As I entered the house, my first thought was to protect Harsha from my fears. Her own fragile state of mind needed careful handling. I went into the lounge and sat down. We had some normal small talk, then I got up to make tea and sandwiches.
As I came back into the lounge with a tray in my hands, I saw immediately that Harsha was having an epileptic fit and frothing at the mouth. She was semi-conscious. Once again I felt that lonely dread, but quickly gathered myself and rang for an ambulance. It was the 2nd of April 2007, and it was about four in the afternoon.
I followed the ambulance back to the very hospital I had left only a short time before. My mind was racing. Loneliness engulfed me. In the rush to get Harsha to hospital, I had forgotten to call anyone for help. Mitesh was in North London and Rakhi was at college. Neither could have reached me in time. My sisters or brother could have — but I didn’t want to panic anyone into rushing to the hospital, not until I knew how serious things were.
My own problems had taken a back seat. I didn’t know which way any of this was going to play out. I also had my pre-assessment at that same hospital the very next morning. How was I going to cope with all of this at once?
Harsha was admitted to Ward 9 West. She was on a drip and on oxygen. Her condition was not good, but I had no choice but to leave her there and go home.
Early the next morning, 3rd April, I attended my pre-assessment for the operation to remove one of my tonsils. Everything was arranged. Afterwards I went straight to Ward 9 West to see Harsha. She was sitting up in bed, looking a little worse for wear but better than the day before. I sat down beside her and immediately fell into deep thought.
What would tomorrow bring? How bad was the cancer? How long did I have? I couldn’t bear the thought. I was already worried about how my family would cope. Most of all I was worried about Harsha. She didn’t have the mental capacity to cope alone. Her memory was failing. She hadn’t been able to look after herself for some time without help — she didn’t even dress herself the way she used to. And then there was Mitesh and Rakhi. What would become of them?
Try as I might, I couldn’t shake these thoughts. I was numb with fear, but having to show a bravado that simply didn’t exist. Putting on a brave face is never easy. But try I must.
Late evening, I made my way back to an empty house. My thoughts were stuck in one place. Tomorrow. 4th April. A big day.
I said my daily prayers and asked for guidance and strength. I hadn’t discussed any of this in detail with anyone except Bipin — my elder brother, the one who had sat on the other end of the phone while I broke down in the car park two days earlier. He knew my troubles, up to a point. I still hadn’t told Mitesh or Rakhi.
I arrived at the hospital and was taken to Ward 3, where I was prepared for the operation that would determine the type of cancer and how far it had spread. I lay on the operating table while the nurses chatted away cheerfully around me. I don’t remember the moment the anaesthetic took hold.
I remember being woken and told to sit up. There was only a slight soreness in my throat. I was offered tea and toast. I had to eat — I’m also diabetic. Around midday I was told I could leave. The operation had been successful. Results would be available in a few days.
The numbness in my head didn’t lift. The negative thoughts kept coming. All I could see ahead was doom and gloom.
As I walked back into Ward 9 West, I forced myself to change again — to become someone else at the door. Harsha must not have any clue to my troubles. Her health still hadn’t improved. She had already been there three days. I didn’t know how much longer she would need to stay.
She had her own battles ahead. And mine were only just beginning.
But I was not about to be defeated. I had already accepted that I had to fight this, and win, and come out the other side. The road was long. The obstacles were many. I would face them one at a time.
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