Living Without the Bigger Picture
Her green eyes linger on me, soft but searching as if weighing every word she’s about to say. She leans forward, her hands clasped tightly. The heaviness in the room was almost audible. Her expression says so much, but I struggle to decide how to mirror it. What should I show? Confidence? Optimism? Quiet acceptance? I muster a gentle smile that emits calm confidence but avoids the obliviousness of ignorance. I know my situation. Biology was my favorite subject in school before I switched to engineering because I didn’t put in enough effort to secure a medical seat. Sitting across from me, my oncologist is trying to explain that she’s arranging a second opinion for me. I can see through her words, though—her experience tells her that patients like me rarely beat the odds. She looks like a deer caught in headlights. I want to hug her, to reassure her that I’m not angry or disappointed. I know how much effort my doctors have put into treating me: countless biopsies, scans, laparoscopies, and other interventions—all aimed at gauging the strength of this disease.
Two weeks ago, another oncologist had been more direct. She told me, in the simplest terms, that for as long as I live, I’ll be on chemotherapy. Eventually, it won’t work, or my body won’t be able to handle it. The words stung, but I wasn’t entirely surprised. Every cancer patient fears this moment, even if they don’t say it aloud. I wasn’t scared, though—I was upset. I was upset that I might not see all 50 countries on my travel list, as I’d always dreamed. But fear? No, I don’t have much to lose. My responsibilities are few. I have no children to raise or dependents to worry about, except for my beautiful puppy, who will go to my most trusted human if something happens to me.
Processing Reality, Choosing Gratitude
I felt the cold wind against my cheek when hospital doors slid open that evening. The cars honked, and people walked all around me. An ambulance stood near me with the siren on, but everything felt muted as if someone had turned the volume down on life. Walking out of the hospital that day, I carried the weight of my prognosis—heavy, yet oddly clarifying.
Research exploring the emotional experiences of terminal cancer patients identifies five key themes: despair, making sense of death, deciding how to live, special feelings for loved ones, and fluctuating emotions. These themes resonate with me, but not entirely. I’ve grappled with despair and decided how to live fully in the time I have, but there’s one theme I’m choosing to let go of: the search for meaning.
A friend recently told me, “Life happens at random,” the more I think about it, the more it makes sense. We often exhaust ourselves trying to connect dots that might not even exist. Maybe life doesn’t have a grand narrative—it just is. And that’s okay. I’ve realized that instead of stressing over why this is happening, I will focus on the things I can control: my present, my gratitude, and how I spend the days ahead.
My mother’s words echo: “Don’t question the divine in frustration.” She’s right. I’ve never questioned why I’ve been so fortunate—why I had a happy childhood, why I survived close calls, or why I’ve always been surrounded by love. If I didn’t question those blessings, why should I question this? Gratitude has always been my anchor, and it continues to ground me now.
Gratitude for a Nurturing Childhood
I had been blessed with a nurturing and fun childhood; my earliest memories are all happy. I remember running into my father’s arms or sitting on his shoulders while he danced. I remember trips to my mother’s village, where I played with all the local kids. My grandmother would handcraft dolls for me and let me choose my attire for Durga Puja - this made me feel like a strong, independent adult. My grandfather, who always looked out for me, would take me to the market on his cycle so I could enjoy fresh kalakand. These memories have shaped me in ways I can’t fully express—they are the foundation of the resilience I carry with me now.
Living Fully Without the Bigger Picture
My father once told me, “Insaan ka kaam hai prayatna karna, hona na hona upar wale ke haath mein hai.” A human’s job is to try—the outcome is in the divine’s hands. This has been my mantra. Failure has followed me every year, but perseverance has always helped me find solutions. I’ve never been afraid of failure; it’s an old companion by now. What I do fear is giving up. That’s why I’ll seek that second opinion. Not because I’m in denial but because trying is what I owe to myself, my family, and the life I’ve been given.
So, what does living fully mean for me now? It’s the little things: reading, writing, listening to music. These are the simple joys that relax my mind and bring me bliss. My work provides a cerebral exercise that keeps me sharp; my home is my sanctuary. My mom lives with me and is the most comforting and caring person I know. Her presence fills my home with peace. And then there’s my puppy, who radiates joy. His fluffy bum and infectious smile could brighten anyone’s day. Sure, my sister hasn’t been showering me with gifts lately because she spends all her money commuting between the coasts, but I’ll forgive her. The pros of this setup far outweigh the cons.
Do I wish I could travel more? Of course. There are places I long to see, and my palliative care team is ready to support me when I make those plans. Until then, I remind myself that life isn’t about ticking off every box on a list. It’s about savoring what you have in the moment you have it.
The Unspoken Legacy
Sometimes, I wonder: Who will remember me after I’m gone? Will it only be my family? In this digital age, maybe Google or Facebook will. But does it matter? Before I was born, no one knew me. After I’m gone, the same will be true for many. What lingers is the impact we leave behind, and I’ve always wanted to take steps toward humanitarian work. I volunteered at an NGO after engineering but left it, feeling I lacked experience and confidence. If I get the chance, I hope to revisit that dream.
The hardest part of this journey has been seeing the sadness in my mother’s eyes. She’s my biggest strength, and I often marvel at how the universe placed me in her care. Against all odds, the universe didn’t just create the right conditions for stars and planets—it gave me her. Planning a vacation with her has been on my mind since 2021, after our last trip to Jaipur. I know I’ll take her on more trips next year. That thought gives me solace.
A Life Well Lived
As I reflect on my life, I feel grateful for how it has shaped me. My parents moved often, teaching me to adapt quickly and giving me the confidence to navigate new environments. Over time, I developed a knack for understanding emotions and unspoken feelings. This ability has allowed me to connect deeply with others and form meaningful friendships. Don’t ask my exes why I still fought with them despite knowing what they meant. Sometimes, I just needed to hear things clearly in words—it’s my way of ensuring transparency.
I’m at peace with how my life has unfolded. I don’t pity myself for not seeing a doctor sooner or for how things turned out. My diagnosis, though delayed, is just part of the story. The cancer had likely been growing for a year before I was diagnosed—around the time I got married. Fatigue, which I attributed to running, turned out to be something far more sinister. But those details, though significant, don’t define my story. My story is about perseverance, gratitude, and living without needing to see the bigger picture.
For now, I choose to live fully, laugh at my puppy’s antics, immerse myself in music and books, and hold on to the love and peace surrounding me. Because as long as I’m alive, I’m completely alive. And that’s all that matters.
