My Cancer Journey – a Rendezvous with Myself

By Parul Banka

My book My Cancer Journey A rendezvous with myself is a candid narration of my encounter with breast cancer. It is the story of an ordinary woman who was put in extraordinary circumstances, and who undertook her cancer journey with the utmost courage.

This memoir is not just about describing a difficult medical condition. It is about going through the experience, and emerging from it wiser and stronger. It is about using cancer as a life changing experience, despite all the trauma and the loss and the change neednt be for the worse. It is about understanding the choice that a human being has the choice to accept what cannot be changed, and to use one of the toughest fights of life to evolve into a better person, irrespective of the prognosis. Pick up a copy to embark on a rendezvous with your inner self!

A factual, informative and profound book, truly from the heart. I highly recommend this book, and it offers some important insights from holistic therapy.

Lorraine Smillie, Homeopath and Holistic Healer, UK

Paruls account of her experience with breast cancer and what she found helpful will be a useful companion for other young women finding themselves in a similar situation.

Dr Caroline Hoffman OAM, PhD, clinical and research director, The Haven, London

This is book is a very personal and very honest story of survival from breast cancer. Parul has shown enormous courage to emerge as a strong,determined woman with everything to live for.

Beverley van der Molen, Macmillan Information and Education Officer, Pauls Cancer Support Centre and St Georges University Hospitals NHS Foundation Trust and author of Taking Control of Cancer

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: May 26, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504327411

Parul Banka

Parul received a unique gift on her thirty-fourth birthday: a breast cancer diagnosis. The new predator growing inside her threatened to take away a breast and probably her life. She explores fear, loss, courage, hope, love and the choice to change for the better in difficult circumstances during this life-changing experience. She lives in London, UK with her husband, Abhishek.

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Copyright © 2015 Parul Banka.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Balboa Press

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-5043-2740-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5043-2742-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5043-2741-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015901519

Balboa Press rev. date: 6/8/2015

Contents

Foreword

With gratitude…

Acknowledgments

Introduction

The heads-up

The confirmation

Embarking on the journey to get beyond the Big C

Wait…did I forget to feel?

The ugly duckling

The bald and the beautiful

Am I dying?

Funny hands and funny feet

Skin or cuticle?

Frail but free

Deep vein thrombosis strikes

I am not buying today

The surgery

Hallelujah!

The girl with three tattoos

Radiation Therapy

A note about Section II

Words of Wisdom

Transition to St George’s Hospital, London

The beautiful Edinburgh

Cancer and my relationships

Rediscovering myself

Life continues in the slow traffic lane

Some wonderful books I read

Complementary Therapies and Cancer Support Centres

The day I cried in public

How could you help someone going through cancer treatment?

How can a cancer patient help their family?

Self-awareness or my spiritual quest

Love helps to cure cancer

The cancer scare

Special dates

C=Cancer, C=Cure, C=Choice and C=Courage!

To Abhi…

And his love, that makes this life worthwhile.

Foreword

I first met Parul while working at Cambridge University Press, in the bike shed, of all places. She smiled at me as we struggled to get our bikes out of the over-crowded bike shed and her face lit up. It is this warmth and generosity of spirit that struck me and this is something that has carried her through the rough times. First coping with the prospect of such a life-changing event as hearing for the first time that you have cancer, and then with the various stages of the treatment.

But she has found the strength to realise how the whole experience has changed her into what she calls a ‘better’ person. Someone who came to terms with things that irked her in the past, and learnt to let go of the pain they caused. I am sure this will strike a chord with many of us, of how a difficult period of our lives has helped us to get in touch with our feelings and make sense of the past.

Born, raised and educated in India, Parul came to the UK two years before she discovered she had breast cancer. When she relayed her news to family and friends back home, people were not only shocked but fearful of what the future would hold. She underwent the cancer treatment in the UK.

One of Parul’s aims in writing this book is to change people’s view of what cancer means and to use the experience as a force for good. The first half of the book provides an insight into how treatment hits and punctures the body, how it demands every ounce of strength to retain any form of normality, and the different ways in which she and others coped.

The second half is more spiritual, as it’s more about how the experience has changed her as a person – some of this comes down to a change of pace, as she moved into the slow lane, with time to reflect on past relationships and to understand how important it is to treasure loved ones. She used the opportunity to work on herself and adopt several changes. For Parul, the most dramatic change happened during the Cancer Support Group meetings, where she found the experience of connecting with people who have been through cancer very empowering – I’ll leave you to find out about that yourselves.

PS: She makes a mean cup of Ginger Tea (chai), say yes if she offers you one. You won’t regret it.

- Sarah Keefe

Friend and confidante

With gratitude…

I stood in an alley,

All alone and a little scared

The wind blew hard and

The autumn leaves flew here and there.

I felt cold and uncertain

Vaguely, I knew what I had to do

But the road ahead was intimidating,

It seemed to demand lots of daring.

And so I stood there,

Clinging to my thoughts,

‘I’ll be strong like always,’ I said

Only this time I didn’t feel too sure.

I gingerly raised my left foot,

To take the first step

‘What if I tumbled?

And fell over?’

I felt off-balance,

While I stood with my foot in the air,

When an angel hugged me and said,

‘Let me take care of you here.’

Encouraged I took the first step

Ah, putting my best foot forward,

Shame that I still felt unsure,

As I raised my other foot forward.

‘I must take the next step,’

I heard that in my head

When another angel flew to my right

And tightly grabbed my hand.

And so I beamed

Flanked by them on each side

And holding their hands

I took the first stride.

We talked, while we walked,

We laughed crazily loud.

Frequently, we joked

And at each other, a lot of fun we poked.

Do not be fooled,

The journey was difficult by every measure,

But we joked and fooled around,

While we aimed to find the treasure.

My life was at stake,

I knew I must keep my chin up,

No way that this opponent could win

I knew I must not give up!

And so the battle started.

‘We shall fight to the finish,’ I screamed.

‘I am going to be a tough adversary,

Don’t you giggle at me like this!’

The beast was enraged,

It guffawed and made its move,

I lost balance and bawled,

And it daggered me in the cold.

I fell down, I bled and groaned,

‘I have to get up,’ I coughed

‘It is MY battle and not my angels’.’

But my breath had slowed.

In flew a huge mother angel

She grabbed us and far away she flew,

She held us tight in her arms,

Determined not to let us fall through.

After a while, she placed us down

While she caught her breath,

She looked tired, and frail

She looked old and hurt.

But she looked fiercely determined

To beat the monster called cancer

These three angels were:

My husband, my brother and my mother.

Acknowledgments

This book has been possible only because I am fortunate to have some amazing people in my life. Such was their love and care for me during the darkest time of my life that I had to share their story. I had to tell the world what amazing things love and kindness can do.

I am grateful to Alastair Cunningham, the author of the Healing Journey programme, and Paul’s Cancer Support Centre, London for granting me permission to reproduce some of their work in this book.

Thank you to the various therapists at Maggie’s Wallace Centre at Cambridge. You were the first support centre I had ever visited. Thank you for welcoming me and giving me the confidence to visit a support centre again.

Thank you to Ella Titman, Pauline Withers-Born and Petra Griffiths, my mentors at the ‘Coping with Cancer Stress’ course at Paul’s Cancer Support Centre for your guidance. Thank you to the rest of the team at Paul’s, especially Beverley van der Molen, Bridget Cambridge, Catherine Chadwick, Daniel Pereira, Emma Craig, Honor Brogan, Patrick Browning and all the therapists. Thank you for wrapping this dire cancer experience in a bundle of warmth and care. Thank you to Petra and Beverley in helping me to improve this manuscript.

Thank you to Christopher Woodward, Deborah Slaughter, Eve Warren, Gosia Gorna, Nadia Brydon and all the therapists and pals at The Haven, London for looking after me.

I am immensely grateful to my proof-readers and editors at PaperTrue, Anna and Meg, for their expertise and commitment to editing this book. Thank you for your insightful questions that prompted me to think more deeply about my cancer experience. Thank you for making me laugh with your comments and helping me add humour to this book.

To Virginia Morrel and David Yoder at Balboa Press, my publisher, who worked with me relentlessly to ensure that this book sees the light of the day. I am thankful to the rest of the Balboa team who worked behind the scenes and contributed to this book.

To the most amazing healthcare team, especially my consultants, Dr Parto and Dr Charles, who looked after me during cancer. I know that you are the best although, I wouldn’t mind if someone else who has been through cancer wants to call their healthcare team so! Thank you…it is owing to your skill that I am alive and well to share my story.

To my homeopath Lorraine Smillie, who lovingly read my manuscript and helped me to improve it, in addition to creating magic with her homeopathic potions.

Thank you to my lovely friends Caroline Clark, Christopher Salter, Jenny Dennehy, Liz Aram, Roya Aram, Sarah Thompson and Sonia Markham for inspiring me with your strength. Thank you for the opportunity to learn from each one of you. Thank you for your understanding and your friendship. Let’s continue beating the hell out of cancer! Also, thank you to Liz Aram and Caroline Clark for suggesting improvements to the script as well as for your encouragement and the several book-chats we have had.

To all my work colleagues and friends who wished me well and kept me in their prayers. You are the proof that good wishes and prayers work. I consider myself extremely fortunate that I would need several pages, if I try to write every name here. So, my friends who shall be nameless here, you have a very special place in my life and you are very much treasured.

To all those wonderful people who touched my life during this journey – you have amazed me, you have grounded me, you have humbled me and you have time and again, given food for thought to the writer within me.

Thank you to Sarah Keefe for playing a pivotal role in this book. Sarah, thanks for being there for me – as a friend, as a confidante, as a guide and very importantly, for providing invaluable inputs to the book. Thank you for writing the Foreword to this book.

To my friends Madhura Nene, Rashid Merchant, Rukmini Iyer and Shrivallabh Kulkarni, who encouraged me to write my experience and share it. Thank you for your confidence in me.

To my mum-in-law, Nirmala Banka, who ardently prayed for my recovery from cancer.

To my parents Rajendra Kumar Goel and Prabha Goel, my brothers Sachin Goel and Dinesh Goel for taking this journey along with me. Thanks for your love and for telling me that we could do it together, just when I needed to be told so. Thank you for making this cancer journey less painful than it would have been without you.

To my darling niece, Ananya, for your enthusiastic ideas and sheer faith in me. I am so grateful for your love and so proud of the person you are. I hope that I make you a little proud with this book.

No amount of thanks will be sufficient for my husband, Abhishek, or Abhi as I call him, who was there for me unconditionally. Thank you for being with me every single moment and supporting me: be it during the difficult times of cancer treatment, be it rejoicing in surviving cancer, or be it in supporting me in writing this book, right from the inception of the idea until the final execution. Thank you for helping me to find beauty in myself – despite all the scars. Thank you…for everything!

To the rest of my family, near or far, especially Subhadra and Rekha and my Banka family who kept me in their thoughts and prayers.

To my reader: As you invest your precious time and effort in reading my story, I sincerely hope you feel that you are not alone in this journey. While every cancer case is different, there are certainly a few things they have in common when it comes to treatment. Cancer is much bigger than a word or a medical condition. It is something that has not only affected me physically and psychologically, but has also changed me as a person…and this change happened for the better. If your life has been touched by cancer, I wish you good luck and strength galore. May the Higher Powers be with you. I feel privileged in being able to share my story with you….Thank you!

When I first heard on the phone that Parul had been diagnosed with cancer, my mind froze. All I could think was that my daughter would die, probably, in the next 40-45 days. I was scared and I cried.

The only thing that was stronger than my fear of losing her was the desire to make the remaining days of her life as comfortable as possible.

Prabha, Parul’s mum

Introduction

I am 34 (I know my birthday is just a few weeks away, but let’s call me 34 and not 35). I am 1.56 m tall, an average height for women in India. I am the youngest child born to my parents, and their only daughter amongst three children. We grew up in a middle-class family in India, where our parents worked hard to make ends meet, to send us to expensive private schools, and later to pay for our university education.

In India nothing is provided as a benefit from the State (and if it is, it is of such quality that you usually don’t want it). You need to be well-educated and earn well, if you fancy having things that make life comfortable: a house, a car, a gym membership, fashionable clothes, etc. Most of the healthcare is private, and therefore you need to be able to afford it, to get the treatment. You crucially need to study and earn well, in the country that I am from. And so, like many young children from middle-class Indian families, I have been a sincere student who studied well, and a high-performing professional who worked hard.

I worked hard because it felt like the right thing to do. I worked hard because I was a firm believer in the theory of Karma – keep doing what you must, and you shall eventually achieve what you are meant to…until the 10th of September 2012. Until this day, the whole concept of Karma had fitted well with the rational side of my brain: good grades in exams can be achieved by studying; it is possible to be a top performer by doing your job well. But when this day came, what I failed to figure out was: what Karma gets you included in the frightening statistic of 1.08%?

Out of the new cases of breast cancer reported every year in the UK, 0.44% come under the age group of 10 to 29 years, 1.08% are in the 30 to 34 year age group, 2.7% fall in the 35 to 39 age group, 15.62% in the 41 to 49 group, 47.39% in the 50 to 69 group, 24.32% in the 70 to 84 and 8.4% in the 85+ age group. I never knew these specific numbers until I became one of those numbers.

It strikes me now how little I knew about breast cancer, the most common cancer affecting women in the UK, the country to which I moved about three years ago from India. I knew breast cancer existed, but I didn’t know much about it. Was I so arrogant as to think that I was immune to it, that it could not happen to me? No, I never thought that could be the case. I believe that anything can happen to anyone at any time. There are no guarantees, and life does not come with insurance, no matter how big a premium you pay for it every year. Yes, anything is possible in this wide world – but cancer? Unfortunately, the answer to this question is yes too.

More about Cancer:

Breast cancer statistics in the UK¹:

Probability based on the average number of new cases per year, Females, UK, 2009-2011

As per the above data, the chance of someone my age being diagnosed as a new breast cancer case was 1.08% – a tiny probability. And yet, there I was – one of the people who formed these statistics in 2012.

Now if someone talks about low probabilities in my presence, I laugh out. The remotest 0.0001% is also some person!

SECTION I

(Dedicated to that phase of cancer treatment when ‘things were done to me’ and made me feel that I had little or no control over my life!)

The heads-up

My cancer journey began when I discovered a lump in my left breast. I asked my husband Abhi to check if he could feel the lump too. He could, and I decided to go and see my GP in Cambridge the following week. My reasoning was: if the lump was harmless, then it would be good to get the confirmation; and if it was not, then I needed to know as soon as possible.

At this point, Abhi thought I was being a hypochondriac. He didn’t suspect anything untoward. He chose to remain blissfully unaware of the bad things diseases could do, and therefore for him, the possibility that the lump could mean bad news just didn’t exist. While it was OK to be aware of the medical conditions that exist in the world, he thought, it made no sense to imagine that they could happen to us. Well, I wasn’t about to adopt the same attitude, because I understood medical conditions slightly more than many others. With a four-year full-time degree in pharmacy, I had come to appreciate the phenomenal range of medical conditions that exist, and I understood that they could happen to anyone. Therefore, for me, the probability was 50% – it was either good news, or it was not. Even though Abhi was certain the lump wasn’t anything serious, he didn’t stop me from seeing the GP.

When I met my GP, I voiced my concern: I had a history of fibroadenoma (benign breast lumps) and was concerned about this one, because it felt different. I am not sure if my GP completely shared my anxiety, but he did nonetheless refer me to a specialist immediately, someone I wanted to go to at Addenbrooke’s Hospital in Cambridge. This quick referral was partially because the UK has a tremendous focus on the diagnosis and cure of cancer. The GPs try to make sure any suspected case of cancer is referred to a specialist as soon as possible. The specialist I requested was Dr Parto, who had removed one of my fibroadenoma lumps eighteen months ago. Through this previous experience, I was familiar with the surgeon’s skill and expertise.

I went to consult the specialist. While I waited for my turn at 9:00 am on the 10th of September 2012 at Addenbrooke’s Hospital in the scenic city of Cambridge, I looked at the various people in the waiting hall. I wondered how many of these people had found symptoms that were perturbing to say the least. After a while, I saw Dr Parto briskly walk into the clinic. Since I was first on the appointment list, I prepared to hear my name being called out.

The nurse came and called my name shortly afterwards. When I got to the examination room, I expressed my desire to specifically see Dr Parto. I told the nurse about the earlier operation and they understood my request to continue treatment with the same surgeon. They assured me that they would check if Dr Parto was available and sure enough, after a few minutes, there he was.

My appointment lasted just fifteen minutes, but he asked me to stay back for some tests and scans. The first ultrasound scan seemed to go on forever. The radiologist stared at the screen, which to me looked like an indistinct blur of black and white waves. She asked me to wait while she called in the senior doctor, and then they both stared at the screen for a long time. I felt uncomfortable and asked if everything was OK. They replied that they wanted me to go for some more tests immediately.

So I was sent for a mammogram². The machine’s squeezing was hurtful and I was disgruntled at the thought of my precious boobs being hurt so badly. I had never heard anyone describe the experience of getting a mammogram, and so I was taken aback by the pain. I had somehow assumed that it would be like any other scan – a CT scan or an X-ray. But then I stopped thinking about the pain, because there was a more intense turmoil going on inside my head. After the mammogram, I was led back to the ultrasound room for biopsy samples and more scans. The radiographer told me that they usually took samples for biopsies from lymph nodes larger than four centimetres in size. However, in my case, even though the lymph nodes were only three centimetres wide, they wanted to collect the samples for investigation. They asked for my consent, but I wanted to know why they wanted to take samples even though I fell below the minimum threshold. They said that they wanted to be sure.

This heightened my sense of suspicion. The process of taking the biopsy sample was painful, although the local anaesthetic was a life-saver! I think that more than the process, it was the size of the needle that alarmed me. During the process, I fixed my gaze on the computer screen and tried to follow every single movement made by the needle.

A suspicious lump in the breast, several scans for which I did not have appointments (especially in an NHS hospital which is always busy with patients), radiographers staring at their computer screens forever, and finally my consent being requested for a biopsy even though the size of the lymph nodes was below the usual threshold – everything put together signalled bad news to me. I held onto every word they said. They talked about some calcification that they saw on the screen and I asked, ‘Is that a bad thing?’ They said ‘no’, and a hippopotamus-like silence filled the room again. Anaesthesia, cuts, pain, shoving, and lot of staring at the screen followed. When the doctor had finished the biopsy scans, she said, ‘You get dressed, and we’ll have a little chat over a cup of tea.’ Now I was in an NHS hospital, and I wondered – since when did NHS doctors have time to have a chat with a patient over a cup of tea on a Monday morning? The NHS healthcare team had always treated me with warmth, but the idea of having a cup of tea with them felt a bit out of place.

I was given a choice of tea, coffee or hot chocolate, and the nurse strongly suggested that hot chocolate was the best. I went with her suggestion and she quickly came back with a mug of hot chocolate and handed it to me with a huge smile. I sipped it gratefully, and tried to relax after two and a half hours of physical pain, anxiety, and tests. The radiologist came in and gave me further information about the investigation that I had just undergone. But all I wanted to know was: was there any bad news? Was the lump in my breast something that I needed to worry about? I knew that the doctors would not say anything unless they knew for sure; and I understood that. But I just needed to know… I needed to know what I was up against.

The doctor understood my impatience and said, ‘Next week when you come for the reports, please expect to find some cancerous cells’. There it was – almost as clear as black and white. She had confirmed the last thing anyone wants to hear – that they have cancer. My worst nightmare had just been confirmed. I briefly thanked the doctor for her time and honesty, picked up my belongings, and left. I was quiet and in no mood to engage in any further conversation.

Once I was out of the consultation room, I called Abhi immediately and stammered into the phone that the doctor thought I had cancer. It was time for Abhi to be shocked; he was livid, ‘How can the doctor say something like You have cancer?’

‘Errr… they saw the texture of the lump on the ultrasound.’

‘But how can they say something like You could have cancer?’ he screamed.

I told him about the scans and