by Kavita Basi
This terrified me.
Determined to avoid the feeding tube at all costs, I begged my family to bring me food every day.
“I thought you loved the hospital food,” Deepak said.
“I did—before I was fully conscious,” I shot back.
It wasn’t easy to orchestrate, but my family and friends began bringing in food to help me put on—and keep on—weight: omelets, baked potatoes, Lebanese food, Indian, all the things I loved to eat. I still had one more operation to go before I could get out of the hospital, and I didn’t want to complicate things with a feeding tube.
I can do this.
Chapter 5
I was all set to go into surgery for my fourth and final operation. The surgeon would insert a shunt in my brain to help it drain fluid to my stomach, where it could be reabsorbed by my body.
I’m as good as home, I thought to myself.
I was more mobile now, mainly by wheelchair, and could stand for a short while. But I could only take a few steps, and even that exhausted me. I was able to give myself sponge baths; I never quite felt clean afterward, since it was done in bed, but it was better than nothing! And finally, I was able to use a portable toilet instead of a bedpan. The nurses nicknamed me “Princess” because I always covered the portable toilet seat with paper towels before sitting down.
“Okay, princess, here you go,” they’d say after wheeling the portable toilet over. Then I’d pull my bed curtain around the toilet and go to the bathroom as quickly as possible, hoping no one would walk in.
Mere days before the surgery, I caught a life-threatening strain of meningitis.
The infection caused the membranes protecting my brain and spinal cord to become inflamed.
“We can’t operate on her,” Dr. Holsgrove said to Deepak. “The risk of permanent brain damage is too great.”
I was on heavy antibiotics, but after ten days the condition wasn’t getting better.
And I was delirious.
“Deepak, please take me home,” I cried. “I want to be with my children.”
“I want this to be over, too,” he said. “Just one more operation when you get better. We’ll be home soon.”
My condition deteriorated. I was bedridden and immobile again.
I was weak and dozing off when my aunties Pimo and Veena entered the room. Auntie Pimo was my mother’s sister-in-law and had always been my backbone, especially after my father’s passing.
“You were always meant to be my daughter,” she told me more than once, “but you were born in Kiran’s house.”
Seeing her this morning, I smiled weakly.
“Hi, my Kavi,” she said, taking my hand. “How are you doing today?”
I just smiled at her. I couldn’t talk. I was too weak. All visiting had been put on hold because of my weak immune system; the doctors said any increased exposure would risk the illness getting worse. But this was a special visit.
Standing just behind her I saw a large man in orange robes. It was a family acquaintance—Swami Shri Gopal Ji, a priest from India. I rarely saw him. He was a very important priest and was in high demand internationally, usually too busy to visit. It was a shock to see him now, but I was too exhausted to ask him when and why he had come. I knew I needed as much help as possible.
When I was younger, Swami Ji came to town for my cousin’s wedding and stayed at our home. On one evening we all sat around the living room and he said prayers and we all chanted the mantra “om shanti shanti om.” Then he put his hand on my head and looked at me. “You will do well and you will be okay.” To my brother Sunny, he said, “You will need to mature quickly and look after your mother.”
We couldn’t make sense of this at the time, but soon after, my father passed away.
I was relieved to see him now.
“He came to the UK two days ago, to Newcastle,” Auntie Veena said.
“He said we needed to take him to see you urgently, even if it was just for five minutes,” Auntie Pimo said. “He said it was a matter of life and death.”
My situation was a matter of life and death. It felt like it had never stopped being so since I entered the hospital.
Swami Ji hadn’t been told what happened, but he had a sixth sense for knowing things. It was such a surprise to see him. I hoped he could help me. I believed in being a good person. I believed in God, or at least the existence of some higher power. And I knew I needed help.
He came up to the side of the hospital bed and put his hand gently on my head. He chanted prayers, so softly that I couldn’t make out the words.
Suddenly, I felt calm—as if a weight had been lifted from me. I was relaxed and at ease. I was even able to get up when Swami Ji said he wanted to take a walk.
I followed him out of the room. I was cured! I could walk without any pain. I could not, however, make out where we were going. Where was he taking me?
We didn’t walk far, though we did make our way up to a different floor. There, we walked into a large room with an arched ceiling. The walls were made of reddish-brown bricks and looked like they merged with the ceiling. There was a single hospital bed in the center of the room with a stand and drip attached.
Ah, my bed! I thought. How did they get it here?
It was just the two of us in the room.
We walked to the other end of the room, toward a bright, white-framed, arched window.
Swami Ji pointed to the greenery outside of the unusual window. “If you get better, this is what you can have,” he said. “All of it.”
I looked outside and it was beautiful—the trees, the garden, the sun shining down.
“You must get better,” he told me. “This is waiting for you. You’re going to miss this if not.”
I was enamored with the scene outside the window. There were people laughing and children playing.
“What do you really want?” Swamiji asked.
I woke up back in my bed and looked at my aunt.
“Where did we go?” I asked. “Where did we walk to?”
“You haven’t moved from the bed, Kavi,” she said, frowning slightly. “You can’t walk. Remember? Don’t worry, everything will be okay.”
I hoped what I’d seen was real. I was desperate to be well again. I tried to articulate my thoughts about what had happened to Deepak and my aunties—I even drew a picture—but no one seemed to understand what I was trying to say.
I’d had visions before, and I’d had recurring dreams while in the hospital that I couldn’t separate from reality. The most distinctive recurring dream was of me walking into a futuristic version of my house after work and going toward a bowl of fruit on a bench-like wooden kitchen table. As I leaned over to grab a piece of fruit, I would wake up sad back in my hospital bed.
My dreams and my waking reality just seemed like one blurred event, almost bridging the conscious and subconscious, life and death.
I’d believed in my visions since I was sixteen. One day, standing in my parents’ fashion store, RM&K Fashions in Durham (I worked there every Saturday and most holidays), I was serving a customer when I suddenly had a vision that my grandfather, whom we all called Big Daddy, had collapsed on the floor, holding his heart.
A second later, the phone rang.
“Please get that!” I shouted to my mother. “I think something has happened to Big Daddy!”
Big Daddy had in fact suffered a stroke, and the hospital asked my mother to come urgently. We closed the shop and rushed to Newcastle.
Perhaps this vision I’d just had—a much more pleasant one than the one I had had that day in my parents’ shop—would come to pass as well.
The next day, my meningitis had completely disappeared. The doctors were both shocked and relieved. They rescheduled the shunt operation, and not long after, ten nurses, doctors, and consultants came to see me off to the operating room.
I was finally ready for my last operation!
It seemed like such a long wait just to get to this point. I’d b
ecome close with so many of these people from spending so much time in the hospital. I knew all of their problems and where they liked to shop and travel. I was overwhelmed that so many of them had come to see me off. It was the perfect opportunity to take a selfie, but I was too weak to even think about that.
And then it was happening. They were going to insert my shunt. The surgical nurse shaved my head just behind my right ear. The surgeon made a tiny incision behind my ear and then drilled a small hole into my skull. The doctors threaded one catheter through the opening and placed the other behind my ear under the skin with a tube traveling down to my stomach where the excess cerebrospinal fluid would drain and be reabsorbed by my body. When they were just about finished, one of the doctors straightened my hair and I suddenly woke up.
I looked up and around. There were five doctors standing around me, wearing facemasks, in full operating attire, one of them quickly trying to finish a job.
I went back to sleep.
When I awoke after the operation, I had a tremendous pain in my head and abdomen. I screamed and tried to get up. The normal, day-to-day noises around me were so amplified that they were like an explosion of clanks and shouting and banging. The sound was overwhelming.
“Are we in a train station?” I asked Deepak. Tears rolled down my face.
He held my hand, trying to console me and keep me calm.
“Please take me home,” I said. I had no memory of the operation.
Deepak knew I didn’t want morphine because the doctors said it would slow down my recovery, but I couldn’t handle the sound.
“I need morphine. Only today,” I begged. “Don’t let me take it tomorrow.”
The noise and movement of people walking through the ward was unbearable and made me feel sick. I begged for sleep to drown all the commotion out.
The next day one of the doctors came into the room to see how I was doing.
“I had a vision in the operating room,” I told her. “I woke up and saw the doctors.”
“That wasn’t a vision,” she said. “You did wake up. I was trying to fix your hair after we finished and you woke up. I’m sorry, I wasn’t able to straighten it completely.”
I appreciated the gesture, but I was in too much pain to give my hair any thought. I just wanted to recover quickly and get back to my family and life.
Chapter 6
After recovering from the shunt operation and gaining in strength, I had one final hurdle to jump in order to leave the hospital: I had to take a series of tests that would assess my state of mind, strength, and mobility.
I was desperate to get out.
And there was so much to prove.
I was nervous.
I needed to be able to eat, take my medication on time, not complain, and simply show I was doing well. I was given a date and time for this day of tests and my doctors reminded me about it repeatedly as the day approached. I was starting to gain more strength, but it was essential that I pass these tests or they wouldn’t let me go. And I was convinced that I would recover better out of the hospital, with my family, in the comfort of my own home.
On the day of the test, I got dressed for real. No pajamas. I wore a jogging suit and a T-shirt. Not exactly my style, but I wanted to show I was different from the woman who had been lying in that hospital bed for six weeks. Sadly, I couldn’t do anything with my hair because of the bandages, but I thought I looked presentable and confident.
The nurse came in with the wheelchair to take me to another part of the hospital. Even though I thought I was familiar with the hospital, everything seemed new to me. I was so happy to be out of my room, even if just for a little while—but anxiety crept in as we drew closer to the test site. This was my big chance to make it out of the hospital.
What if I do terribly?
What if I can’t do the tasks?
What if I can’t ever leave?
I took a deep breath.
This isn’t me. I’m confident and capable. I can do this.
We arrived in a room that looked like a visitors’ room—cozy, with chairs and sofas and a round table in the middle. The occupational nurse placed my wheelchair directly in front of the table and sat on the chair to my right.
“I’m going to be performing a number of exams with you and need to record these in order to get an assessment and feedback from the doctors,” she began.
I felt like I was back in school. Hadn’t I been through enough already?
I started to panic when she pulled out papers and flashcards. But when she handed me a math sheet, I smiled. I’m good at math!
“This is going to be timed,” she said, “and you need to fill in the answers.”
I looked down at the sheet. Question #1: What is 108 divided by 6?
I mean, even for a normal person that might be difficult! But I knew it, and carried on. Next!
After I completed the math portion of the test we looked at flash cards. I had to remember what was shown and repeat it back to her. But my memory was weak. I knew what the images were, but not always what they were named. Still, I did my best:
“Cat.”
“House.”
“Playground.”
“Kettle.”
I was grateful we went through them fast, because I wouldn’t have remembered them all if too much time had passed.
Next, I had to work through a selection of cards with the image of a professional person with a name printed at the bottom. We started with a postman named “Mr. Bramley.” I couldn’t remember his name when his image was shown to me again. As she showed me card after card, I only remembered one out of all eight cards. All of my earlier confidence began to wane. This was a big reality check, and not only did it make me feel weak, it also made me worry that my release might be at risk.
We then went on to studying essays, and I was given a pen and paper to write down how I would order my day according to the following:
You have to buy bread and eggs and the farm shop closes at 5 p.m. You also have to get to the post office before 2 p.m. to send a letter. You have to pick up the children from school at 4 p.m., and get to the bank before it closes at 12 p.m.
This test, which was also timed, was so difficult for me, but I didn’t want the nurse to see I was struggling. I composed myself, determined to pass this section even though it was hard to understand. I began writing:
The day—how I would do it
Drop the children at school in the morning
Go to the bank before 12 p.m.
Post office to post my letter before 2 p.m.
Pick up the children from school by 4 p.m.
Take children to farm shop for bread and eggs before 5 p.m.
I began to gain confidence.
Next the nurse took me across the hall to the staff kitchen and asked me to make a cup of tea. She explained where everything was, then told me I had to remember which cupboards held what items and then put things back where they belonged when I was done.
After making the tea I even unplugged the kettle, to be extra safe, hoping this would add to my results.
“Don’t drink the tea. I’m not good at making it,” I said with a laugh.
After this challenge, the nurse asked me all kinds of questions: Who will look after you? How will you go out? Who will look after your children?
I completely reassured the nurse I had plenty of help at home, from my amazing husband and sisters and brother to my in-laws, friends, and nanny. I was covered. And I knew I was fortunate to be so.
I performed and passed all the tests, including the health and safety test. A day later I was given a certificate that was signed, stamped, and dated the 30th of April, 2015—saying that I was able to look after myself with some help and I could go home! This was monumental for me. There were so many times I’d doubted this day would ever come. Now, in just a few days, I could continue the rest of my recovery process at home, with my husband and children, where I belonged.
On the day I was to b
e released from the hospital—May 6th, 2015—I woke up early, filled with pure joy. I slowly but stubbornly made my way to the end of the ward, determined to use the shared bathroom before anyone else.
This was my day!
I washed myself down quickly and packed all my toiletries. Then I shuffled back to my bed, where I waited impatiently for the nurses to make their rounds. I was especially excited for the moment when one would remove the cannula from my hand. No more probing my veins. No more medication going in or blood coming out. I kept checking the clock and then my phone to see when Deepak was coming. All I wanted to do was walk into my beautiful home and be with my family.
When the nurse arrived she slowly removed the bandages from my head. I’d been looking at my head with bandages for weeks.
“I have dreadlocks,” I said with dismay, looking in the mirror. The lack of care and washing had created a tangle of knots.
Soon after my bandages were removed, Deepak arrived with boxes of chocolates—a stopgap thank-you for all the nurses and doctors, until we could do something more formal.
There were no tears shed when all my nurses and doctors assembled and I said my good-byes to them and the other patients on the ward.
I had a huge smile on my face.
I wanted to get out of there as soon as possible, in case the doctors had a change of heart. I couldn’t believe I was actually going home. I gave a big round of hugs and let everyone know how grateful I was. I was ready for the next stage of my recovery to begin, and had even been given a list of limitations by the consultant team from the last operation:
• No driving for six months (unless there is a threat of seizures; if so, it’s twelve months)
• Car travel to be built up over a few weeks
• Avoid any train travel for two months, minimum
• Avoid plane travel for three months, minimum
