Dying To Be Me Page 7

  My digestive system eventually stopped absorbing nutrients from the food I was eating, so I became malnourished. Danny bought my favorite chocolates, and my mother prepared some of my favorite foods to try to get me to eat, but I had no appetite. I wasn’t absorbing whatever I did manage to choke down, and I watched my muscles disintegrate until I could no longer walk. My mobility then came in the form of a wheelchair. My body started to consume the protein from my own flesh to survive, until I looked like a poster child from a famine-struck nation. I became a skeleton of my old self, and my head felt like a 300-pound barbell that I could barely lift from the pillow.

  I was still going in and out of the hospital, but every time I was there, I always wanted to leave as quickly as possible and be home. I felt those institutions were cold, clinical, and depressing, and they seemed to make me feel even sicker than I already was. So we hired a nurse to stay with me during the day.

  Both my mother and my husband never left my side during those days, and Danny sat up with me through the night. He wanted to make sure that I continued to breathe, and to be there just in case I was taking my last breath. Many nights I wasn’t able to sleep for coughing, so I was always grateful for his comforting presence. But I was also acutely aware of his pain, and that made it so much harder for me to endure my situation. Even through all of this, I continued to put on a brave front, and kept assuring everyone that I wasn’t in pain. I told them that I was feeling fine even though that was so far from the truth!

  At the same time, I was also aware of my mother’s anguish. I knew that no mother should watch her child go before her, let alone witness her child’s slow and painful disintegration.

  ON THE MORNING OF FEBRUARY 1, 2006, I was feeling more positive than usual. I actually started to notice things around me. The sky looked bluer than normal, and the world seemed like a beautiful place. Although still wheelchair-bound, my oxygen tank as my constant companion, I was wheeled home from the clinic with a feeling that it was okay to let go now, that everything was going to be fine.

  The world won’t stop if I’m not in it. I have nothing to worry about. I don’t understand why, but I’m feeling emotionally good. Better than I’ve felt in a long time, I recall thinking.

  My body ached, and my breathing was difficult and labored, so I went to bed. Because I was in pain all over and couldn’t sleep, the nurse administered morphine just before she left at the end of the day so that I could get some rest. But something was different. I could feel myself relaxing and letting go of the strong grip with which I’d been clinging to life. All that time, it was as though I’d been hanging from the edge of a cliff. I’d been fighting a losing battle, struggling to hold on. I was finally ready to let go of everything that I’d been gripping so tightly. I felt myself sink into a deep sleep.

  The following morning, February 2, I didn’t open my eyes. Apparently, my face was grossly swollen. So were my arms, legs, hands, and feet. Danny took one look at me and called the doctor, who directed him to rush me to the hospital.

  I was about to end my battle with cancer.

  PART II

  MY JOURNEY TO DEATH…AND BACK

  CHAPTER 7

  Leaving the World Behind

  As I was being rushed to the hospital, the world around me started to appear surreal and dreamlike, and I could feel myself slip further and further away from consciousness. I arrived at the hospital in a coma, only to find that the doctors were bleak—if not hopeless—in their evaluation of my chances. This wasn’t the same place where I’d usually visited for my treatments throughout the duration of my illness. The facility I’d been going to over the years was more like a large clinic than a full-blown hospital. It had been adequate for what my doctor prescribed in the past, but it wasn’t equipped to deal with medical emergencies. It was my choice all along to be treated at the smaller neighborhood institution because it was less intimidating—and I absolutely hated hospitals. I feared them because of the two people I’d lost. My best friend and Danny’s brother-in-law both died in large, cancer-specialist hospitals.

  But when Danny called the clinic the morning I fell into a coma, my doctor told him to rush me to one of the largest and best-equipped hospitals in Hong Kong, where the doctor would have a team of specialists waiting for me. So this was the first time I was in this particular place and the first time I was being treated by this particular medical team

  The moment the oncologist saw me, her face visibly filled with shock.

  “Your wife’s heart may still be beating,” she told Danny, “but she’s not really in there. It’s too late to save her.”

  Who’s the doctor talking about? I wondered. I’ve never felt better in my life! And why do Mum and Danny look so frightened and worried? Mum, please don’t cry. What’s wrong? Are you crying because of me? Don’t cry! I’m fine—really, dear Mama, I am! I thought I was speaking these words aloud, but nothing came out. I had no voice.

  I wanted to hug my mother, comfort her and tell her that I was fine; and I couldn’t comprehend why I was unable to do so. Why was my physical body not cooperating? Why was I just lying there, limp, when all I wanted to do was to hug my beloved husband and mother, assuring them that I was fine and no longer in pain?

  Because of the gravity of the situation, the doctor immediately called for another senior oncologist to back her up. In this near-death state, I was more acutely aware of all that was going on around me than I’ve ever been in a normal physical state. I wasn’t using my five biological senses, yet I was keenly taking everything in, much more so than if I’d been using my physical organs. It was as though another, completely different type of perception kicked in, and more than just perceive, I seemed to also encompass everything that was happening, as though I was slowly merging with it all.

  The senior oncologist immediately ordered a medical team to wheel my gurney to the radiology lab so that they could do a full-body scan. I noticed that my head was still propped up at an angle with pillows, just as it had been at home the last few days. This was because, as I described earlier, my lungs were so filled with fluid that if my head lay flat, I’d choke on my own fluids.

  I was still connected to the portable oxygen tank, and when I reached the radiology lab, they removed the mask from my face, lifted me up, and put me in the MRI machine. Within a few seconds, I started choking, coughing, and sputtering.

  “Please don’t remove the oxygen—and she can’t lie down flat! Please, she’s choking! She can’t breathe! She’s going to die if you do this!” I heard Danny cry out to the medical team.

  “We really need to do this,” explained one of the radiologists. “Please don’t worry. We’ll be as gentle as we can. She can handle about 30 seconds off the oxygen at a time.”

  So the radiologist slid me out of the MRI capsule every 30 or 40 seconds to put the oxygen mask over my face, then removed it and slid me back in again. As a result, the scan took a very long time to complete. After they finished, they wheeled me to the intensive care unit (ICU).

  The medical team took what action they could, spurred on by my husband’s insistence that they not give up on me. While the minutes ticked by, I lay in the ICU as the staff administered treatments by way of needles and tubes, and my helpless family looked on.

  A thick curtain was then drawn all around my bed, separating me from the patients on either side of me. Danny and my mother were both on the outside of the cubicle created by the curtain.

  I noticed that the nurses were still scurrying around, preparing to hook up my near-lifeless body to the hospital’s oxygen and other machinery to start an intravenous flow of fluids and glucose, since I was seriously malnourished. There was a monitor above my bed, and they started connecting me so that they could measure my blood pressure and heart rate. A food tube was inserted through my nose, down the back of my throat, and into my stomach so that I could be fed directly, and oxygen was being pumped through my nose via a respirator. They had trouble inserting the food tube and slidi
ng it down my trachea, so they sprayed something down my throat to numb the muscles, and were then able to push the tube down more easily.

  I knew when people came in to see me, who they were and what they were doing. Although my physical eyes were closed, I seemed to be acutely aware of every minute detail that was taking place around me and beyond. The sharpness of my perception was even more intense than if I’d been awake and using my physical senses. I seemed to just know and understand everything—not only what was going on around me, but also what everyone was feeling, as though I were able to see and feel through each person. I was able to sense their fears, their hopelessness, and their resignation to my situation.

  Danny and Mum look so sad and frightened. I wish they could know that I’m no longer in pain—I wish I could tell them. Mum, please don’t cry! I’m fine! I’m right here. I’m with you now!

  I was fully aware of what was going on around me. Although everything seemed to be happening at the same time, whatever I focused on would become clear in that moment.

  “I can’t find her veins!” I heard one of the nurses saying frantically to the doctor on duty. There was fear in that voice. “They’ve completely retracted. Oh, just look at her limbs! There’s no flesh on them. Her body hasn’t been absorbing nutrition for a while.” I clearly recall that this was a male voice—a male nurse.

  He sounds so hopeless, I thought. He’s ready to give up on me, and I don’t blame him.

  “Her lungs are filled with liquid. She’s drowning in her own fluid. I’ll have to tap it out of her lungs so that she can at least start to breath with more ease.” That was the senior oncologist speaking. I watched as they worked with great purpose over my motionless body—a form that seemed too small to contain how I was feeling about myself in that moment.

  Although the medical team moved with great speed, and there was a sense of urgency in their actions, I also sensed an air of acceptance, as though they’d come to terms with the fact that it was too late to change my fate. I was extremely aware of every detail, but I couldn’t physically feel anything—anything, that is, except a release and a level of freedom I’d never known before.

  Wow, this is incredible! I feel so free and light! What’s going on? I’ve never felt this good! There are no more tubes, no more wheelchair. I can move around freely now without any help! And my breathing is no longer labored—how amazing this is!

  I felt no emotional attachment to my seemingly lifeless body as it lay there on the hospital bed. It didn’t feel as though it were mine. It looked far too small and insignificant to have housed what I was experiencing. I felt free, liberated, and magnificent. Every pain, ache, sadness, and sorrow was gone! I felt completely unencumbered. I couldn’t recall feeling this way before—not ever.

  It was as though I’d been a prisoner in my own body for the past four years as the cancer ravaged my physical form, and at last I was being released. I was tasting freedom for the first time! I began to feel weightless and to become aware that I was able to be anywhere at any time…and this didn’t seem unusual. It felt normal, as though this were the real way to perceive things. I didn’t even think it odd that I was aware of my husband and the doctor speaking to each other outside the ICU, some 40 feet down a hallway.

  “There’s nothing we can do for your wife, Mr. Moorjani. Her organs have already shut down. She has tumors the size of lemons throughout her lymphatic system, from the base of her skull to below her abdomen. Her brain is filled with fluid, as are her lungs. Her skin has developed lesions that are weeping with toxins. She won’t even make it through the night,” the man told Danny. This doctor was someone I’d never seen before.

  I watched as Danny’s face change to anguish, and wanted to cry out to him, It’s okay, darling—I’m okay! Please don’t worry. Don’t listen to the doctor. What they said isn’t true! But I couldn’t. Nothing came out. He couldn’t hear me.

  “I don’t want to lose her. I’m not ready to lose her,” Danny said.

  Although I wasn’t filled with any attachment to my body, I felt a deep pull on my emotions to the drama that was unfolding around my inert form. More than anything, I wanted to relieve Danny of the deep despair he was experiencing at the thought of losing me.

  Darling, can you hear me? Please listen! I want you to know that I’m okay!

  As soon as I began to get emotionally attached to the drama taking place around me, I also felt myself being simultaneously pulled away, as though there were a bigger picture, a grander plan that was unfolding. I could feel my attachment recede as I began to know that everything was perfect and going according to plan.

  As my emotions were being drawn away from my surroundings, I started to notice how I was continuing to expand to fill every space, until there was no separation between me and everything else. I encompassed—no, became—everything and everyone. I was fully aware of every word of the conversation that was taking place between my family and the doctors, although it was physically some distance away, outside my room. I knew the frightened expression on my husband’s face and could feel his fear. It was as though, in that instant, I became him.

  Simultaneously, although I hadn’t known of it previously, I became aware that my brother, Anoop, was thousands of miles away on an airplane, anxiously coming to see me. Upon seeing him and his worried look, I once again felt myself being drawn back into the emotional drama of the physical realm.

  Oh wow, there’s Anoop! He’s on an airplane. Why does he seem so anxious? It looks as though he’s coming to Hong Kong to see me!

  I recall feeling his sense of urgency to reach me. I felt an intense rush of emotion toward him.

  Oh, poor Anoop. He’s worried about me, and he wants to get here before I die. Don’t worry, Anoop. I’ll be here for you. You don’t have to hurry! I’m not in pain anymore, dear brother!

  I wanted to reach out and give him a hug and assure him that I was okay, and I couldn’t understand why I wasn’t able to reach out to him.

  I’m here, bro!

  I recall knowing that I didn’t want my physical body to be dead before he arrived. I was aware of how that would make him feel, and I didn’t want him to go through that.

  But yet again, as my affection for my brother started to take over and I was becoming overwhelmed with not wanting him to experience the pain of his little sister dying, I found myself being simultaneously drawn away. Each time my emotions took over the situation, I discovered myself starting to expand again, and I felt a release from all attachment. Once more, I was surrounded by the reassuring feeling of a greater tapestry unfolding, where everything was exactly as it should be in the grand scheme of things.

  THE FURTHER OUTWARD I EXPANDED, THE LESS UNUSUAL it felt to be in this miraculous state—in fact, I had no awareness of it being out of the ordinary. It all seemed perfectly natural to me at the time. I continued to be fully aware of every detail of every procedure that was being administered to me, while to the outside world I appeared to be in a coma.

  I continued to sense myself expanding further and further outward, drawing away from my physical surroundings. It was as though I were no longer restricted by the confines of space and time, and continued to spread myself out to occupy a greater expanse of consciousness. I felt a sense of freedom and liberation that I’d never experienced in my physical life before. I can only describe this as the combination of a sense of joy mixed with a generous sprinkling of jubilation and happiness. It stemmed from being released from my sick and dying body, a feeling of jubilant emancipation from all the pain that my illness had caused me.

  As I continued to plunge deeper into the other realm, expanding outward, becoming everyone and everything, I felt all my emotional attachments to my loved ones and my surroundings slowly fall away. What I can only describe as superb and glorious unconditional love surrounded me, wrapping me tight as I continued to let go. The term unconditional love really doesn’t do justice to the feeling, as these words have been overused to the point of having
lost their intensity. But the physical battle I’d fought for so very long had finally released its strong hold on me, and I had a beautiful experience of freedom.

  It didn’t feel as though I’d physically gone somewhere else—it was more as though I’d awakened. Perhaps I’d finally been roused from a bad dream. My soul was finally realizing its true magnificence! And in doing so, it was expanding beyond my body and this physical world. It extended further and further outward until it encompassed not only this existence, but continued to expand into another realm that was beyond this time and space, and at the same time included it.

  Love, joy, ecstasy, and awe poured into me, through me, and engulfed me. I was swallowed up and enveloped in more love than I ever knew existed. I felt more free and alive than I ever had. As I described, I suddenly knew things that weren’t physically possible, such as the conversations between medical staff and my family that were taking place far away from my hospital bed.

  The overwhelming sensations were in a realm of their own, and words don’t exist to describe them. The feeling of complete, pure, unconditional love was unlike anything I’d known before. Unqualified and nonjudgmental…it was totally undiscriminating, as if I didn’t have to do anything to deserve it, nor did I need to prove myself to earn it.

  TO MY AMAZEMENT, I BECAME AWARE OF THE PRESENCE of my father, who’d died ten years earlier, and it brought me an unbelievable level of comfort to sense him with me.

  Dad, you’re here! I can’t believe it!

  I wasn’t speaking those words, I was merely thinking them—in fact, it was more like I was feeling the emotions behind the words, as there was no other way of communicating in that realm other than through our emotions.

  Yes, I’m here, my darling, and I’ve always been here—for you and our whole family! my father communicated to me. Again, there were no words, just emotions, but I clearly understood.