The day I heard the words ‘poor prognosis,’ my world crumbled. A dark cloud started following me everywhere. I felt alone in the entire world with this cloud over my head. No one else could see it, but I could. How is it possible? I see this thick cloud with no light in it, and life is going on like nothing has happened! It felt heavy, and I could not breathe. There was no oxygen, or at least not where I was standing. Every thought and every breath felt heavy, and hope seemed so far out of reach.
Before I knew it, I was walking under this cloud, and my journey of treatments and endless doctor appointments had begun. I realized this storm would not pass quickly. There were days when I felt like staying in bed under the covers until it was all over, but the voice inside me kept nagging me to get up and face the impossible. It kept showing me that this journey was worth fighting for and that I should not give up. Nothing was clear in my mind; chemo drugs didn’t help either, creating their own cloud in my head. Not only did I have the thick overhead cloud, but I also had a smaller one in my head that made my vision hazy just enough to navigate through the fog of the day.
I kept up with my prayers to keep me grounded and closer to my spiritual roots. The days when I was floating, trusting that this, too, shall pass, became my mantra. The solitude was loud, and no matter how many people visited or called to hear my voice on the phone, I couldn’t feel the connection. After all, they weren’t under my cloud. They were living their lives, and they didn’t know what I was going through. Yes, I felt sad and sorry for myself.
Despite all the inner nagging and negative thoughts, my feet drove me to all my treatments. Upset at being in the clinic for hours and not enjoying my movies, I showed up for each one of them. Accompanied by a close friend, she worked while I lay there in my chemo chair, hoping that one day, all this experience would become as blurry as my current vision. Don’t get me wrong; the thought of not existing came to me daily. All the what-ifs had their answers, more or less. Anxiety had become part of the cloud. When it showed up, anxiety was written all over it. Negative thoughts and made-up scenarios were written like a professional screenplay. I was so good at it that I thought I must have missed my calling. I could have written so many fantastic films. Maybe I could have gone to the South of France and participated in the Festival of Cannes!
I had the experience of anticipating different events in my life, but nothing came close to the waiting game for a phone call from the doctor. Not only did I have to subject myself to hours of scanning by giant machines and injections, but I also had to wait to hear the results. It didn’t matter how hard I worked to write my new screenplays while waiting; my mind wanted to hear from my doctor. The one phone call that might determine the rest of my journey. “Should I stay or should I go now?” The song kept repeating in my head. I finally dozed off to a sweet dream.
Here I am, six months later. The air feels a little lighter. I can breathe better. I looked up, and the thick cloud started to break. The scan showed progress—hope. I was overwhelmed. I realized the light of hope had always been there, quietly waiting, but I couldn’t see it with my blurry vision. The uncertainty had created the darkness of my cloud; the light was always above it, but not visible.
Since it seemed that I would stay, I asked myself, “What should I do with the remainder of my cloud?” “Should I focus on the light that’s coming through?” I have the power to see a more powerful light and let go of the cloud for good. The scan had given me the chance to strike again. My body is saying, “I am taking a break. Enjoy it.”
We all face storms from time to time. They vary in strength and speed. We all have those moments when we can’t breathe properly. But we can’t forget that hope is always there. We might not see it clearly, but it doesn’t move, despite our foggy minds. Even when we choose not to see it, it is shining on us from afar. After all, the sun isn’t close by, but it still keeps us warm and brightens our day.
Nameste,
Shab.
