1 Childhood

Every Fighter Needs Someone In Their Corner

I WOKE UP in the middle of night shouting for my mother, “I want Amma.” Even at thirty, when I was in pain, the heart called for mother. Suresh, my husband, consoled me and helped me through the pain.

My mother is just 4’10”. But in my eyes, she towered tall as someone who looked after and protected me, but also as someone who did not shy away from disciplining me.

Fighting for your life is like combat. In combat sports, such as boxing and wrestling, a corner man is a person whose job is to assist the combatant between rounds. I was lucky to have two in my corner: my mother and my husband.

For every single occurrence of cancer and during all my treatments, my mother was always beside me along with my husband. She braved traveling alone with the minimal English that she knew, all the way from India, with a stopover at a busy airport on the way. During chemo, the only food that was soothing for me was food cooked by my mother.

Between my parents, she was the bad cop and dad usually played the good cop. Despite playing the bad cop it was very evident that she loved her children tremendously and always took extra care to feed us well and to protect us.

My mother was quite unaware of worldly affairs. Yet, her love for her child drove her to agree to be my donor, the day she learned of my kidney failure. The same mother who I was afraid of, who I thought was ignorant was ready to do anything to save her child.

After marriage, my husband Suresh, the love of my life, was there with me every step of the way, through thick and thin, never missing a doctor’s appointment. In our twenty-two years of married life, we have had lots of memorable, gratifying, fun moments and he has made my living worthwhile despite the health hurdles. The most memorable moment in my life was when he shaved his head on my birthday, to match my bald head. Anything for his birthday girl.

The year was 1980 and the place was Tiruchirappalli, the town where I grew up in India.

We were playing a trust game, wherein a bunch of teenagers catch young kids when they jump. A very simple act. It was an easy game for the younger kids as they trusted and adored the teenagers.

My sister yelled, “On the count of three, jump!”

“Yes,” I squealed happily.

On the count of three, I jumped, flying high, directly toward my sister’s arms, hoping she would catch me. My sister tried to catch me but unfortunately, I was way off the mark and hit the front gate with my head. Rumor has it that I cried—well, who wouldn’t?

I was always the tomboy of the family and very mischievous. Often, when I was home, I was busy climbing the doors and windows around our ho