When my mother emphatically 

woke me up at 1 a.m. and claimed 
that I might die from a pulmonary 
embolism, I didn’t know how to 
react. Moreover, I didn’t know 
what I could do. I was laying on 
my bed with my right leg elevat-
ed over almost every pillow we 
owned to combat the swelling that 
came with a torn ACL. At first, I 
rolled my eyes at what seemed to 
be the classic WebMD diagnosis. 
However, there was a confidence 
and fear in her voice that indicated 
to me that she didn’t have a doubt 
in her mind. As this sunk in, the 
thought of not waking up made it 
near impossible to go to sleep. At 
age 20, death wasn’t something I 
had thought about a lot.

-----

I tore my ACL on Aug. 1, 2019. 

The reason why I remember this 
date is because it was conveniently 
three weeks before I had signed up 
to take the MCAT. It took seeing 
three different specialists over the 
span of a week before I could get 
an MRI which confirmed the tear. 
With a certain diagnosis comes a 
strange sense of relief. While I had 
received the news that I had a seri-
ous knee injury, I suddenly could 
see a way forward. I scheduled an 
appointment with my surgeon for 
a consultation and then with that 
I’d begin my road to recovery. Over 
this period of time I continued to 
study for MCAT. For a whole sum-
mer I labored over a standardized 
test that is as long as a flight to 
Europe while a lot of my friends 
actually took flights to Europe 
to study abroad. I didn’t want my 
efforts to go to waste and was stub-
bornly hell-bent to take this exam. 
Strangely enough something that 
had given me a great deal of stress 
earlier that summer now acted as 
a way to displace the stress that 
came with my health. 

For a while, I truly believed that 

I’d be able to get away with this. 
I felt like Michael Jordan play-
ing through the flu in the 1997 
NBA finals. I found time to study 
interspersed between the multiple 
doctors appointments that I went 
to. With a pair of crutches, MCAT 
study materials, ibuprofen and a 
ridiculous amount of pillows, I felt 
invincible. Until a week later. My 
injured leg had gone completely 
numb halfway through a practice 
exam I was taking. I felt pins and 
needles start from my calf and 
make its way up my leg. At first I 
thought that my foot had fallen 
asleep or I was just nervous about 
the practice test. However, by the 
time I had finished I was sweat-
ing and breathing as if I had run a 
marathon. 

-----

A 
pulmonary 
embolism 
is 

when a blood clot that forms on 
the inside of your vein dislodges 
and ultimately makes its way to 
the arteries of the lungs through 
the pulmonary circulation. If the 
embolus is big enough then cardiac 
arrest is almost immediate. Even if 
you get lucky and don’t die imme-
diately, you will die eventually if 
the blood clot remains undetected.

-----

It was based on the symptoms 

from my practice exam that my 
mom announced my impending 
doom. Usually in the case of life 
or death emergencies, one would 

call 911. However, we somehow 
decided that a panicked email to 
my doctor and a call to UHS for 
reassurance would suffice. The 
combination of being left on hold 
for 30 minutes, the UHS nurse’s 
reassurance that I didn’t have a 
blood clot and general fatigue was 
enough for me to go back to sleep 
-- I was willing to accept any good 
news at that point. 

This interaction all seemed like 

a dream but I was reminded of its 
reality when I woke up to a phone 
call from my doctor who ordered 
me to come to the hospital imme-
diately to get an ultrasound of my 
leg. In no time, I found myself on 
a hospital bed with a nurse taking 
an ultrasound image of my injured 
leg. There was an incredibly tense 
moment of silence with the nurse 
staring at the imaging screen, my 
mother staring at me and me star-
ing at the nurse trying to read the 
reflection of the ultrasound moni-
tor off his glasses. Ultimately, he 
swung the monitor around and 
showed me the image of the blood 
clot that totally occluded my right 
gastrocnemius vein — a Deep 
Vein Thrombosis. This complica-
tion meant that I had to be put on 
blood thinners for three months in 
order for the clot to dissolve before 
I could get surgery on my knee to 
repair my torn ACL.

-----

There have been very few 

moments in my life where I felt 
like I had no control over what was 
happening to me: this was one of 
them. I remember trying to des-
perately negotiate with my doctor 
if there was any possibility I could 
do a shorter course of blood thin-
ners. It wasn’t possible and at this 
I felt hopeless. Usually in response 
to adversity, I’d try to make a plan 
and could usually see the light at 
the end of the tunnel. However, 
as a college student, I could bare-
ly make a plan for the next two 
weeks. How was I supposed to just 
wait for three months? Also given 
the seemingly unpredictability of 
my recent health, how did I know 
something else wouldn’t hap-
pen that would further delay my 
surgery? This is the anxiety and 
paranoia that lived in my mind 
rent free. I started my summer by 
preparing for an exam that would 
help me become a doctor and save 
lives, but I ended the summer as a 
patient on crutches.

I also started to resent the 

whole pre-medical process. For an 
entire summer, I crammed a whole 
college education’s worth of mate-
rial, I stressed out over not doing 
well on practice tests and then 
became a compulsive MCAT red-
dit checker, which didn’t do any 
favors to my anxiety. This vicious 
cycle consumed my mind over the 
summer. As days went by and my 
practice test scores didn’t improve, 
I found myself fighting an uphill 
battle with doubt. I started to 
doubt my ability as a student and 
also if I had what it took to pur-
sue the rather daunting task of 
becoming a doctor. I was not just 
in pain physically but I was also 
mentally exhausted. The fact that 
I wouldn’t even get the chance to 
at least try to take the exam that I 
had put so much time and energy 
into broke my spirit. Though a lot 
of friends and family tried to reach 
out to me and offered their conso-
lation, I truly felt alone. 

-----

With a deep vein thrombosis 

diagnosis, I was referred to a hema-
tologist who is essentially a blood 
specialist that would be managing 
my treatment. This was the fourth 
doctor I had seen in the span of 2-3 
weeks. It was quite rare for people 
to get blood clots at my age. I was 
also told that a torn ACL puts me at 
risk of getting osteoporosis earlier. 
These continual reminders made 
me feel like I wasn’t a 20 year old. I 
had never been to the department 
of hematology, but as we arrived at 
the waiting room and noticed that 
it was in the cancer center, a famil-
iar yet sorrowful feeling took over 
me as my mother turned a bit pale. 

My mother moved to the United 

States in 1995, and when she tried 
to start a family with my father in 
1998, she received two pieces of 
information from her doctor. The 
first was that she was pregnant 
with me, and the second was that 
she had been diagnosed with a rare 
form of blood cancer called chron-
ic myelogenous leukemia. She had 
the option of getting an abortion 
and starting her treatment as soon 
as possible, however she chose to 
go ahead with the pregnancy and 
wait to get treated. Cancer treat-
ments in the 90s weren’t the most 
refined at the time, so as soon 
as she had given birth to me she 
underwent a pretty rigorous che-
motherapy treatment. Luckily, my 
younger aunt turned out to be a 
perfect donor for a bone marrow 
transplant, and she’s been cancer 
free for 20 years. Though I don’t 
have any conscious memories of 
my mother going through chemo-
therapy, I have always had this 
indirect relationship with can-
cer as I would always accompany 
my mother to her post-treatment 
checkups when I was younger. 

-----

As soon as I got to the office, I 

was reminded of where we were. 
I was seated in a waiting room of 
cancer patients. Many of them 
used walkers to combat the fatigue 
that comes with the treatment of 
cancer. Many bald heads had swol-
len faces, which are common side 
effects of chemotherapy. My moth-
er had told me that as a little kid, I 
was a source of joy whenever she’d 
bring me to the waiting room of 
her appointments. In what seemed 
like a parallel of years prior, I 
watched a little kid walk around 
the room and introduce himself to 
everyone. It was both heartbreak-
ing and admirable to watch my 
mother put on a brave face. I don’t 
think she could have ever imag-
ined that after risking her own life 
to give me mine, we would be back 
in the same waiting room, but this 
time I was the patient. There was 
a moment where I met the gaze of 
a row of cancer patients, and fear 
surged into me. I stared at them 
and couldn’t help but frown. They 
stared at me and my hair and then 
also frowned. In that moment, we 
had come to an unspoken common 
understanding 
that 
something 

was wrong and that I didn’t belong 
there. 

Shortly afterwards, a frail elder 

woman wearing a red head scarf 
made her way from across the 
room and started talking to me. 
After patiently probing and trying 
to get me to open up, the woman 
asked me what was wrong and 
that’s when I told her this whole 
story. I told her about my ambition 
and dream to become a doctor. I 
told her about the cancer research 
that I’m involved in and that I was 

studying 
biomedical 
engineer-

ing. But I also told her that I was 
scared, that I had started my sum-
mer with all of these plans for my 
future, but now I was living at the 
mercy of fate and navigating its 
unpredictability without a com-
pass. 

By the time I had finished my 

story, an attendant had called the 
lady into the office but before she 
went in, she pointed at me from 
across the room and proudly 
claimed “You’re going to be the 
one who cures cancer.” I scoffed 
and without a beat asked “How do 
you know?” She replied, “I don’t, 
but it’s kids like you who give 
people like us hope” and walked 
into the doctor’s office. I held my 
tears in until she was out of my 
line of sight. This simple and hon-
est interaction seemed to ease the 
majority of my doubts and reaf-
firmed my passion for medicine. 
It was a moment of clarity that I 
hadn’t had all summer. 

Ironically, while preparing for 

the MCAT, I had lost sight of what 
drew me to the field in the first 
place. I had gotten too caught up 
with the anxiety and the competi-
tion of the process. My over-ambi-
tion had narrowed my perspective 
of the profession and prevented me 
from thinking about the long term. 
Becoming a doctor seemed to be 
reduced to the pre-med checklist 
that was given to me as a fresh-
man. I was focused on getting 
good grades, a good MCAT score 
and doing everything I possibly 
could to pass off as the “holistic” 
applicant. In the hopes of helping 
others, I found myself becoming 
incredibly self centered. 

However, I was missing the 

main point of it all. The can-
cer patient that approached me 
reminded me that the root of med-
icine is our service to others. It’s 
about how we treat each other. It is 
the ability to empathize with com-
plete strangers who are in their 
most vulnerable state and to reas-
sure that they would be alright. 
The patient/doctor relationship is 
based on a unique trust and faith 
that everything is being done to 
look after the patient. Having the 
perfect medical school application 
does not correlate to my ability of 
being a relatable and comforting 
human being. 

-----

It was that simple sentence that 

brought me out of my loneliness. 
As I inevitably canceled my MCAT 
date and started my next college 
semester, I began to value my rela-
tionships with people more than 
I had done before. I had friends 
who checked in on me when I was 
stressed out during the semester 
and especially around my surgery 
date. I had friends who insisted on 
hanging out with me even though 
it was inconvenient because I was 
commuting from home. I had 
friends that would carry my bag 
and walk with me to classes while 
I was on crutches. Some shared 
stories of their own injuries. I 
had professors that supported me 
and worked with me one on one 
to ensure I was staying on track. 
My family supported me uncondi-
tionally throughout the process as 
well. By the time I took the MCAT 
exam this summer, I realized I 
was not just a sum of my own hard 
work but also that of everyone 
around me. Thankfully, I was able 
to walk into the exam room on my 
own two feet.

In the hospital, a moment of clarity

The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Michigan in Color
4 — Wednesday, December 9, 2020 

 DEVAK NANUA

MiC Co-Managing Editor

A dash of spontaneity from my paati

Photo by Marcelo Leal via Unsplash

I inherited my big nose from my 

grandfather and my asthma from 
my dad. My love of dance from my 
mom and sweet tooth from my 
dad. My paati (grandma) loves 
cooking. She cooks with a sixth 
sense — heart. She makes me my 
favorite kathrikai (eggplant) each 
visit and if I were a stranger, she 
would make me kathrikai that 
tasted just the same. She is legally 
blind; she relies not on measure-
ment in her cooking but smell, 
touch, love, spice. But I don’t like 
to cook. It takes me too long and 
I need measurements. I’m not 
generous. My toast tastes differ-
ent for each relationship I have. 
Burnt, too light, rarely just right. 
I rely on pre-planned precision, 
measurement and recipes guid-
ing me through every step, but 
my paati cooks with an array of 
ingredients and spontaneity that 
speak from her heart. 

-----

Recipe: Age 8
• 
Hang up clothes on drying 
rack.

Not tall enough. 
• 
Play catch.

With siblings. With neighbors. 

With friends. But be back in an 
hour.

• 
Dance.

You love to dance. But classes 

are much too expensive.

• 
Sing.

You love to sing. Your mom is a 

beautiful violinist.

• 
School.

Nothing less than first rank. 

-----

Recipe: Age 9
• 
Hang up clothes on drying 
rack.

Not tall enough. But who else 

to do it.

• 
School.

Nothing less than first rank.
• 
Take care of babies.

Your siblings. Your mother 

passed away. You must start help-
ing.

-----

Recipe: Age 17
• 
Hang up clothes on drying 
rack.

• 
Cook.

You 
should 
have 
already 

learned how to cook by now.

• 
Wash dishes.

• 
Clean.

• 
Wash clothes.

• 
Sweep floor.

• 
School

Nothing less than first rank. 

But no more school after this. 
You need to get married. But you 
always got first rank. You topped 
your class every year. You would 
have continued to excel. Contin-
ued to create, achieve, imagine, 
discover. 

-----

Recipe: Age 21
• 
Hang up clothes on drying 
rack.

• 
Cook.

• 
Cook.

• 
Cook.

This is your creation, imagi-

nation, and discovery. You are so 
good at it.

• 
Wash dishes.

• 
Cook.

• 
Take care of baby.

Your baby.
• 
Take care of baby.

Not your baby, but the other 

ones too.

• 
Clean.

• 
Wash clothes.

• 
Sweep floor.

• 
Ask if anyone wants chai.

• 
Ask if anyone wants food.

-----

Recipe: Age 43
• 
Hang up clothes on drying 
rack.

• 
Cook.

• 
Cook.

• 
Cook.

• 
Wash dishes.

• 
Cook.

• 
Take care of baby.

Your second baby. Your first 

one is 22. She’s moving to Ameri-
ca. She’s starting her life. You told 
her to get her education. You told 
her to be financially stable so that 
she could provide for herself.

• 
Clean.

• 
Wash clothes.

• 
Sweep floor.

• 
Ask if anyone wants chai.

• 
Ask if anyone wants food.

-----

Recipe: Age 71
• 
Hang up clothes on drying 
rack.

You take in the California sun 

as you gently place each item on 
the backyard chair.

• 
Cook.

We have guests coming. You 

can’t wait to cook your famous 
rasam.

• 
Cook.

You try something new. A new 

dessert. Made vegan for your 
granddaughter.

• 
Cook.

You 
don’t 
take 
tastes 
in 

between. You know we will love 
it. But you know your daugh-
ter has been telling you to use 
less salt. Because we need to be 
healthier. So you take a taste. But 
it’s just not the same without the 
salt. You add the salt.

• 
Cook.

Your favorite way to show love.
• 
Wash dishes.

Your son-in-law begins. But 

you want to help. You love the 
time together.

• 
Take care of baby.

Your grandbabies. Your first 

one is 20. She’s in college. She’s 
starting her life. You told her to 
get her education. You told her to 
be financially stable so that she 
could provide for herself. You told 
her to follow her passion for read-
ing, writing, art, learning. Your 
second one is 17. You told him to 
get his education. You told him to 
never lose his love for music. Your 
third one is 13. You live, laugh, 
play and love with her, admiring 
her pencil sketches with squinted 
eyes through your magnifying 
glass. 

• 
Clean.

You walk to your favorite 

rooms of the house, cleaning as 
you go. Fighting us every time we 
tell you that you should rest. 

• 
Ask if we all want chai.

Your granddaughter brings her 

oat milk for you to make your spe-
cial chai. She watches, asking you 
to teach her everything you know 
so she can be independent in col-
lege. But she knows her chai will 
never be the same. 

• 
Ask if we all want food.

• 
Take a nap.

You listen to your favorite 

prayer as you drift off, your eyes 
tired but your heart filled with 
satisfaction as you remember 
how much your babies loved your 
kathrikai.

• 
Phone call.

Your best friend from India. 

Your favorite cousin. Your daugh-
ter. You can’t wait to see them 
when you go back in the summer.

I inherited my paati’s reci-

pes; her memories occupy my 
imagination. They may not shine 
through me with physical attribu-
tions, like the bump on the bridge 
of my nose that tells of my grand-
pa’s love for travel. They may not 
be as evident as my dad’s asthma 
that plagues me in the winter. 
But I know they exist within me, 
reminding me every day that I 
must continue to protest so that I 
may create something bigger than 
myself. I’ve been blessed with a 
life that allows me to rebel explic-
itly — one that not only allows but 
challenges me to fight the sys-
tem, yet resists my strikes when 
I forget that it was my paati’s 
sacrifices and lifetime of implicit 
rebellion, biting her tongue, feed-
ing her family — that paved the 
way. So I start to make the kathri-
kai, FaceTime ringing and a mil-
lion questions on my mind that I 
know my paati will answer.

 ANAMIKA KANNAN

MiC Assistant Creative Content Editor

 Grandma’s recipe. Photo courtesy of the author

