Ed Note: The following is an excerpt from “Cancer, You Picked The Wrong Girl” by Shormistha Mukherjee, and published by HarperCollins Publishers India.
Tata Memorial. The first time you get off, and you look at it, the only thing you really want to do is flee. The pavements outside and the driveway is lined with people, clutching those telltale files. You see patients, sitting, leaning, lying back, heads resting on shoulders, pipes in noses, blank eyes, hopeful eyes.
Men, women, and the most heartbreaking thing ever, children. And those damn files. Thick, thin, carefully kept in large plastic packets that have the names of shops printed on them. From sari to sweet shops, reminders of happier times, those files are everywhere.
We get out of the car. I’m already so aware of how privileged I am as we drive up to the entrance. There are people sitting all over, some not being able to move, some overcome by weakness, taking a short break before they walk a few steps, and some waiting for a taxi or someone who can lend them a shoulder.
I feel all this, and I see all this.
We walk through the doors. Everyone walking in or out seems very purposeful. They know what’s to be done. We have no idea.
There’s a reception desk, but the person behind it is missing. We look for a signboard. The person arrives. We tell him we have an appointment, and he points us to the stairway. We need to go to the first floor.
The first floor is filled with light. It feels like a massive railway station. There are people everywhere. It doesn’t seem as bleak as the outside because everyone is so focused. People are standing, crossing, moving. We ask at the counters set up in the massive hall, and are pointed in the direction of the breast cancer section.
As we walk towards it, the crowds increase. But it’s early, and there’s still some place to sit at the reception area outside the doctor’s chambers.
I’m wearing my favourite blue pants. In fact, they are now loose on me. And an old T-shirt I like a lot. And my favourite purple canvas shoes. Again, little do I know that this will become a uniform for me. And I will wear it over and over again, for luck and for courage.
Oinx and I, we stand around. While Anirban goes to the reception. I’m mentally expecting a long wait. My eyes are taking everything in, but my mind is calm. I think, at some level, I already know the diagnosis.
To my surprise, in less than ten minutes, a head pops out of one of the chambers, and I hear my name being called. I walk into a hospital room after ages. The last time I was in one was when my dog bit my nose. And before you blame my dog, it was an accident.
I was bored and he was sleeping on the bed. In a moment of being a complete dumb fuck, I put my face right next to him and let out a blood-curdling yell. He thought he was being attacked, I panicked, and in the bargain, there was a fountain of blood gushing out of my nose.
I remember racing around the house like a headless chicken. My brain told me coffee would stop the blood and so would ice, but the fountain of blood was blurring my vision and clouding my brain, because I took the coffee jar from the kitchen shelf and put it in the freezer. And then stood there waiting for the bleeding to stop.
Anyway, eventually I did manage to pull myself together and call Anirban. And get to the emergency room of the closest hospital.
After that rather eventful incident nine years back, this was my first time in a hospital room. It looked pretty standard, metal table, chairs. Stuff piled up. A young doctor sat behind the desk, paper and pen ready. He asked us the usual bunch of questions. This was the third round, once at the gyneac’s, the second at the sonomammo, and now here. I was prepared.
44 years.
Married.
No children.
Noticed a lump.
Nipple had gone in.
No history of breast cancer in the family.
Grandmother had stomach cancer, as did my father’s brother.
Smoke rarely. Not more than one cigarette.
Drink very occasionally.
Works out.
No other medical conditions.
Thank you.
The doctor wrote down everything.
Here’s a question. Why do doctors not use a laptop or a computer to note this stuff? Why are they perpetually using sheets of paper? And mostly they hand them to you. And then you are stuck with safekeeping this weather-beaten sheet which has been scrawled all over, and you need to guard it forever. Which I am terrible at. Papers, documents, and me. We have a relationship that can be filed under Missing, or Careless, or Misplaced, or I forgot.
The doctor then took that sheet and went to the next room, while we waited. Was I scared? No. But it felt a bit like I was outside my body, watching this whole scene play out.
He popped his head back in and said the doctor will see us. We walked to the next chamber. A small room with a desk and light box. My sonomammo sheets were on it. There was also an examining table with a curtain, some chairs, and a large cabinet. And another young doctor was present.
The oncologist smiled when I walked in, and introduced herself and asked if she could examine me straight off. I nodded and walked towards the bed. The assistant doctor pulled the curtain, and I heard Anirban thank the onco surgeon for meeting us at such short notice.
She came to the examination table. I lay there, on the narrow cot, with my T-shirt and bra off. She asked me which breast I had felt the lump in. I said left. She started to examine me. And asked apart from the lump was there anything else I noticed. And I said yes, my nipple had completely gone in a couple of days earlier and I kept expecting it to pop up, but that wasn’t happening. And I started getting worried. I saw her frown when I said that.
And while she examined my right breast, my mind started putting two and two together.
You bloody idiot, Shormistha. This is a sign. Nipple going in. Just folding inside by itself like a tantric yoga kriya, and you thought it’s normal? What is wrong with you? Bas, now you are fucked.
She finished examining me in silence. I lay there staring at the ceiling, all these thoughts running through my head.
She stepped out, I wore my clothes. Slowly, lingering just a little longer than I should have. It’s like I knew those were the last few seconds before everything would change.
I came out from behind the curtain. She was waiting for me. I sat down on the chair next to Anirban, and she said:
‘Okay, I would rather just give it to you straight up. I’m sorry, but you have the disease.’
I nodded. She kept talking.
My mind and I were also talking,
Shormistha, you have cancer.
Yep, I know. I heard the lady. But listen, why did she call it the disease? Why didn’t she use the word ‘cancer’?
You have cancer.
Shit. I know. Actually, wait a minute, I knew this from yesterday. I’m kind of okay. Not really shocked.
Sure?
Yep.
Okay, then listen to what she’s saying.
She was writing in a notepad while she spoke.