The Promise

By Tarun Shetty

"I'll be OK," my mom said on FaceTime.
I went numb. I'll never forget the day my mom, Shaily Shetty, called me from Florida and said she was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. Our lives turned upside down, oblivious to what lay ahead of us.
This is a story about my mother's incredible will to live, the dramatic highs and lows, and the special childhood moments I experienced under her watchful eye. Over the course of her whirlwind treatment, I watched my mother fight tremendous odds and navigate uncertainty with faith and positivity. Whatever your journey, I hope my mother's fight inspires you or simply shines a light on the immense bravery that all cancer patients must have. I'm proud of my mom and grateful that I was able to share the last chapter of her life with her. Now, I share it with you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350908350

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Copyright 2023

ISBN: 9798350908350

Dedicated to the loving memory of Shailendri P. Shetty

9.19.1948–06.02.2022

Table of Contents

Intro

Arriving Home

Haircut

First Chemo

Wig

Family Video Message

Surgery

Alone

Picking Up Mom

Walking with Mom

Breakfast

Indian Grocery Store

Sad News

Beach

Baba Uncle

Mom’s Birthday

Christmas

Dining Table

Temple

Walgreens

Indoor Walks

Infusion Center

Problems

Scan

Waiting

Spread

On our way

The Promise

Hospital Date

Mother’s Day

Physical Therapy

Showdown

Video

Nighttime

GI

Dr. K

New Hospital

Dropping the Hammer

Hospital Room

Reglan

Ambulance

Night Nurse

Ice

Reiki

Run

Second-to-Last Day

Second Opinion

Last Day

Cremation

Thirteen Days

Water

Dream

About the Author

Intro

I told my mom I was going to write a TV show about everything she had been through. The highs and lows seemed like a ride on a fictional roller coaster. We experienced things I could never make up on my own. I couldn’t believe what was happening. It was like our universe had been flipped upside down.

I can’t remember when the idea was triggered. It might have been in the hospital room or when she was lying on her stretcher and being transported to surgery for the first time.

Write a book, Mom said.

Mom, I can’t write a book, I said.

It was an instinctive reply. I would do anything for my mother. ANYTHING. But I couldn’t wrap my head around writing a book. Everything was so harsh and real. How do I even begin to put this on paper? What if there is no fairy-tale ending? I didn’t want to make a promise I couldn’t keep. But I think Mom forgot about my hesitancy because she always pointed out characters and moments to remember throughout her ordeal.

Make sure you put her in the book, Mom said after being helped by the kind radiology oncologist. Other times she would tell me to jot down names of helpful nurses so we could honor them in some way.

I wrote a blog post after Mom passed, which was published in our hometown newspaper, the Laconia Sun, along with a picture of us. I’m glad I was able to give Mom a nice tribute in a town where she lived for over forty years. It captured one memory, a sliver of a lifetime with Mom. I later realized that I had more memories to share, enough to fill an ocean but never feel satiated. This book, however, is just about the last year and a half. Some moments were painful, some amazing. I’m glad I got to share all of them with my mom.

I hope this book can help cancer patients and their family members. Know that you are not alone when facing whatever insurmountable obstacle is in front of you. Just give it your best. That’s what my mom would say and did. I saw firsthand how she lived her words of courage from the moment she woke up to her final breath.

Thanks, Mom, for everything. I’m thinking about you.

1

Arriving Home

Ihear Mom’s singsong voice echoing when I enter the house. I landed in Florida a few hours ago, armored in almost a full hazmat suit because of the pandemic, and haven’t seen my mother in months. She sits at the kitchen table, wearing a worn-in pink T-shirt. Mom is angled away from me as she finishes a conversation on the phone. To her Indian friends and family, she speaks a seamless mix of English and Tulu, our native language from Mangalore, India.

As a kid, I remember watching TV on the living room floor on my stomach with frayed socks kicking in the air. A fresh masala dosa sizzled on the pan in the kitchen. Her melodious voice filled the background (though I can’t tell she has an Indian accent because I’ve heard it all my life). The wired phone is cradled under her neck, and she talked to her friends while whisking through the kitchen and mixing spices in a tin bowl. Mom loved to cook, and on some Sunday mornings, we woke up to the welcoming smell of banana bread, crisping in the oven.

It was less than forty-eight hours ago that Mom told me of her ovarian cancer diagnosis. I was in my car, fumbling with my keys, in a West Hollywood Pavilion’s grocery store parking lot when my FaceTime screen lit up.

At this point, cancer is a mysterious disease to me. I’ve heard the C word all my life, but I thought it was something other people get. Cancer is not in my family. Mom abstained from smoking and drinking, and she exercised regularly. Strangers frequently complimented her, mistaking her for looking far younger than her actual age. I would wince when I heard my dad cough, his asthma causing him to wheeze, or his pondering steps through the hallways. But Mom bounded through the house with energy, her voice loud and cheerful. She was a ubiquitous presence and bounced from room to room like a pinball.

Mom turns around in the kitchen, and her face lights up when she sees me. She stands and wraps her arms around me. It’s good to be home.

2

Haircut

Black locks fall to the floor. Some fall in clumps, others in singular wisps. Mom sits in a plastic chair in our Florida lanai as the metal clippers buzz. She looks up at me occasionally and smiles, trying to hide her discomfort. I know she hates this. Her stylist stands behind her and moves the clipper along her head in smooth, careful strokes. A large plastic sheet is folded out underneath on the floor and littered with clumps of hair.

I watch from our slider door in my hoodie and sweats. My female friend explained to me that a woman’s hair is a part of her identity. Rather than wait for the chemo to take effect, Mom vanquishes her hair on her own terms. I’m proud of her and wish I could award her a medal for her bravery.

Mom had long black shoulder-length hair in her younger days. Her favorite stylist worked at Hair Excitement in Laconia, New Hampshire, and Mom even followed her to another location when it closed. The salon was one of the last remaining stalwarts of a once-bustling mall, now gutted and plagued by hollow storefronts. Meanwhile, a shiny new Walmart with an overflowing parking lot thrives, just a twenty-minute drive away.

As a kid, I’d roam the mall while Mom’s hair was cut and colored. Sometimes I’d wait in the sitting area and distract myself with old copies of People magazine amid a cacophony of gabbing middle-aged women and running blow dryers.

Mom’s hair always looked fashionable and matched her simple outfits when she left the house to run my dad’s medical practice when I was a small boy. I think about those days when I enter her walk-in closet in Florida. I see neatly folded American outfits and colorful saris for Indian functions on hangers with tiny handwritten notes. They detail when she wore it last, which event, and with what jewelry.

Tiny diamond earrings, a silver watch, and a white Ganesh pendant chain are a part of Mom’s everyday wear. When we go to the hospital, she opts for a black hoodie and a black string on her wrist that was sent by my aunt from India, bought at a Hindu temple.

This new Florida stylist buzzing her hair is a pleasant heavyset lady with a Southern accent. She cuts Mom’s hair for free—an act of goodwill for being a loyal customer and friend. When she’s done, Mom asks for a handheld mirror, holding it up at different angles and scrutinizing her bald head.

Mom, it looks good! I say reassuringly. You look like Persis Khambatta.

Who?!

She was an old Star Trek actress from the 1970s. I pull her picture up on my phone, and Mom laughs. From this moment on, Mom assumes I’m always lying to her to make her feel better. Six months later, when she is in remission and her