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