by Kavita Basi
When we sat down to eat back at the resort that evening, we got into a conversation on how the world was changing and got on the topic of artificial intelligence and robots.
“We’ll have chips in our heads that we can ask questions to, like we do Google or Siri,” a sports editor from a well-known newspaper said.
“I think people are going to change and we’ll be half-machine, half-human,” another participant said. “Imagine how boring life will be if we’re all the same, a combo of human and machine.”
“I’m part machine,” I chimed in. “I have a shunt in my head since my brain can’t function without it . . . and I’m real.”
Leena smiled with amusement. We’d become so much closer in such a short amount of time, sharing our ups and downs. It felt really nice to have a friend I cared for and who really cared for me.
“Just because someone needs a prosthetic or pacemaker doesn’t mean they’re a robot,” a young woman in the group said. “We have to help people who need these sorts of things.”
It’s already happening, I thought to myself. This is the future.
The yoga retreat was pivotal for me. It reinforced my perspective shift and the healthy changes I’d made in my diet. In fact, it encouraged me to make even more of them. I’d read about giving up meat and dairy in the book Skinny Bitch years earlier, but I hadn’t managed letting go of dairy yet. When I got home from the retreat, I eliminated dairy from my diet. I knew this would also help me better manage my Crohn’s.
The Color Run was coming up and I’d been training daily for it but still had some insecurity on whether I could finish it.
I was only eighteen months into my recovery, and I hadn’t run a full 5K yet. I was going into the race with hundreds of other people and I was still so protective of my head. If anyone waved anything near my face, I would panic and duck. If I started getting a headache, I would get anxious. I was afraid to keep up my running pace for too long, because building up my heart rate and sending more blood coursing through my veins and head scared me. So I trained with a combination of walking and running. I ran every week on Sunday for about 3.5K, which I enjoyed because it cleared my thoughts and kept me fit, but I knew this might not get me to the finish line on race day.
I woke Jay up early Sunday morning a week before the race, saying, “I need to know if I can do five kilometers or not. Will you train with me this morning? You know your dad won’t let me go alone.”
Jay rubbed his eyes and groaned. “Okay.”
Thirty-eight minutes after our start, I’d gone 5.65 kilometers!
Now I knew I could do it.
I was up at 6:30 a.m. on the day of the race. We didn’t need to be there until 10:00 a.m., but I was too ecstatic to stay in bed any longer.
Am I really doing a 5K after suffering a brain hemorrhage? I wondered. Am I mad or just determined? I was so tense!
I put on a happy music playlist to get me in the mood for the race and made breakfast for everyone. The weather was terrible; it was pouring. But when we arrived at Etihad Stadium for the race, the atmosphere was amazing. Everyone was excited and happy.
I can do this.
I hoped I could jog the entire way. We decided to warm up and wait for the start. I still couldn’t believe I was actually doing this. My group was right in the front of the starting line. There were cameras and videographers everywhere. Just before the race began, as if on cue, the rain stopped.
I felt connected to The Color Run. The run was inspired by the Hindu spring festival Holi—known as the “festival of colors” or the “festival of love”—which is celebrated in India and Nepal. The festival signifies the arrival of spring or end of winter. Even though I still had fear around my brain hemorrhage, I was beginning to feel hope, like winter was ending and spring was upon me.
I paced myself as I jogged. The Manchester stadium was red at the first kilometer. The Color Run teams threw colored powder at us. I was loving it; it was so much fun. They hit us with yellow at the second marker. Around the time I made it to the orange marker, I was tired and out of breath and began resorting to positive affirmations.
Imagine how proud you’ll be when you finish. Imagine what a sense of achievement you’ll feel.
“You’re nearly finished,” I heard someone say.
I couldn’t believe it. The end was just around the corner. I was nearly done. Oddly, I now felt I could run for another twenty minutes.
Tears began to roll down my face. I was alive.
I was overwhelmed when I saw the finish line. And soon, I was crossing it.
I gave my sister a big hug at the finish line. “I’m so proud of myself,” I said.
“I’m proud of you, too,” she said. “And guess what? Jay came in second, and Aryan fifth!”
I was already proud that we’d managed to raise thousands of dollars for the Salford Royal Hospital, and now I had my son and his friend to be proud of as well. Out of hundreds of runners, they’d placed in the top. I was so grateful they’d come to support me—and I hoped with their wins they had the same sense of accomplishment and achievement I did.
Chapter 15
Deepak and I needed to get away, to be alone together, to have a chance to rekindle our relationship, our romance. We thought Lake Garda, on the edge of the Dolomites in Italy, would be the perfect place to do this.
It was June in Italy, and everywhere we turned was another picture-perfect setting. The mountains surrounding the lake were huge, and the greenery was lush. The scent of jasmine flowers was everywhere, reminding me of my daughter. I was so grateful just to be present, in the here and now, and that we could do whatever we wanted. And having no cell reception added a degree of freedom.
After we checked into our hotel, we had a romantic and intimate dinner at a gourmet restaurant overlooking the lake. The view was breathtaking.
I looked at Deepak intently. “How do you think we’re doing?”
I had lost so much hope after all that had happened over the last few months. I was on such a high after returning home from the hospital, but now I’d plateaued and was feeling low. Everything seemed like too much. I had increased my hours at work, and now I was exhausted every night and especially on weekends. I wasn’t able to keep up the same pace as before; I felt like my recovery was backsliding.
“Everything is fine,” Deepak said. “I have this new opportunity with work. Things are getting better.”
“I want the children to do well,” I said. “I still want Jay to get into a football academy, and I want to support Jasmine in either pursuing performing arts or getting into a good university. I don’t want them to lose confidence because of the financial and emotional difficulties we’re facing. I hope this trip gives us back the focus we need.”
“Everything is going to work out for us,” Deepak said. “I have a good feeling.”
After dinner we took a walk on the promenade, hand in hand, and ate gelato. I was completely tired out. Taking in all the beautiful scenery, combined with the traveling we’d done to get there, had taken it out of me.
“Does it make you worry that I’m still at risk for another brain hemorrhage?” I said.
“Every day,” Deepak said seriously.
I was afraid, too, that all of this could end—but the reality of not being totally cured made me appreciate even more everything I did have.
“I would like to have at least another twenty years, to see the kids grow and start their own families,” I said. “I would be content with that.”
Deepak put his arm around me. “You’re tired. Let’s get you back to the hotel. I’ll watch the game.”
I started to feel bad that I didn’t have the same capacity as I’d had in earlier years, that I couldn’t give the same attention to my children and husband as I could before. I used to look after them; now they were looking after me. It didn’t feel right, and it made me sad. I’d always been a giving person, had always taken pleasure in making others happy. But I just didn’t have the e
nergy to be that person anymore. And I didn’t know if Deepak loved this new me. I wanted to stay up longer, for this evening to last forever.
The next morning, Deepak sat down to work on a new business idea, so I picked up my diary and headed out to explore Lake Garda on my own.
Simply stepping out onto the lakeside from the hotel was stunning. The sun was glorious, shimmering across the lake. I’d never seen anything like it.
I’m so happy I’m here. I’m so happy I’m alive.
I walked for a while and then sat on a wooden bench to look at the view and catch my breath. I wrote in my diary about how I was feeling and what we’d done and seen so far. It was therapeutic to transfer the anxiety I had in my mind to paper. And writing my experiences down still helped me fill in the gaps of my memory, which was still less than perfect.
A group of mature women came and sat next to me, talking amongst themselves about the best places to walk and what people should see.
“There’s a family of ducks over there,” one told me. “A mother showing her babies how to get up out of the water.”
“How cute,” I said. “I’d like to see that.”
I wished the women a good day and went in search of the ducks. I identified with the idea of babies having to learn the basics.
On my walk I watched windsurfers and paddle boarders, saw people canoeing and playing badminton on the cobbled sand, and watched couples enjoying bike rides and parents holding the hands of their children who’d just gotten out of the lake. In a way, I felt like I was thirty years in the past, watching people enjoy happy, simple lives. I noticed two young boys drop their bikes and jump into the lake from up on high. Other children threw pebbles into the water or watched the ducks. Everyone was happy; no technology was required.
I passed a small café and saw the owner taking a break to play with her dog on the grass. She seemed so content. She didn’t have a high-profile job or expensive car. She looked perfectly content with her life, managing this small café.
This is what I wanted. A simple, happy lifestyle.
I stopped at Riva De Garda and visited a museum. I found it so interesting to see old images of what the area used to look like, to see that it hadn’t changed much. It seemed as though time had stopped here.
By the time I got back to Deepak that afternoon, I was exhausted. We ate in a pizzeria and it was another early evening for me.
“I’m still so forgetful and ditzy,” I said as we walked back to our hotel. “I still have short-term memory loss, forgetting where I leave things.”
“But you’re here,” Deepak said. “Who cares if you’re a little ditzy? I’d rather you be ditzy and okay than anything else.”
“I’m sorry I get tired so easily.”
He gave my hand a squeeze. “You’re like a battery. You’re full in the morning and slowly drain throughout the day. You just need to rest to charge back up.”
Chapter 16
Saying thank you to my doctors and surgeons didn’t seem like enough; they’d saved my life, after all! In an attempt to express my gratitude, I invited them for dinner. I desperately wanted to show them I wasn’t the frail, unwell patient they’d become accustomed to seeing all those weeks I spent in the hospital.
Rajni and her husband, Manish, joined us for this dinner as well—my relationship with my sister had become stronger than ever. Deepak’s friend Sanj and his wife, Jennifer, were also invited. Sanj was a knee doctor and Jennifer, my friend, had been an immense support for me during my recovery, always checking in on me.
I’d scattered white lilies and vanilla-scented candles throughout the house and hired a chef to prepare Indian food, to be displayed on trays with orchids. I wanted everything to be special and perfect. The house was glimmering with candlelight. We put on some Rat Pack jazz to complete the ambiance.
I was nervous for this dinner—not because of the guests but because I still lacked so much confidence. I wasn’t myself yet. I wasn’t the composed, confident woman I’d been before. I wore a beautiful black dress and had my hair blow-dried for the occasion, but I still had to wear hair extensions to hide the shunt and make myself look normal. I wanted to be normal, not look normal.
I hired a woman named Geraldine to help me with dinner service. She had been to my home before and knew how I liked to serve my guests and where everything was.
Dr. Holsgrove and his wife arrived first. Dr. Holsgrove had performed all of the operations that saved my life. Professor King and his wife, Sarah, followed. Professor King was the head of The Salford Royal Hospital and also the father of my daughter’s best friend.
Dr. Holsgrove was quiet. I was intrigued that—as intelligent and skilled as he was, performing complex brain operations—he seemed quite humble.
Before we sat down we heard a screech in the hallway.
My eyes widened. “What’s that?”
“Professor King is on Jay’s Segway hoverboard!” Jasmine called out from the other room.
“The last thing we need is an important neurological professor getting a head injury,” I said, shaking my head.
Everyone laughed.
I was happy I’d be sitting next to Professor King because I wanted to talk to him about the fact that I was struggling with my identity and personality. I wanted to ask him some questions when the time seemed right.
Over the traditional Indian dishes the chef I hired had prepared for us, we talked about the beautiful food presentation and also shared stories about the complexities our kids faced in school, since there were two other parents at the table who had daughters in the same year as Jasmine at school. Jasmine and Jay joined in and were eager to hear stories from Dr. Holsgrove and the other medical professionals.
At one point I sat back and took everything in. I was so grateful. Everything was perfect. I was so happy to be alive. I wanted to enjoy many more moments like these.
Later in the evening, I was finally able to turn to Professor King and let him know what was on my mind.
“I feel like I’m a different person,” I confided to him. “At least, that’s what my family keeps telling me. I feel like since my surgery my brain has almost rewired and restarted itself and I’ve gone back to an earlier version of myself.”
An earlier version that my family is having a hard time adjusting to.
“Many patients experience this,” Professor King said. “With any head injury or trauma, this is always a possibility. The brain is very complex, and trauma to the brain can trigger personality changes.”
“Will it change back?” I asked Professor King.
“Sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn’t,” he said. “But regardless, you’re a miracle patient. Most people at this stage wouldn’t even leave the house, never mind return to work. Where do you get all this energy? What were you like as a child?”
I told Professor King a story from my childhood.
When I was seven years old my parents sent me and Rajni to India to live with our grandparents and my father’s brother. My father was born and bred in Punjab, India, and he wanted us to learn the roots of our culture and study there. I missed my parents deeply, but was also upset with them for leaving us in India without them and our younger sister, Sheetal.
In India, I became independent and developed by myself. I was a headstrong girl and my friends were five or six years older than I was because I had an aura of confidence, I was passionate about my views, and thought I knew everything.
We went to a Hindu Catholic school—St. Joseph’s Convent School Jalandhar—and it was mixed-gender until the age of eleven, at which point it changed to girls only. The school was extremely strict and housed a mix of English-speaking teachers and religious Catholic nuns. We were inspected daily by the teachers. Our uniforms had to be perfect. Our socks, shoes, and ties were all carefully checked during assembly, which was always held outside in a field. If we didn’t curtsey or bow when a teacher walked by, or if we broke any rules, we were caned or made to run the perimeter of t
he field. (I was subjected to this more than once.) And every morning we had to chant the Indian anthem—“Sare Jaha se Achaa.”
This school was definitely an experience I would not forget.
One day I brought my stainless steel tiffin box outside to share lunch with my sister and my younger cousin Manav. We sat on the field and ate. As I ate I stared at the sky above us, amazed at the vultures circling overhead, hoping for our leftovers.
“Don’t stare at them or they’ll come down and claw your eyes out,” the teacher scolded.
One day a special guest was due to visit the school and the school had to nominate one child who could speak English well and was confident, well mannered, and most of all, well presented. Rajni and I were the most fluent English-speaking children in the school, but I was always more vocal and confident, being the eldest, so I was chosen for this honor.
I was brought to the principal’s office, where they explained what I’d need to do.
“You’ll be spending the whole day with this important guest, showing them around and looking after them,” the principal told me. “Our guest is raising money for charity and we’re going to help her reach her goals.”
On the day the guest was due to visit, I was brought back to the principal’s office and was given clearer directions on how to present myself while one of the teachers started to comb and re-braid my hair. I was too young to understand the importance of what was about to happen; I just knew I needed to look my best.
They handed me a large bouquet of flowers I was to give our guest. I hadn’t ever seen anything like it. The bouquet was triangle-shaped, full of colorful flowers, and wrapped in cellophane and tied with a huge ribbon and bow.
