice: “She’s back!”

  He sounded so happy. It was the afternoon of February 3, about 30 hours after I’d entered the coma.

  Then I heard my brother’s voice, and I could feel myself trying to smile.

  “Hey, sis! Welcome back!” Anoop said with audible joy.

  “You made it!” I exclaimed. “I knew you were going to be here. I saw you coming on the plane.”

  He looked a little bewildered, but dismissed my comment. My family was just happy that I appeared to be coming around. My mother was there, too, smiling as she took my hand. I was confused because I didn’t realize I’d been comatose, and I couldn’t yet fully comprehend what was happening or understand that I was no longer in the other realm.

  My vision was slowly becoming clearer, and I could make out my family more easily. I saw Anoop’s suitcase just behind him against the wall.

  The doctor walked in and looked both surprised and pleased to see me awake. “Welcome back! We were all so worried about you!” he said.

  “Good evening. It’s good to see you again, Dr. Chan,” I replied, somewhat groggily.

  “How did you recognize me?” he asked with obvious surprise on his face.

  “Because I saw you,” I told him. “Aren’t you the one who removed the fluid from my lungs in the middle of the night because I was having difficulty breathing?”

  He was visibly puzzled as he said, “Yes, but you were in a coma the whole time. Your eyes were closed!” He tried to dismiss it as he went on, “This is a really pleasant surprise! I didn’t expect to see you awake, but I came to deliver some good news for your family. The test results for your liver and kidney function just came in and indicate that they’re starting to function again.” He looked very pleased.

  “But I knew they were starting to function,” I said blearily, feeling confused.

  “You couldn’t have known,” Dr. Chan assured me patiently. “This was
unexpected. Now get some rest,” he instructed as he left the room.

  My family was beaming, and looking more cheerful than I’d seen them in a long time. They thanked the doctor profusely for the good news as he went out.

  After Dr. Chan was gone, I asked my husband, “Why was he so surprised that I recognized him? I saw him treating me. Wasn’t he the doctor who told you my organs had already shut down, and that I wouldn’t make it and only had a few hours to live?”

  “How did you hear that?” Danny asked. “He didn’t say that in this room. We had that conversation down the corridor, about 40 feet away!”

  “I don’t know how I heard it. And I don’t understand why, but I already knew the test results of my organ function, even before the doctor came in,” I said.

  Although I was still very groggy, it was becoming apparent that something had definitely happened within me.

  OVER THE FOLLOWING DAYS, I WAS SLOWLY ABLE TO TELL my family what had happened in the other realm, and I also described a lot of things that had taken place while I was in the coma. I was able to relay to my awestruck family, almost verbatim, some of the conversations that had occurred not only around me, but also outside the room, down the hall, and in the waiting areas of the hospital. I could describe many of the procedures I’d undergone, and I identified the doctors and nurses who’d performed them, to the surprise of everyone around.

  I told the oncologist and my family how I’d had difficulty breathing and had begun to choke on my own fluid in the middle of the night, when my husband sounded the emergency alarm. I recounted how the nurses arrived and made an emergency call to the doctor, who came rushing in as everyone thought I was drawing my last breath. I described every detail of this incident, including what time it happened, much to everyone’s shocked surprise.

  I even identified the person who’d panicked when I was admitted. I told my family, “That’s the nurse who said my veins had all retracted. He went on and on about how my limbs had no flesh and I was all bones, so it was going to be impossible to find a vein to start an intravenous flow—in fact, his tone sounded like it was pointless to even try to find my veins!”

  My brother was upset by this piece of information and later admitted that he’d reprimanded the man, telling him: “My sister heard every word you said when you couldn’t find her veins. She could tell that you were ready to give up on her.”

  “I had no idea she could hear me! She was in a coma!” The nurse was both surprised and shocked, and subsequently apologized to me profusely for his insensitivity.

  WITHIN TWO DAYS OF COMING OUT of the coma, the doctors informed me that because my organs had miraculously started functioning again, the swelling caused by toxic buildup had subsided considerably. I was extremely positive and optimistic, requesting that the doctors remove the food tube because I was ready to eat independently. One of my oncologists protested, claiming that I was too malnourished and my body wasn’t absorbing nutrients. But I insisted that I knew I was ready for food—after all, my organs were functioning normally again. She reluctantly agreed, saying that if I didn’t eat properly, the device was going right back in again.

  The food tube was possibly the most uncomfortable of all the ones connected to my body. It was inserted through my nose and traveled down the back of my trachea into my stomach. Liquid protein was fed through it directly into my digestive system. The presence of this tube made my throat feel parched and dry and the inside of my nose itchy and uncomfortable. I was impatient to get rid of it.

  After the tube came out, the doctor suggested to my family that the best solid food for me right then was probably ice cream. Not only would it soothe the abrasions in my throat, it would be easy for me to digest without the added effort of needing to chew. My eyes lit up at the suggestion, and Danny set out to get me a tub of my favorite brand of chocolate ice cream.

  When the other oncologist performed his routine checkup, he couldn’t hide his surprise. “Your tumors have visibly shrunk—considerably—in just these three days!” he exclaimed incredulously. “And the swelling of all your glands has shrunk to almost half their previous size!”

  The following day, to my delight, the oxygen tube came out. The doctors tested me and realized I was breathing without any aid, so they removed it. I was already sitting up in bed, although my head had to be propped up with pillows because I was too weak to hold it up for any length of time. I was still in really high spirits. I wanted to talk to my family, and I was especially excited to see Anoop and catch up with him.

  By this point, I wanted to listen to my iPod, and I requested that Danny bring it to the hospital for me. Because of all the tubes and wires that were still plugged into me, plus the wound from the skin lesion on my neck, I couldn’t wear the earphones. So Danny connected a little pair of speakers and put them on my bedside table so that I could listen to my music.

  Because of my euphoric state, I continually wanted to listen to upbeat tunes, although I didn’t have the strength in my muscles to even get out of bed, let alone dance. But in my head, I was bopping away happily, and the music helped contribute to my ecstatic mood. At the time, I didn’t even fully understand why I was so positive—I just felt that I knew something.

  I felt like a child. I wanted my music, I wanted to eat ice cream and talk to my family members, and I was laughing and happy. I couldn’t get out of bed or move around, but everything seemed perfect in a way I’d never experienced before.

  Since I was still in the ICU, the doctors decided that I was becoming disruptive to the other patients who were seriously ill! Their family members had started to complain about the music, laughter, and chatter that was coming from my side of the curtain.

  “I don’t know what to make of you!” Dr. Chan said when he came to see me during his morning rounds. “I don’t even know what to write in your file. Your case is truly remarkable!”

  So on my fifth day in the hospital, I was transferred to a regular room, where I had the privacy to listen to my music and laugh as much as I pleased!

  SLOWLY—VERY SLOWLY IN FACT—THE UNDERSTANDING of what had happened was coming to me. As my mind cleared and I began to remember the details of what had taken place, I found myself wanting to cry about every little thing. There was a tinge of sadness at leaving behind the amazing beauty and freedom of the other realm. At the same time, I still found myself happy and grateful over being back and reconnecting with my family. I was crying tears of both regret and joy simultaneously.

  In addition, I felt a bond with everyone in a way I never had before—not only all the members of my family, but every nurse, doctor, and orderly who came to my room. I had an outpouring of love for each person who came to do something for me or take care of me in any way. This wasn’t a form of affection that I was familiar with. I felt as though I were connected to them all at a deep level and knew everything they were feeling and thinking, almost as though we shared the same mind.

  My bed was next to the window, and shortly after being transferred into the room, one of the nurses asked me if I’d like to sit up and look outside. I realized that I hadn’t seen the outside world for some time, so I felt excited by the prospect and said, “Yes, absolutely!”

  The nurse propped me up, and the moment I looked out the window, my eyes welled up. I couldn’t keep myself from crying. It hadn’t registered until that moment that the hospital was located only a few blocks away from my childhood home in Happy Valley.

  As I mentioned earlier, this wasn’t where I’d been going to for my treatments and blood transfusions over the last few years, which was more like a large clinic than a full scale hospital. The day I went into a coma was the first time I entered the doors of this facility.

  So there I was, looking at almost the very same view I had as a child. I could see the horse racetrack in front of the hospital building—and the tram line I’d ridden with Ah Fong! As I gazed teary eyed at the scenes of my childhood, I felt as though I’d come full circle.

  Oh
my God, I can’t believe this, I thought in wonder. Look at the trams, the park, the buildings from my childhood. What a message—I’m getting another chance! I can make a fresh start.

  Although the view was familiar to me and the scenery was ordinary, somehow the world looked brand-new. Everything seemed so fresh and sharp and beautiful, as though I were looking at it for the first time. The colors were brighter than I knew them to be, and I was noticing every detail as if for the first time. I looked at the surrounding buildings, one of which was the low-rise I grew up in; the park immediately across the street, which I visited when I was little; the trams trundling by; the cars driving past; the pedestrians walking along with their dogs or busily running errands. I saw everything with new eyes, as though I were a child again. The view couldn’t have been more ordinary, yet it was the best I’d seen in a long time…maybe ever.

  CHAPTER 10

  Proof of Healing

  Several days after coming out of the ICU, I started physical therapy to strengthen my muscles. The first day that I could walk across the room, a nurse took me into the bathroom so that I could see myself in the mirror. As I looked at my skeletal reflection, my heart sank. It was the first time since coming out of the coma that I felt disheartened.

  I asked the nurse to leave me alone for a few minutes so that I could have some privacy. I just continued to gaze at myself in the mirror. I almost didn’t know the person who looked back at me—almost couldn’t recognize her. Most of my hair had fallen out in great clumps; my eyes seemed too big for their sockets; my cheekbones jutted out; and I had a bandage on the side of my neck below my right ear, hiding a huge, open skin lesion. I stood riveted by my own image, and I began to cry.

  I wept not for the sake of my vanity. My physical appearance didn’t seem important in that moment. Instead, I had the same deep sadness that anyone would feel when looking at a person in that condition. I felt sorrow combined with profound empathy. I could see in that image—in that face, in those eyes—the years of pain that it took to get where I was today, standing there in front of the mirror.