by Amy B. Scher
I don’t have to tell you that, while maybe the Mayo Clinic didn’t lie, they definitely didn’t know the truth either. No amount of physical therapy or sheer will that followed Dr. Downer’s promise would be enough to make my new diagnosis of good health come true.
But on this day in India, when I step out of bed and into the feeling of health, I sense the wisdom of this advice again: THIS IS WHAT YOU WANT. JUST TAKE IT, YA CRAZY.
So I do—because this time, no one is telling me it’s there. This time, I feel it for myself, and it is absolutely, without a doubt, real.
It will be a long time before I look back on Delhi belly and see it as a gift. But when I do, I actually won’t see Delhi belly at all. I will instead see those three days of violent illness as my storm before the calm. I will see the vomiting as my body’s opportunity to eject years of Lyme disease and all that came with it: the pain, the sorrows, and the broken dreams. Despite much resistance and sometimes refusal, this was my body’s way of putting my Whac-A-Mole mallet down and stepping out of the game. From that day forward, the Lyme monsters don’t own me anymore.
• • •
IT IS THE new, more vibrant me who welcomes my sister-in-law, Tatiana, to Delhi. It is a few days after my astonishing renewal.
“Siiiiis!” she squeals when she first sees me, looking straight toward my sparkling new nose stud.
She can’t believe how much healthier I seem compared to when she saw me last. I was a wreck. But now I am finally living in a somewhat decent body, weaned off my mind-numbing meds, in less pain, and ready to share normal, healthy-person adventures with her.
When I introduce Tatiana to the other patients and their family members, I refer to her as “my sister.” You can almost see their wheels turning. How is this tall and slender Mexico City native, with jet-black hair, a notable accent, and dark skin, related to this short, green-eyed blonde? Adopted? I feel people wonder. But the truth is, I’ve never thought of her as an in-law. When David brought Tatiana home to meet our family three years before, she proved herself a perfect misfit and instant member of our tribe. Instead of shaking my dad’s hand, she yelled “Daddy!” and embraced him as if they were being reunited after years apart. We have been sisters ever since.
It takes Tatiana only two days to adjust to the time change, the city, and the food. She is an avid traveler and practiced at surviving with only a backpack and a map. This is nothing for her. This is where it’s obvious that we are not blood relatives.
We make big plans and start right away. First we hit the zoo, where I get the biggest compliment I’ve gotten in a long time. “Shakira! Helloooo, Shakira!” several young schoolboys holler in our direction. When I finally realize it’s me who has been incorrectly identified as the epic musical sensation, I, completely flattered, kindly deny any relation. No one is buying it. We spend the rest of our visit heading toward the exit, trying to outrun my new fan club. Next we visit the three-story mall, eyeing the latest in Indian fashions and sucking down traditional vanilla lattes from Starbucks. And then we do what should be done for all sisterly reunions: book appointments for a relaxing spa day.
We arrive at the ayurvedic center outside of town via a taxi, through a cloud of smoke, dozens of bicycles, a cow stopping three cars, a trash windstorm that temporarily blocks our view, and a driver who has no idea where he is going. He has basically taken us for an hour-long joy ride—something that happens to me often here.
Finally pulling up to an authentic-looking wooden cottage, we are ready for the most rejuvenating experience to be had in all of Delhi. We check in at the front desk and are soon following our massage therapists into rooms across the hall from each other. “Enjoy, sis!” I shout to her as her door closes.
Ayurveda is an ancient Indian system of health care that includes healthy living along with therapeutic measures that relate to physical, mental, social, and spiritual harmony. This is exactly what I need right now.
It is only minutes into my spa experience that I have a realization: all massages are definitely not created equal. Imagine cushy padded massage tables, gentle manipulation of sore muscles, soft towels draped over your body, relaxing music, and total peace.
Now erase every speck of that image from your mind.
Ayurvedic spa–reality is lying on a cold, rock-hard, wooden table not quite wide enough for your entire body, naked except for the tiny paper underwear that has been provided, with two women—one on each side of you—rapidly speaking Hindi, their hands strong enough to break bones, pummeling your flesh into mush. There are no sounds of waterfalls. There is no hunky masseuse. There is only the echo of your own thighs violently and repeatedly slapping together.
I later find out that the uncomfortable table, called a droni, is necessary because of the amount of massage oil that’s used, which by the way only enhances the echoes of jiggling thighs. The women rhythmically knead each muscle of my body. They are sparing no oil or pressure around areas so delicate that I’d normally want them covered up. Instead, they massage confidently, as if they own every inch of my vulnerable body. They are chatting in Hindi, I’m guessing about whether I knew what I was getting into.
In the past, I would have been more self-conscious about something like this, but some of my modesty has faded. Now I look at my body and I think, I cannot believe it has survived so much. This perspective is a beautiful thing. I wish I had found it earlier than now.
Next comes a treatment ritual called shirodhara, in which lukewarm herb-infused oil is poured over the forehead. It’s done in a continuous stream using a special rhythmic swaying movement that’s beyond bliss. During this, I relax into a nearly comatose state and forget that I am naked and doused in oil—in front of strangers. The oil is liquid silk being cascaded over my head, and if it never ended, it would be too soon. By the time it is over, I have forgotten the discomfort of the first part of my treatment and am ready to do it all over again.
When my time is up, I attempt to gracefully step down from the table, but instead I end up clumsily sliding off. My massage therapists give me a small towel to wrap myself in and point me across the hall toward a sauna. It resembles a time machine from an old sci-fi movie. I awkwardly maneuver my way into the steamy box while the ladies spin me out of my towel and stand at attention next to me. After ten minutes of profuse sweating, they signal for me to come out. I take a cold shower with the powdered soap they provide—as they watch. I wish I knew any kind of Hindi term for “Please avert your eyes for just a minute!”
When I am done, they reunite me with Tatiana. I feel like I haven’t seen her in days. Her expression is unfamiliar to me, even after all the years we’ve known each other.
“Hi,” I say hesitantly, trying to read how she is feeling. I get no response, her big brown doll eyes only glancing in my direction. I try to make her smile by silently laughing and rolling my eyes toward the hallway with the massage rooms, but I fail. We sit in silence while all four of our massage therapists apply powdered Indian sandalwood, one of the most sacred herbs of ayurveda, on our foreheads. This application is used for medicinal and spiritual purposes, which include bringing its recipient closer to the Divine.
“I don’t even know what happened in there,” Tatiana mumbles, head down, visibly shocked from her massage. I nod in a show of solidarity. From this day on, there is little Tatiana could ever do wrong. For I will always remember the way she came to be with me here, in India, which goes far beyond the call of sisterly duty. But even beyond that, I will always remember (and she will remind me) how I subjected her to this—a spa day where very little spa-ing was had.
Our second chance at another authentic, stress-reducing Indian experience comes a few days later when Dr. Shroff announces she has hired a yoga instructor to teach classes in the physio room.
“Three times a week, Rohit will come to lead yoga. Free to patients and their families. This is for the body and the mind!” she shares with excitement one day downstairs. I feel like she is looking stra
ight at me.
Yoga, a gentle practice originating in India, seems so apropos for my healing. I have taken occasional classes at home before, never falling madly in love with it, but perhaps I just haven’t found the right class for me. Everyone I know who does yoga, looooves yoga. Yoga is not just an activity, it’s a way of life. Based on the people I know, once yoga finds you, you don’t just “go” to yoga or “do” yoga. You become it. I want this, but my natural personality and patience levels are not well matched to an activity that requires great focus, long periods of time, and resistance to distractions. Still, I am willing to try again in India, convinced it will be more magical here.
Tatiana and I head to our first class, armed with sisterly strength and a huge dose of ambition. Our teacher, Rohit, is instantly easy to read. He’s all about the practice and absolutely not about any fun. He is standing in front of class wearing a black shirt, gray sweatpants, and black socks pulled up over them. He looks like he is ready to wade through us, a sea of inexperienced newbies, and transform us into serious yogis.
Rohit begins. He directs us to perform impossible moves as if he’s forgotten we are beginners—and disabled. My body rattles while I try to hold it in place, stay focused on my breath, and not fall flat on my face. I can’t stop staring at Rohit’s socks (Why are they so high? And why is it more important to me than downward dog?), but I suspect it’s all a game in my brain trying to tease me into useless distraction. I press on and refocus my attention, only to find myself counting sweat drops that fall from my forehead. I am failing all attempts at being disciplined. When I insist to Rohit that I can’t bend the way he is directing us—actually, none of us can, which is why we’re here—he expects nothing less than for me to at least “try, try!” He waits for me until I attempt the pose, and miserably fail in front of the large mirrored wall. I am panting like a Saint Bernard less than eight minutes in. Tatiana is next to me, doing as he says, face forward, terrified to be caught communicating with the class troublemaker.
“Keep working on your breath. Breeeeaaathe makes miracles,” he says repeatedly as he walks past me, eyes fixated.
I desperately want to be one of those students who feels transformed on the mat, won’t miss a class, and makes my master proud. Instead, I find my mind wandering and my eyes locked on the clock, daydreaming of fleeing the building for shopping at the markets instead. Still, I go to class each day and I try, try! as if my life depends on it. I am determined to find the joy everyone else does in this practice. My classmates are reenergized in the halls after our sessions. Even Tatiana seems to have wrangled herself into acceptance of it after a few classes. I want to be in love with yoga. I want to be yoga.
Seven days later, after Tatiana has left India, I am back in class, alone in the country and on this mat. That’s when I have a very real epiphany. I remember when I was eight years old and my mom made me finish a torturous year of Girl Scouts, even though I hated it, to honor my commitment. As I got older, I forced myself to finish reading books I’d started no matter how much I disliked them. And I start to think about how I always force myself to follow through when I want to quit, say yes to things when I want to say no, and push myself when I need to rest.
This is what I get clear about: My problem is not and has never been struggling to do the right thing, the good thing, the disciplined thing. My problem has been doing those things whatever the cost to me. I am tired of try, try!, of doing things only because they are good for me or because I should, of trying to make things feel great when they are not. I have always been so hard on myself—my own harshest critic, rigid judge, and sharpest punisher.
One Wednesday morning, with my last perfect breath of the class, I give myself permission to exit yogaland gracefully. I do it without any of my normal decision-making agony or guilt. Life, like yoga, is all about being okay with exactly where you are. And, as a greeting card from my sister, Lauren, says, it’s also about trying not to fart.
Based on those parameters, I decide I have mastered enough of this practice. I pick up my mat and roll it up. I duck out when it’s over, proud and calm, but mostly relieved that for the rest of my trip, I can breathe any damn way I want.
I leave the room knowing I will not return. While other patients continue to file into the sweaty yoga sessions, I will practice the act of honoring myself. I do not want to waste another minute obsessing over Rohit’s wardrobe choices or studying the tiny scratch on the face of the wall clock. I do not love yoga. I do not want to be yoga. I want to bail. For me, learning to say no is what I really need.
I strut out of the building directly into the polluted air of the city. It is particularly quiet in that moment, and I am acutely aware of how untethered Delhi is to any kind of consistency. Just when I think I know what to expect, I see that I don’t. This city is not owned or obligated. It is perfectly anarchic. It is a city that helps me say no to my own set of rules and regulations; and encourages me to be whoever I am in each and every moment.
What I need now, and what I want now, is to give myself permission to get off the mat, and take the life that is waiting for me.
8
When You Know, You Know
FINAL TWO WEEKS IN INDIA
I am lying facedown in a hunter-green gown on a long, narrow table. Huge round lights that hang from the ceiling are glowing over my body. My arrival at Dr. Shroff’s other hospital in Gautam Nagar came after a wild ride through the city and ended in a dusty alleyway blooming with brightly dressed children at play, wandering dogs, and men pushing carts full of papayas. I have been moved to Gautam Nagar because the Green Park hospital doesn’t have an operating theater.
A heater is blowing gentle warmth into my face while three medical assistants stand at attention by my side. I am shocked to see that one of them is the handsome, cheerful O.P., who picked us up at the airport almost two months ago. Apparently, he is a jack-of-all-trades. I balance my happiness at seeing him against the sobering fact that my airport greeter is going to help during my surgery. I am relieved to find out that this is his real job. Picking up patients from the airport is only something he does in his downtime.
Dr. Ashish enters the room wearing the universal operating room attire: baggy mint-colored scrubs and a surgical mask that covers most of his face. I can see the smiling expression in his eyes. He’s completely relaxed as always, but looks even more so since he’s not in his usual dress pants and button-up shirt.
It’s time for my big moment, my grand finale—The Procedure. The Procedure is a common term around Nutech and refers to the injection of millions of embryonic stem cells directly into the spine.
The hospital is always abuzz with talk about who is getting The Procedure and when. This way of administering stem cells is highly coveted because patients often see dramatic results afterward: a notable boost in strength, moving fingers or toes that didn’t move before, and increased stamina. It is mostly used for patients with spinal cord injuries in order to direct the stem cells directly to the area of injury. But once in a while, Dr. Shroff and Dr. Ashish will have another type of patient they think could benefit, and schedule them for one. Today, I am one of those lucky ones!
Even though all of us are so grateful for each and every stem cell we receive, it’s hard to avoid being greedy about tomorrow’s dose. When it comes to stem cells, there is never too much of a good thing. We discuss treatment schedules, comparing who gets what and when, and are disappointed when we hear that someone else has gotten more than us. We are kids on Halloween night sizing up our sacks of candy. To a stem cell junkie, The Procedure is an overflowing plastic pumpkin bucket full of extra-large chocolate bars.
Dr. Shroff and Dr. Ashish are not sure exactly how much the Procedure will help me, if at all. What they hope it will do is empower my lower body even more before I leave in less than two weeks. But since I’m the first Lyme disease patient they’ve actually treated, we never really know what my reaction to any of the treatment protocols will be. This is somet
hing I try not to think of too often.
My pink-and-orange-striped fleece pajama pants are pulled down, midbutt. Dr. Ashish tilts the operating table so my head and upper torso are tipped down toward the floor. The table now feels more like a balance beam than anything else. I double-check with Dr. Ashish that I won’t slide forward—and off. “No no!” he says, laughing. I wonder if I’m the only one worried about this. One of the sisters places her hand on my butt to secure me, and I convince myself that, if she had to, she could catch me by one cheek if I should slip.
Dr. Ashish feels intently for the right spot in my spine and injects a local anesthetic at my tailbone. It hurts, but I know it will be over soon. A few minutes go by and the anesthesia sets in. I am remarkably calm, but one clear thought does cross my mind: Is it okay to let them do this? I once had a test done at home where fluid was removed from my spine to be analyzed, but maybe I should be more cautious about allowing someone to put something into it? In another country? Where we don’t know how I’ll react?
The thoughts of panic are too late as I start to feel a deep ache and an intense pulling in my lower back. I wince, and Dr. Ashish tells me he is pushing the first syringe full of stem cells into my spine. It’s happening! I can’t see his hand, but I feel his arm is steady as an iron rod. I breathe deeply, eyes closed, while I try to inhale the new cells into me.
I feel them being infused. A weighted sensation quickly coats my sacrum. If I knew what it was like to have a gorilla sitting on me, I imagine it would feel like this. I wiggle my toes to comfort myself. I know nothing is wrong, but the feeling is so strange that I want to check that everything still works. A lot of my new friends at the hospital are paralyzed, and I think about them now. I came here feeling my legs and I want to leave the same way.
Pressure rises up my spine as the second syringe of stem cells is slowly injected. I imagine the red line in an old-fashioned thermometer heating up rapidly. But it soon stabilizes and holds still in one place, about halfway up my rib cage. I am giving Dr. Ashish a play-by-play of what I’m feeling as he explains what he’s doing.
