Three Hours at a Time

 Before my treatment began, there was a brief, fragile pause—a few days between hearing the diagnosis and stepping into the long road of medicine and machines. During that pause, my family—wanting to hold onto something normal—organized a small get-together at our home in Pune. It wasn’t a party. It was a quiet evening full of warmth, hugs that lingered longer than usual, and unspoken fears tucked behind nervous smiles. Just a few hours to pretend everything was okay. The next morning, reality came rushing in—I was scheduled for a bone marrow biopsy.

The word “biopsy” haunted me from the beginning. The thought of a needle going into my bone felt unbearable. I clung to hopeful online articles that said it wasn’t so bad, but my mind raced anyway. And honestly? It wasn’t smooth. The pain wasn’t just physical—it was fear, pressure, and panic rolled into one. But it passed. And when the results came in, they brought the first piece of good news we’d had in weeks. We could breathe again, even if just a little.

Then came chemotherapy. Each session lasted about three and a half hours—long, exhausting marathons that tested me emotionally and physically. The first one marked the beginning of a fight I wasn’t sure I was ready for—but I knew I had to try. I was admitted to the ICU afterward so they could monitor every heartbeat, every breath. My aunt stayed with me through it all, her voice a lifeline as she filled the silence with stories—some silly, some deep, all meant to distract me from the needle in my arm. My parents sought their strength differently—praying at the Dagdusheth Ganpati temple, hoping their faith would protect me when medicine couldn’t. That day weighed heavily on all of us.

The chemo sessions came twice a month. At first, I handled them okay. But as the months went on, my veins shrank, hiding from every new injection. IV insertions became battles. One session broke me—failed attempts left my arms bruised and my eyes full of tears. Watching this, my father stepped in, his voice firm: only the head nurse from now on. She came in like calm in a storm—gentle hands, kind eyes, and the kind of presence that made you believe it would be okay. I never let anyone else touch me after that.

After three months, we did a scan. The results brought tears—but this time, the good kind. My body was responding. My dosage was reduced. We finally felt hope beginning to win. But just when we started to exhale, life threw us one more curve we never saw coming.