Life After Cancer

It was a gloomy November afternoon at Kovalam Beach, Trivandrum, South India. The Arabian Sea breeze and the monsoon drizzle came in through the window as I lay on my hotel bed.

I had awoken from a lucid dream after reading an article about Lakshmi Menon, the much-celebrated Indian model, who graced the November cover of Indian Vogue.

I remember telling myself that it felt really great to be back in modern civilization after spending five days at Sivananda Ashram, a spiritual sanctuary located about 40 minutes from Kovalam Beach by car.

I was recovering from my ashramic hangover. On my second day here, I could still hear the chants I learned at the ashram echoing in my head, and the scent of burning incense lingered on my linen trousers.

Don’t get me wrong – I did enjoy my stay at the ashram. Perched atop a lush hill in the southernmost tip of India, the ashram imposes a quiet, monastery-like routine. Residents come from all over the world, but most are Westerners.

My roommate was Carlos, an American of Venezuelan parentage. HIV positive, he considered the ashram an inexpensive haven with its free vegetarian meals and daily yoga.

For me, a young lifestyle journalist who thrives on cosmopolitan energy, time seemed to drag in such a monotonous environment. Although I originally planned to stay for a week, by the fourth day, I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed my martinis, Vogue and cushiony pillows. So I said  adios to Carlos and headed down to the beach.

I actually visited the ashram seeking answers. Exactly 11 months earlier, I had been diagnosed with a malignant muscle tumor, which my oncologist told me was a rare type of cancer.

Daunting Diagnosis

There are no words to describe the feeling when you are told that you have cancer. For one thing, you assume it’s a death sentence. For another, you don’t really know how to tell your loved ones about it. It is perhaps a little harder when you have to deal with the bad news alone, with no emotional support from your family. This was my case, as a 24-year-old Indonesian journalist working in Kuala Lumpur.

I first learned that something was wrong on December 20, 2009, when I found a lump on my upper right chest. Being the hypochondriac that I have always been, I rushed to the hospital immediately, and the doctor scheduled mini surgery to remove the lump.

I called my parents, informing them I may not be able to make it for Christmas. I told them not to worry, as I was only going for a simple medical procedure – “No anesthetics involved,” I assured them.

The doctor, a turban-wearing Sikh man in his 70s, called me a few days later, and asked me to come to his office immediately. I insisted that he break the news over the phone.

“Unfortunately it was synovial sarcoma – a cancer,” he said.

Synovial sarcoma is a malignant muscle tumor that attacks the soft tissue.

I broke the news to my former boss to his horror. I excused myself and left for the hospital. I didn’t cry – not until the next day. But I began to ask very fundamental questions about my existence as I was sitting in the taxi on my way to the hospital.

What do I hold on to when push comes to shove? Am I strong enough a person to fight this? What’s really important in life? Am I happy? And more importantly, who am I?

For the first time in my life, I raised questions without feeling the need to look for the answers right there and then. I felt that I wasn’t fighting anything. In fact, I suddenly felt whole as I closed my eyes. It seemed as if I had a positive energy from within that calmed me down.

Call me clichéd, but I suddenly understood that this would be the beginning of a new journey in my life. I didn’t know if it was going to be a long or short journey, but I knew that I was going to be OK either way.

With this in mind, what would otherwise be a daunting taxi ride to the hospital turned out to be a pleasant and gentle wakeup call for my restless and bitter soul.

Anyone who knew me back then would never believe that I could ever experience such a spiritual moment. I was, to say the least, an ambitious and feisty young journalist, who didn’t even blink at the thought of stepping on someone else’s toes. I took pride in my work, although I may have hurt people in the process.

Months passed since that taxi ride, and I found myself soul-searching in India. I had gone through 33 sessions of radiotherapy, renewed my contract with my employer, completed my postgraduate study and took up meditation.

I consciously decided to be a gentler person to everyone, from my colleagues to the waiters in the office canteen. And I realized that finding the answers to my questions was a process. This is perhaps why I am still alive.

And while I may have dramatized the process of looking for the answer by going to India, I now know that I didn’t actually need to look any further than myself to find these answers.

Considering my love for all things hedonistic, I may not be the right person to answer spiritual questions. But if learned anything from the ashram, it is the self-respect that we – by which I mean urbanites – often forget. I firmly believe that we deserve more credit than we have ever given ourselves.

And in the meantime, while I haven’t found the answers to my questions yet, I reckon it’s best to live my life to the fullest!

+ Willy Wilson

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