anonymous
5th March 2019
CANCER CAN BE FOUGHT
CANCER CAN BE FOUGHT
DR N.S. LAUD
This is a personal story, but it is told so that cancer
patients everywhere may take some courage from it. Cancer is dreaded; it was
even more a couple of decades ago. If, after reading this account, patients
realise that there is always hope, the purpose of writing this we have been
fully met.
The event that I am about to narrate happened some 17 years
ago. I come from a family of three sons and two daughters. I am the eldest. My
father is an Engineer. Born in a lower middle class family, he came up the hard
way and after working for 32 years retired in 1974 after returning from an
international assignment in Africa.
We had a small house in a middle class locality in Bombay.
My father got both my sisters married off; one lived with her Army officer
husband in North India, the other in the United States. My brother, the
youngest in the family, lived with us. He was married and at the time this
story begins he had a daughter, three years old, and a son one year-and-half.
Around May-June 1974, my brother began to complain of pain.
He was examined and a surgeon friend of mine operated on him twice. The pain
persisted. On tissue examination of the affected area, it was found that he had
cancer.
The information was conveyed to me over the phone by my
pathologist friend. I remember the day. It was Diwali-a festival of joy.
Children were bursting crackers all over the place. Everybody was at home and
enjoying the occasion when came this news. I felt stunned.
My friend at the other end kept telling me that of course
things were not all that bad, that science had progressed, that cancer
treatment was available and so on, but the reality was that my brother had
cancer. And I, a physician, could not take the news with equanimity.
I immediately rang up a surgeon who had been friend,
philosopher and guide to me for many years. When I broke the news about my
brother it was his turn to be shocked. "Oh my God!" was all that he could
say.
But then he rallied. He came over to my house and we went
over my brother's case, sitting up till 2 in the morning, reading up on
reference books and discussing all avenues of cure. But I did not breathe a
word about what I knew to any other member of the family.
Next day my friend and I met two experts at the Tata
Memorial Hospital. Their view was unanimous: my brother had no more than six to
nine months to live. My friend, however, was optimistic. He suggested that we
should take the patient to New York to the Sloan Kettering Memorial Centre. The
only question was how to raise the necessary money, There was only one man who
could come to our rescue, my maternal uncle. My brother worked for him. Without
further ado, my friend and I apprised him of the problem. "Get in touch at
once with the hospital authorities and leave the rest to me!" were his
orders. One great load had been taken off my mind. Returning home I first
confided in my wife who broke down on hearing the news. I had to tell her as
sternly as I could, not to make life more difficult for me. But how was I to
prepare my brother for the shock? My uncle devised a strategem. He had a
collaboration agreement with a Danish firm and he told my brother that for
further training he should go to Copenhagen and since there was a surgical
conference in New York, I could attend that as well! It was a white lie so as
not to arouse the suspicion of the entire family.
Meanwhile, I called up Sloan Kettering and asked to be put
on to a Cancer specialist. The one I wanted to speak to was on vacation for
three weeks. Would I like to speak to one of his colleagues? Imagine my
surprise when that 'colleague' turned out to be not only a fellow Indian but an
old college-mate of mine from my days in Indore! He was no less surprised. He
promised admission to my brother the day he landed in New York and that was
that!
The next day, the family celebrated my brother's alleged
'promotion' and I joined in, my heart in great turmoil. Should I or should I
not tell my father at least what the real facts were? I decided I would and
did. He turned ashen and could hardly speak. Tears rolled down his cheeks. But
he told me they were not tears of sorrow but of gratitude to all those who had
come to his son's help.
We left for New York after a week. My maternal uncle who is
a gynecologist in Ahmedabad, accompanied us. My industrialist maternal uncle
made arrangements for us to stay with a friend of his in New OTR.
Then another miracle took place! At the airport, I met a
cousin of mine with his wife and child! They were on our flight too and they
were going to New York where they lived! Coincidence, coincidence! We had a
family to depend upon should the need arise.
And did it arise! We had gone to the address given us by my
industrialist uncle, but were received coldly. We were ushered into a room and
told to take care of ourselves. We were to be on our own in a strange city!
Neither my brother nor my doctor uncle could take it. I called up my cousin
(the one I met at the airport) who lived in Jackson Heights. Could he help?
There was no question of hesitation. He drove down to Manhattan, picked us up
and took us to his own small apartment but to warmth and filial love.
The next day, we had to tell my brother why we were in New v
when we drove to Sloan Kettering. It was pathetic to watch him. His world had
collapsed around him. But there was goodness to savour. The cancer surgeon's
secretary was graciousness personified. She put my brother at case, inquiring about his wife and children. And that
was how the the surgeon, too. interacted with my brother. They created an
atmosphere of love and care around him. Slowly my brother relaxed. The next day
the doctors operated on my brother. The operation required opening of abdomen
to remove the lymph nodes (part of the defence system of the body which can
harbour and transmit cancer cells to other parts of the body). The operation
lasted 10 and half hours. My uncle and I sat outside in the lounge,
occasionally trying to make small talk. But our minds and hearts were in the
Operation Theatre.
Around 8 p.m. the surgeon came out, announced that the
operation had been successful and that my brother would have to be kept in
Intensive Care for the next 24 hours. We could watch him through the
Observation Window, tubes protruding from all over his body. My brother lay
there all quiet, with only a monitor to record his vital parameters.
The next 48 hours were critical. I called my uncle in Bombay
to apprise him of the situation in New York. He gave me disturbing news. My
brother's father-in-law had sustained a heart attack, no doubt unable to bear
what his son-in-law was going through in a far away land.
My brother came through the ordeal well. He was taken out of
Intensive Care, fed fluid through his veins. In a week's time he was on his
feet. It was sensational. The doctors had removed about 150 lymphatic glands
all of which were sent to the pathologist for tell-tale clues. None showed
presence of any cancer cells. The surgeon said that five top experts had
studied each gland and their opinion was unanimous. My brother was out of
danger! He was discharged from hospital on the 12th day. We had won the first
round of the battle. Science and modern medical knowledge had triumphed. I
wondered: could this have been possible in India in 1974? We took a brief
'vacation' with a visit to Niagara Falls with my brother after getting the
surgeon's permission. We had a grand time. Niagara during Christmas time is a
sight for the Gods!
Back in New York, my brother checked himself in at Sloan
Kettering for a follow-up. Another surgery that lasted for some 8 hours was
performed so that no trace of cancer was left. This time another 40-- glands
were excised. That was followed by chemotherapy to all of which my brother
cheerfully submitted, though it was disheartening to watch him sometimes suffer
from the after effects of chemotherapy.
After some three weeks of medication and treatment and
another week of rest, we got the final clearance. We could go home! We packed
in one day of shopping at Canal Street, looked the great city over and the day
before we were to leave, our surgeon had us over for dinner. Just to see how my
brother was faring, he said with a smile. The dinner was accompanied by a pep
talk. "Be happy”, said the surgeon, "know that you have got the better of
the disease, you are going to live long!” "Do I have to come back again to New
York?” My brother asked. "Sure!” said the surgeon, "for pleasure, not for
treatment!”
I myself stayed back in New York, this time a relieved man,
to study new techniques in my own specialty. The two weeks I stayed with my
cousin in Jackson Heights were weeks of sheer joy!
Through six weeks of mental torture and uncertainty one man
had stood by us: our cousin. He gave us moral support, love in abundance and
brotherly attention. No man could have done more. My flight home took 18 hours
but all throughout the long journey I had only one thought in my mind, the love
and affection that so many gave so spontaneously to my brother.
Eighteen years have gone by. My brother is a happy man. His
children have grown up. He works 10 hours a day, but knows there is no way he
could ever repay all the love and care he received from so many.
Yes, cancer is a dreadful disease. But it can be fought. It
is fought every day. One should not lose hope or give up. Where there is
determination, help comes from unknown sources. And that is winning half the
battle.