Late August 2006, I’m in the balmy backwaters of Kerala, working hard to organize a team building relay race with 500 of India’s young corporate leaders. The night before participants are to slated to arrive and I still have so many flight changes yet to enter into the master excel sheet. I stretch, rubbing my neck to relieve the tension. What’s this? There it was. The lump.
Back in Bangalore and two weeks in to the pokes, pricks, x-rays and scans, my mom flies out to help me navigate this evolving and uncertain new normal. “The saris are beautiful... the Garden City ‘delightful’”, she remarks. But just because I had become accustomed to India's endearing yet chaotic infrastructure, did not mean my aging parents would.
Out of respect for them, I finally decided to leave my adopted home in India to go back to theirs, in Delaware for treatment.
And that’s where the first real healing began.
The disease comes to us in the form of a lump, a mass, a group of overzealous cells that just can’t seem figure out how or when to stop replicating. We embark on a search for something, anything, to stop these misguided cells from taking over our body.
If we’re lucky, in the process, we gradually become aware of how we ourselves are participating in overdoing. We come to appreciate the people, places and things right in front of us. Rather than searching for our self-worth or sense of achievement in places as far away as say… India, we begin to understand that it’s the simple things, like Dad sitting quietly across from you in the hospital all day, that make life worth living.