ShoutYourHeadOff

Category: Stories

Longer personal narratives and memories worth telling

  • My Cancer Story — Bipin

    My Cancer Story — Bipin

    When I think of Bipin, my mind often goes back to our younger days in Leicester in the ’70s, before either of us was married. We would sit on the carpet in the living room for hours, talking about life and how we might make something better of it. I lived in Leicester and Bipin in North London, so the time we spent together always mattered. We looked enough alike then that, walking down Belgrave Road, people would sometimes stop him, thinking he was me.

    Perhaps that is why, years later, he was the first person I called when I came back from the hospital after seeing the ENT doctors. I knew he would answer. But when he did, I couldn’t get the words out. Before I could say anything, I was crying.

    At the other end of the phone, he was panicking — but controlled, as always.

    “What’s the matter? I’m coming over.”

    “No,” I said. The first words spoken since I’d driven from the hospital. “I think I have cancer.”

    “I’m coming over.”

    “No. I need time to think. I’ll call you.”

    “Are you sure? I think you need someone.”

    “I know. But I need to be alone for a few minutes before going inside the house.”

    “OK. Look — if you need me, I’ll be there as soon as you call.”

    “Thanks. I know you will. Bye for now.”

    That short exchange told me everything. Bipin has always been that person for me: my elder brother, yes, but also someone I could turn to without hesitation. There was no fuss, no attempt to say the perfect thing, just an immediate instinct to come. When he said, “I’m coming over,” I knew he meant it. I told him not to, but it comforted me deeply to know he was ready.

    He had battles of his own at the time — his health, his back, and other things he carried quietly. None of that came before me in that moment. His first thought was simply to come. I have never forgotten that. When your world shifts in a single afternoon, you remember very clearly who reaches for you first.

    He has always cared deeply about his family, and I have always known that. But on that day I felt it in a way I will never forget. Everything felt unsteady to me, and he was the opposite of that. He was there — dependable — and that meant more than I could say at the time.

  • My Cancer Story — Harsha

    My Cancer Story — Harsha

    Throughout my cancer story, and the other stories I have shared with the world, Harsha’s name has popped up often. Who was Harsha? She was my wife.

    But what I haven’t shared is who she was as a person, before illness took over and changed the persona of a very decent human being.

    I met Harsha on the 28th of March 1979. That alone is a different story. My marriage was arranged and our meeting organised by mutual family members. We got married on the 6th of October that same year. And our journey that would last forty years began.

    Harsha was a happy-go-lucky person. Bubbly, affable, very quick to make friends, and an entertainer — both dancing and dinner parties. She loved life and people. She loved children, and that shows in our two, Mitesh and Rakhi. Harsha was a choreographer and created many dance routines from Bollywood film songs, which she presented at our community’s annual programmes. She also took part in some of her own creations. She loved cooking and inviting family and friends over, where there was sure to be a feast.

    My brother remembers her this way: “Someone that would feed you with all her heart and even then, it wasn’t enough. The centre of any gathering. Positive, loving, caring and giving. Loud — getting excited and happy. Dedicated to family and friends. Inspiring and creative. She loved her music, her kids, her grandkids. Someone I have fond memories of. This is just a snippet. Miss her always.”

    He said it better than I could. And he only had a snippet. That is who she was. That is who I was fighting to come home to.

    What went wrong.

    She had a mini-stroke in 2004. Initially diagnosed as a TIA, where her recovery would be quick. But it wasn’t so. The stroke had created a lesion on the front temporal lobe, which caused memory issues and partial complex seizures. This went undiagnosed for a long time. It was only during a brain scan that two lesions were discovered — probably caused by the seizures, which had also gone undiagnosed. This set the grounds for what was to follow in our lives.

    Fast forward to April 2007. I had a confirmed diagnosis of Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, and my treatment was to start on the 17th April, beginning with chemotherapy.

    But Harsha hadn’t been told. She was herself an inpatient at the same hospital. Maybe God had helped me — getting her looked after in the ward while my own diagnosis was in progress. I don’t know how I would have coped if she had been at home, with no care plan in place.

    After my first chemotherapy session — which was, ironically, in the ward next door to hers — Harsha kept wondering why I kept going there for meetings with the doctor and nurses. I had made excuses that we were discussing her treatment.

    But this couldn’t carry on. Harsha needed to be told whilst she was still in hospital, so we could be there to help her through whatever came next.

    The nurse brought Harsha into a private room. She sat down, the nurse holding both her hands. The worried look on Harsha’s face pained me. Bemused, she looked at the nurse and the doctor, then at me. She mumbled something — “what’s wrong?”

    The nurse began by telling her about my diagnosis.

    Harsha’s jaw dropped. Mouth wide open, quivering lips, and almost a tear coming down her face. She was shaking. She said: “No. Not my Dad.” That’s what she called me.

    I could see the panic in her eyes. What’s going to happen to me if Dad dies — she must have thought it, even if she couldn’t say it.

    The nurse was very good. She calmed Harsha down, still holding her hands, giving a squeeze every now and then. She explained everything — the type of cancer, the chances of survival, the treatment plan. There was a huge sigh of relief at the very optimistic news. I think the doctor and the nurse breathed a sigh of relief themselves, having navigated the situation to a good conclusion. Harsha had calmed down. She was drinking a sweet cup of tea, relief clearly showing on her face and in her eyes.

    Then the nurse and doctor gave us some personal space.

    We kept staring at each other, trying to read what the other was thinking. But the look and the damp eyes said it all.

    Finally, I got up from the armchair. I went to her, held her hand, and stood her up — so I could give her the longest hug possible.

    This is Part 5 of My Cancer Story. Read the full series here.

    If you or someone you know has been affected by cancer, Macmillan Cancer Support and Cancer Research UK offer information, support and helplines.

  • My Cancer Story — Telling the Children

    My Cancer Story — Telling the Children

    I knew this was going to be difficult. I had never kept anything from my son or daughter. They already knew something was wrong and that I had been going to hospital for urgent tests. They had also heard the word cancer mentioned while I was at the hospital with Harsha, so they were already frightened.

    With their mother already in hospital, the thought that their father might also have cancer must have been overwhelming. Rakhi was about 18 and Mitesh 25, and both were deeply anxious. No child wants to see both parents in hospital, both seriously ill. They had never fully accepted their mum’s condition, telling themselves it was all a bad dream and that she would somehow wake up and be herself again. But life does not work like that.

    When all the tests were finally complete and I had my diagnosis and treatment plan, I knew it was time to tell them, even before I told their mum. We all knew how Harsha would react to the news. What I did not know was how they would react to mine.

    I sat them down in the private family room and we held each other’s hands. The worry was plain on all our faces. My hand was trembling, and they must have felt it, because they held on even tighter.

    “I’ve got cancer,” I said, my voice trembling and breaking as if I couldn’t say the words out loud. It was Hodgkin’s lymphoma, found in a lymph node at the back of my neck. We all began to cry. I told them the outlook was very good because it had been caught early. It was Stage 2. I explained the treatment plan, how long I would be off work, and what they could expect.

    Mitesh said “Don’t worry Dad, we’re in it together.” Rakhi had tears streaming down her face. She wanted to give me courage, wanted to tell me not to worry — but her emotions were getting the better of her. She could not yet fathom the scale of what lay ahead. Neither could any of us.

    We stood up and held each other in a group hug. They clung to me as if letting go might make it all more real. We stayed like that for a long time.

    This is Part 4 of My Cancer Story. Read the full series here: https://shoutyourheadoff.com/my-cancer-story/

    If you or someone you know has been affected by cancer, Macmillan Cancer Support (https://www.macmillan.org.uk) and Cancer Research UK (https://www.cancerresearchuk.org) offer information, support and helplines.

  • My Cancer Story — The Treatment

    My Cancer Story — The Treatment

    By April 2007 I had my diagnosis. Hodgkin’s Disease, Stage 2. Ninety-five percent chance of survival — good odds, the doctor said. What nobody tells you is what the treatment feels like from the inside. This is that part of the story.

    On 8th April, the course was set. I had been signed off work for six months.

    Sitting by the bed with Harsha in her ward, I was finding it so difficult to concentrate on anything. My mind was breaking down all the information, building up possible scenarios. What if this, or what if that happens? Money was up there, top of the list. What will happen to us? The house, the mortgage, the bills, the food. So many thoughts. So many questions. And no answers. The heart was racing. Head in a spin.

    And then I finally succumbed to the tiredness and dropped off to sleep in the armchair at the side of Harsha’s bed.

    But despite all of it — the family rallying, Tish supportive, people I loved surrounding me — Harsha was top of the list. I was getting so desperate. How is she going to cope when I have to go for chemo? Who will look after her? That question never left me. Not once. Not through any of it.

    If you have never had chemotherapy, I hope you never do. I would not wish it on my worst enemy.

    It felt like ants crawling on the inside of my body. My head felt like a lead weight on my shoulders. I used to bury my face into the corner of the sofa armchair and wish for it to pass quickly. I suffered through six sessions, with re-hospitalisations when the chemo sent my temperature dangerously high. And even then — even in the armchair, even in the hospital bed — the same thought, playing on a loop. Who is going to look after Harsha?

    I cried. I want to be honest about that. I cried alone, in the upstairs bathroom, where nobody could hear. That was the only place I allowed it. Then I washed my face and went back downstairs.

    The radiotherapy was done in Reading, Berkshire. So that was the routine — drive there, treatment, drive back, put on the carer’s face, keep going. Harsha’s illness was such that she did not fully comprehend the scale of what was happening to us both. So I kept going.

    For the radiotherapy, a mask was made of my face and neck — a silicon mesh sheet, moulded to my face and the top of my shoulders, with two holes for eyes. It was attached by wing nuts to the gurney. The radiation itself lasted no more than ten seconds. Ten seconds. It may have felt like an eternity, because of everything that came before it. Lying still. The mask bolted down. Your face screwed to a table with wing nuts, knowing there is no escape from this.

    I picture it now, nineteen years later. I can see what I didn’t let myself see then. What I didn’t let myself feel. Panic. Pure panic. Pushed down, swallowed, driven home, set aside.

    This is Part 3 of My Cancer Story. Read the full series here.

    If you or someone you know has been affected by cancer, Macmillan Cancer Support and Cancer Research UK offer information, support and helplines.

  • The Lump I Ignored

    The Lump I Ignored

    I was having lunch in the work canteen. I have a habit of passing my hand at the back of my neck — a kind of self-massage, something I’ve always done. That’s when I felt it. A very small lump, on the left side. The right side was smooth, as it always had been. I carried on eating. Carried on chatting with my colleagues. And when lunch was over, I went back to work.

    But I never stopped thinking about it. I kept touching it, wondering. Weeks passed. Then months.

    By the time Christmas came, swallowing had become difficult. Not impossible — just enough to notice. I needed a sip of water to wash down every mouthful of food. In November 2006, I went to my doctor and asked for a referral to an ENT specialist.

    In February 2007, my wife Harsha and I flew to India for a wedding. We didn’t know then that the referral letter had never arrived. The hospital had returned it — misdirected, undelivered, as if it had never been sent. My doctor hadn’t known either.

    When I came back from India, I pushed for an earlier appointment. That’s when I found out. The doctor was not happy. Neither was I — though “not happy” doesn’t quite cover it. He examined my throat again. Felt the left tonsil with his fingers. Said it felt soft. Didn’t think it was serious. But he wrote an urgent letter himself, directly, and this time it worked. On 22nd March 2007, I walked into the ENT clinic at Wexham Park Hospital.

    I had a bad feeling.

    I’ve always been a man who prays. Since before Christmas, I had been asking God to give me the strength to deal with whatever He throws at me. The past few years had been tough. Harsha was not getting any better, and it had started to feel like this was simply the way the rest of our lives was going to be. Now, sitting in that waiting room, I was asking again.

    The wait, though not long, seemed like forever.

    I walked into the room and was welcomed by a pleasant young doctor who introduced himself as Dr Pope. No pun intended. I answered a few questions about my general health. Then he got out a throat instrument, I opened wide, and the first words I heard were: “Oh dear. Do you mind if I get a colleague to look at this?”

    “No of course not,” I said. Mildly.

    He came back a couple of minutes later with another pleasant doctor by the name of Dr Wood. Dr Wood followed the same procedure, then started talking in medical terms with Dr Pope. I asked them politely to explain.

    Dr Pope told me that the tonsil was more of a lump in the throat and needed urgent investigation and then subsequent removal. He arranged for me to have a blood test straight away and asked me to return to the clinic afterwards for more urgent appointments. A nurse by the name of Bally was waiting for me with a sheet of paper — a couple of dates and what to do. An MRI scan in eight days’ time, followed by an appointment at King Edward Hospital, Windsor, on 2nd April.

    So from the 22nd March to the 30th March — a long, anxious wait. And even longer still from then to Monday 2nd April, even though it was only a matter of three days.

    30th March 2007. This is the day. This is the one that will put a stamp on the doctors’ fears and mine too.

    I turned up at Wexham Park for my appointment and once again waited anxiously. I went into the room and for some unknown reason, it felt cold in there. I sat down and could see the doctor had the monitor screen open to my MRI scans. “Hello, Mr Joshi. Take a seat please.”

    As I sat down, I couldn’t help but look at the monitor screen.

    He did not beat about the bush. “I’m sorry to tell you that you have a type of cancer. We don’t know exactly what type and how far it has progressed. We will do some more tests immediately to determine what course to take. It looks like we have caught this early, but the tests will confirm everything. Please do not worry — you are in good hands now.”

    Little did he know that I had been petrified since its first detection. I smiled and lied to him. “I’m very strong, Doctor, so I’m not worried — for me, that is.”

    “Good. That’s half the battle,” he said.

    1st April 2007. The previous day I had a biopsy at King Edward VIII Hospital. The nurse who did my ultrasound on the neck and took the biopsy sample said: “How long have you had this? You should have done it sooner.”

    “Thanks mate. I would have, if I’d known.”

    Things were moving fast now. An appointment had been made for 3rd April for a pre-assessment before the operation to remove my left tonsil on 4th April. It was also Pratibha’s birthday.

    But that is not why I remember 1st April.

    I feel so lonely. Not lonely for company — I had support from family, from Bipin, from people who rallied around me. But lonely in the way that only one person in a room full of people can feel lonely, when nobody in the room is carrying exactly what you are carrying.

    When Harsha had the epileptic fit, I was alone at home. I had left her there while I went to get the ultrasound and biopsy. I had also just finished calling Bipin to tell him the news about my cancer. I remember I was in tears. He had offered to come down straight away, but I had refused. And then, only a few minutes after I put down the phone, Harsha was being taken by ambulance to hospital. She didn’t know anything yet.

    Mitesh was working. Rakhi was at college — or so I thought. None of them could come to the hospital. I had my pre-assessment in the morning. I had no choice but to let matters take their course.

    Harsha got into hospital at about 4pm. And little did I know that the cancer ward was next door to hers.

    I got home so late. Exhausted — physically and mentally. I can’t remember dropping off to sleep.

    I need to say something here about Rakhi. Every father who has a daughter, who has watched her struggle through her teenage years with things she couldn’t tell him, will understand what I am about to say without me saying very much at all. She was going through a crisis of her own — one that had been building long before my diagnosis, one that had its roots in the kind of company a young woman can fall into when she is not yet sure of herself. I was already being torn apart by Harsha’s illness. Then came my own.

    We were close — as much as a father and daughter can be when there is already a storm inside the family home. But we were also far apart. I did not push. She did not speak. Some things are best laid to rest for now. What I will say is this: she found her way back to me. She wrote me a letter — a letter I will keep until my last day. It is too personal for these pages. But it exists. And that matters more than anything I could write here.

    3rd April. My pre-op appointment was done and dusted. I knew what to expect tomorrow. Harsha was in Ward 9 West. I went to her, and she had no idea about my operation in the morning. After her mini-stroke in 2004, she had never been quite the same. She was in no state to understand or accept what was happening in our lives. I spent all the visiting time in the ward with her. All the time, I had to put on a brave face and not show the stress tearing my insides out.

    4th April. I had a sleepless night and went in for the operation to remove the lump in my throat. It was a day procedure and I was back with Harsha in her ward by 12:30pm. She still had no idea. The “lump” had gone for more tests.

    7th April. I was seeing the oncologist and specialist nurse for an update and a course of treatment. As I sat down, my heart was in my throat. The worried look on my face must have been so obvious.

    Dr Moule, my oncologist, explained that what I had was called Hodgkin’s Disease and it was at Stage 2. That was good news. The type of cancer I had was treatable, with a 95% chance of survival. Treatment to start in ten days, on 17th April. A course of six chemotherapy sessions, followed by radiotherapy.

    8th April. The course was set. I had been signed off work for six months.

    Now, sitting by the bed with Harsha in her ward, I was finding it so difficult to concentrate on anything. My mind was breaking down all the information, building up possible scenarios. What if this, or what if that happens? Money was up there, top of the list. What will happen to us? The house, the mortgage, the bills, the food. So many thoughts. So many questions. And no answers. The heart was racing. Head in a spin.

    And then I finally succumbed to the tiredness and dropped off to sleep in the armchair at the side of Harsha’s bed.

    But despite all of it — the family rallying, Tish supportive, people I loved surrounding me — Harsha was top of the list. I was getting so desperate. How is she going to cope when I have to go for chemo? Who will look after her? That question never left me. Not once. Not through any of it.

    If you have never had chemotherapy, I hope you never do. I would not wish it on my worst enemy.

    It felt like ants crawling on the inside of my body. My head felt like a lead weight on my shoulders. I used to bury my face into the corner of the sofa armchair and wish for it to pass quickly. I suffered through six sessions, with re-hospitalisations when the chemo sent my temperature dangerously high. And even then — even in the armchair, even in the hospital bed — the same thought, playing on a loop. Who is going to look after Harsha?

    I cried. I want to be honest about that. I cried alone, in the upstairs bathroom, where nobody could hear. That was the only place I allowed it. Then I washed my face and went back downstairs.

    The radiotherapy was done in Reading, Berkshire. So that was the routine — drive there, treatment, drive back, put on the carer’s face, keep going. Harsha’s illness was such that she did not fully comprehend the scale of what was happening to us both. So I kept going.

    For the radiotherapy, a mask was made of my face and neck — a silicon mesh sheet, moulded to my face and the top of my shoulders, with two holes for eyes. It was attached by wing nuts to the gurney. The radiation itself lasted no more than ten seconds. Ten seconds. It may have felt like an eternity, because of everything that came before it. Lying still. The mask bolted down. Your face screwed to a table with wing nuts, knowing there is no escape from this.

    I picture it now, nineteen years later. I can see what I didn’t let myself see then. What I didn’t let myself feel. Panic. Pure panic. Pushed down, swallowed, driven home, set aside.

    It took about a year and a half from diagnosis to sitting opposite Dr Moule for what I hoped would be the last time. He turned the monitor towards me to show me what had happened to the cancer.

    The news was good. Very optimistic. Not completely out of the woods — I would return for tests every three months, then every six months, then yearly, until five years had passed and I could be told I was in remission. But the cancer that had started as a small lump in the back of my neck, noticed one lunchtime in a work canteen and then quietly, determinedly ignored, had been caught and treated and beaten back.

    There was no one to hold my hand. There was no fanfare. No happy screams. Just a subdued atmosphere. Dr Moule was the one to wake me from my deep thoughts and solemn look — he tried to cheer me up. The nurses smiled and silently clapped.

    That was it.

    I was done.

    This piece is the first in a series about my cancer diagnosis in 2007. The full story — the years that followed, caring for Harsha, and what happened next — continues on the My Cancer Story page.

    If you or someone you know has been affected by cancer, Macmillan Cancer Support and Cancer Research UK offer information, support and helplines.

  • A Memorable Experience

    A Memorable Experience

    Some memories never fade; they linger in the quiet spaces of our minds, surfacing when we least expect them. This is one of those memories—an incident from 2010, when my wife and I were flying back from Mumbai, India. It was a journey that changed everything.

    We had attended a wedding before spending a blissful week in Goa. But beneath the joy of that trip, there was an undercurrent of concern. My wife was already at the onset of health issues that would go on to test us all, especially our family. We left for the airport, exhausted but ready to head home to the UK. However, traveling on staff tickets comes with its own set of uncertainties, and we soon found ourselves offloaded from our flight. The next available flight wouldn’t depart until 10 p.m., leaving us stranded at the airport at 11 a.m., weary and frustrated.

    With over fourteen hours of wakefulness behind us, exhaustion was creeping in—more so for my wife, whose health was fragile. Fortunately, one of her cousins had an apartment in Mumbai, and we decided to spend the waiting hours there. While I could sense the mounting tension, I did my best to hold it together for her sake. She managed to sleep for a couple of hours, and by evening, we made our way back to the airport.

    Finally, some good news—business class seats. It was a welcome comfort after an already taxing day. My wife, now in a wheelchair, was visibly drained. I, too, was beyond tired, but there was a sense of relief as we boarded. The flight took off on time, and as we settled into our seats, I allowed myself to drift into sleep.

    Then, barely two hours into the journey, I was jolted awake by a stewardess. My wife had suffered an epileptic fit and had lost consciousness. A call for medical assistance was made, and by sheer luck, three doctors were on board. One of them examined her and determined that her blood pressure and glucose levels were dangerously high. The co-pilot took me aside and informed me that we would have to divert to Dubai—the nearest airport.

    The moment the plane touched down, an ambulance was waiting. As my wife was rushed to the medical center, the reality of the situation hit me like a storm. The flight took off without us, leaving me alone in a foreign airport, my mind spiraling with worst-case scenarios. A hundred thoughts ran through my head, none of them comforting. But amidst the fear, there was a single hope—that she would wake up.

    And then, she did.

    As she opened her eyes in the stark white hospital room, she turned to me, confusion flickering in her gaze.

    “What are you doing here?” she asked. “Am I dead?”

    For a moment, I was taken aback. Then I realized—the pristine white walls, the nurses, the doctors in white coats—she thought she was in heaven. I almost laughed, despite everything.

    She was later transferred to a local hospital, where a thorough check-up, including a CT scan, revealed the truth—two lesions on her front temporal lobe. One from a mini-stroke she had suffered in 2005, the other from untreated epilepsy. It was a revelation that deepened the weight of what she had been silently battling.

    Throughout this ordeal, one unexpected presence stood by our side—the British Airways Area Manager. She remained with us, offering support beyond what duty required. In those dark hours, her kindness was a beacon.

    We eventually made it home, safe but forever changed. This experience left me questioning what unseen forces were at play that night, and what higher power might have been watching over us. Because, looking back, I know—it could have been much worse.

    I write this now because I dreamt of it. The memory surfaced, vivid and unshakable, taking me back to those uncertain hours. And with it came the reminder of my wife—her strength, her resilience, and the life we shared. She passed away in 2019, but moments like these keep her alive in my heart.

    Some memories never fade. Some stories demand to be told.

  • Cancer Changed My Life — Part 2

    ← Read Part 1 first

    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.

  • Cancer Changed My Life — Part 1

    When I walked out of the consultant’s room and met Bally, the senior nurse, I knew that my whole life was about to change. Nothing was confirmed. No MRI scans had been done, no blood tests, nor did I feel anything at all. No illness, no temperature, no blood pressure — nothing — apart from the fact that I found swallowing food difficult.

    Bally handed me a form to have an MRI scan within a week. As we were coming up to the Easter bank holiday weekend, it was surprising how quickly Bally was able to arrange things. This is when I knew. As I had stepped out from the consultant’s room, I had known. And I was so afraid. My heart was pumping like a steam engine at full throttle.

    Suddenly, there were a million thoughts running through my mind. Thoughts of my wife, Harsha. My son and daughter. Then my sisters, brothers, in-laws — and the list went on. Then thoughts about the house. Followed by a million what ifs.

    I was dumbstruck. I got in the car and tears were welling up in my eyes. I was asking that great Man in the heavens above — WHY me? I was on autopilot.

    I sat behind the steering wheel, started the car and drove out of the hospital car park.

    On the way home, the thoughts running through my head were getting worse. I couldn’t possibly put them all down on paper.

    I don’t remember arriving home. But I parked the car as I usually do, half on and off the pavement. I picked up my mobile from the dashboard and instinctively dialled a number I knew would respond.

    When he picked up the phone, I immediately broke down. I couldn’t carry on. The lump in my throat felt like a large rock stuck there. It was choking me.

    He was panicking at the other end of the phone — but very controlled, as always.

    “What’s the matter? I’m coming over.”

    “No,” I said. The first words spoken since I’d driven from the hospital. “I think I have cancer.”

    “I’m coming over.”

    “No. I need time to think. I’ll call you.”

    “Are you sure? I think you need someone.”

    “I know. But I need to be alone for a few minutes before going inside the house.”

    “OK. Look — if you need me, I’ll be there as soon as you call.”

    “Thanks. I know you will. Bye for now.”

    And with that I ended the call. I sat for what seemed an eternity, looking at the sky and the passing traffic. But in reality, I was there only a couple of minutes. I had to go home. I had left Harsha by herself. She was ill herself and I’d been gone long enough. Time to get back to routine. I didn’t know then, but this one twenty-minute appointment with an Ear, Nose and Throat specialist would change the course of my life ahead…

    Continue to Part 2 →