My Journey to Healing – Anu Gupta

Oct 14, 2025

13 March 2009. It is a year since I had a total hysterectomy (along with the appendix, some lymph nodes, and the omentum) for suspected ovarian cancer. I remember that morning when I was put on a stretcher and taken to the OT. I asked the ward boy, “I can walk—why are you taking me on a stretcher?” As I was being taken, I saw a number of people waiting to see me off—many I hadn’t expected. I was very touched. The scene fills me with tears today, and I sob as I write.

The operation theatre had some good music playing. I had an all-women team of doctors—the anaesthetist, the surgeon, and assistant doctors. I thanked them before the surgery and felt proud to be operated on by a team of women. I had spruced myself up by colouring my hair and doing a facial. I wanted to look good; I didn’t want visitors to feel depressed seeing me ill. The anaesthetist also commented on how lean I was. After being anaesthetised, I could hear some sounds for a while, but the bright lights made me shut my eyes and lose consciousness. I only remember that my intestines hadn’t cleared and the doctors had to perform the surgery in the stink. The surgery lasted almost six hours. When I regained consciousness, I found myself in the ICU. I was scared for the first time. I was on oxygen, and there were various tubes. Shailaja, Bali, and Meena came to see me. I wanted Meena to sing. I didn’t want to be left alone. I asked the nurses to stay around. They were very sensitive and kind.

The next nine days in the hospital saw both ups and downs. Oh, the coconut water! Arvind was keen that I have adequate amounts, but it was more than I could digest. The vomiting started. I was not allowed solids for a few days more. The craving for solid food was so strong I could imagine the smell of fresh rotis. I gradually started to walk with the help of Shailaja and Arvind. Most of the nurses—both male and female—were caring. I had got used to the IV fluids pumped into me daily. For a person who had avoided doctors and allopathy, I had it all in one go. I had a lovely room, quite luxurious, with an AC I rarely used. Shailaja spent the nights with me. The only thing I didn’t like was the nurses putting on the lights at midnight to give me an injection or waking me early in the morning to give me a sponge.

My surgeon, Dr Namrata Kacchara, was very impressive. She was always simply dressed. I liked the way she walked with her back straight. She was quick and smooth. The first time she examined me, I was surprised how easily she gave me a pelvic and rectal exam. When she did my dressing, I hardly had any pain. Around the eighth day after the surgery, she announced with a straight face that the biopsy report had come: the ovarian tumour was malignant, and I would have to undergo six cycles of chemotherapy. There was nothing to fear, as friends of hers had continued to work during chemo in spite of being on their first jobs. I wasn’t scared. I was expecting it.
The initial diagnosis

I was in the office that day—probably the 6th of March—trying to complete some work before the operation. Arvind had come from Indore with the CT scan and blood test reports. He forced me to come home with him at 4:00 p.m. It was unusual, since he never encouraged me to leave my work. We walked back home, and I knew something was wrong. We had some tea, and he announced the probable diagnosis so calmly, hiding all the anxiety playing behind. He then said he had shared the news with my sister Chetna in Delhi. That got me panicky. I was worried how she would take it. I cried then. I wasn’t worried about myself—I really wasn’t. I had no fear at all. I phoned her and reassured her.

It was a hell of a time for Arvind, though. He had to decide soon where to do the surgery—Mumbai, Delhi, or Indore. There were numerous email exchanges and phone calls. I admire him for his confidence and decision-making ability. There was a wave of panic and fear in my family and our friend circle. Nobody could think that I could get sick—the health-conscious girl. Of course, many didn’t know the anxious side of me, when I could go bingeing when faced with tension, or go deep into myself and build fences around myself to prevent getting hurt.
The two to three weeks after the surgery were not easy. I would find myself very sad in the evenings and wanting to cry for no reason—until I discovered that depression was normal after such surgeries. I would get easily upset. I didn’t like too much noise, the TV, or the computer, and I was fussy about food too. Fortunately, my sisters took turns to come and take care of me, apart from the domestic help, Shailaja, Arvind, and Bali. I had to do some daily rocking after folding my knees back and forth and side to side, and some thumping of the back so that the internal organs would move inside.

I had a urinary bag attached to a catheter which had to be emptied every few hours. During the surgery, there was a nip in the bladder. The endometriosis I had had since 1989 had spread all over. The tumour too was large—about 15 × 12 × 8.5 cm—resting on the urinary bladder. It was not easy to operate. Dr Kacchara reassured me that there was a 99% chance I would have no urinary problem. I liked her approach and respected her for it. She was honest. Fortunately, I had no pain at all. She was surprised. According to her, I was the first patient she had had who had not complained of pain. Was it the homeopathic medicine, prayers, and Reiki numerous friends were sending me?
The beginnings

When did the symptoms start? I really can’t say, since I had had heavy bleeding in 2006 and discovered an ovarian cyst then. Again, in 2008, I had heavy bleeding. Both times, I took a course of homeopathy from my homeopath in Mumbai, who had treated me for endometriosis twenty years ago. The more obvious symptoms started in November 2008, when I had severe bouts of constipation, gas, and bloating. I would drink soups and try home remedies and be fine for some days. I was getting very anxious about my work too. Things moved very slowly, and I would always feel stuck.

The constipation continued until January 2009. I had started to feel mildly feverish and tired more easily. I wasn’t able to do more than one round of Surya Namaskar. In early February, I experienced some pain in the lower left abdomen, severe exhaustion, depression, mild fever, and sleepiness. I would go to the office but not be able to work for more than two hours. I would rest there. I was very worried about Bali. She was frustrated with the design course she was doing and wanted to drop out. Knowing I had a cyst in the left ovary and suspecting trouble, I went to see my gynaecologist in Dewas, Dr Ratna Shihurkar—such a wonderful person, so soothing. She gave me a course of antibiotics but advised that I must undergo an ultrasound. Listening to my body’s signals was useful. A routine exam which Arvind and I both underwent at Bombay Hospital, Indore, revealed this huge tumour during the ultrasound. Of course, I had not expected such a major problem.

But when I reflect on the mistakes I made, things fall into place. In 1989, when I first discovered I had endometriosis, I was advised by Dr Satish Tibrewala to periodically undergo ultrasound to detect any recurrence. I didn’t follow his advice. During the two bouts of heavy bleeding, I took homeopathic treatment which helped. But after the treatment, I should have gone in for a sonography to rule out any other problems.
Whether to take chemotherapy or an alternative?

One thing I was a bit scared of was chemotherapy. Three weeks after the surgery, chemotherapy was to start. After some discussion on why not pursue Ayurvedic medicine, I agreed to chemotherapy, since I didn’t have the energy or the time to explore and feel confident about its efficacy. However, I decided I would take some complementary treatment along with it. I also discussed the experience of chemotherapy and complementary medicine with a few ex-patients.

When I think about it, it seems a long time back. The first chemo started on 8 April, and the last on 29 July, at Apollo Hospital in Delhi, under the guidance of a smiling, jovial doctor—Dr Harsh Dua—whom I referred to as Boman Irani when I met him the second time. He laughed and said he would go off to Bollywood and I would be without a doctor. The oncology department of Apollo was two floors underground, facing the Pest Control department of the hospital. When I visited it for the first time to meet Dr Dua, I panicked. I felt I couldn’t breathe. The smell of the pesticides, the crowd of patients, and the closed space made me feel claustrophobic, making me want to run away. Bali, very maturely, tried to help me understand that numerous others managed this environment, and I could try to.

Each chemo session was different, lasting about 10 hours. I would be admitted for one night, with chemotherapy starting at 11:00 a.m. and ending by midnight or 2–3 in the morning. The whole treatment was administered intravenously. The drugs were expensive, and the hospital had a rule that they had to be bought from the hospital itself. Sukanya fought for me and got a 10% discount. In the open market, and with my sister’s contacts, I could have got as much as 25–30% discounts. But that is how private hospitals work.
I gradually got used to the needle pricks. The first two days after chemo were a bit difficult, with some pain in the legs, sleeplessness, momentary pain in the stomach, and a reduction in appetite. In the last two chemos, I needed blood transfusions since chemo causes a low blood count. A reduction in the platelet count also led to dark bruises on the body. Between each chemo session, I had to take two injections to help improve the blood count and undergo a CBC twice. I visited one lab throughout the treatment. The staff there were systematic and efficient, and reports were available online. These tests were a source of anxiety because the results determined whether I could have the next chemo or not. Except for the last chemo, I had all my sessions every three weeks.
The role of complementary medicine

Along with chemotherapy, I did a number of complementary therapies. I don’t know about their proven efficacy, but I did them on the advice of family and friends who had themselves experienced the disease or had been caregivers, and because of my own faith in them. I used two Ayurvedic drugs—Praval Pishti (made from coral) to prevent nausea and vomiting soon after chemo for two to three days, and Guduchi Satva (Tinospora cordifolia), which is supposed to improve the platelet count. I also took homeopathy during the whole period.
My mornings started at about 4:30–5:00 with some Vipassana, Reiki, and a prayer. This was followed by drinking about two glasses of water; a glass of fresh/powdered wheatgrass juice; amla juice; some kismis/manaka (raisins), badam, khajur; aloe (gwar phata); alsi powder (linseed); and methi seeds. This was prepared for me daily by my sister’s domestic help, Ramu, for the whole stay of my treatment. After this, I would take a walk for about 30 to 40 minutes, and another walk in the evening.

Another important aspect of my treatment was my diet, which consisted of juices (apple, chukandar, anar, carrots), fruit, paneer, dahi, soyabean milk, soup, and, in general, a high-protein diet as advised by the hospital nutritionist. Of course, it was not only the food but the care, concern, and thought that went into it by my sister Chetna and her domestic help, Ramu.

I also tried two more therapies: EFT (Emotional Freedom Technique), which has been used successfully for various health problems and especially for trauma (such as victims of war). It consists of tapping on meridians and acupuncture points along with some affirmations (you can find it online). I also underwent an energy-healing session with Manya Lindsay, who follows the technique developed by Martin Brofman (author of Anything Can Be Healed), who cured himself of cancer 35 years ago. She helped me understand how long-standing sadness, repressed anger, and low self-esteem can cause such problems. She had herself cured herself of cancer using this method without chemotherapy. She advised me to indulge in some retail therapy (I bought myself a new set of clothes), learn to love and take care of myself, do things I like doing, and even change my work.
My great companions during this forced sabbatical were visitors, Sudoku, books, a laptop (which I purchased there), and myself. For the first time in my life, I had time to reflect on my needs, weaknesses, goodness, and pent-up emotions, and I really enjoyed it. The books I read included both good literature and some self-help books like You Can Heal Your Life (Louise Hay), The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari (Robin Sharma), and The Secret. One very important book was Cancer, My Companion, written by Dr Arvind Bavdekar, an orthopaedic oncologist in Mumbai. He suffered from cancer of the stomach and opted to take alternative treatment. This was the first book I read, and it instilled great confidence in me (it is available in English and Marathi with me, but there is also a Hindi version called Cancer, Mera Saathi). I also did some meditative techniques which helped me forgive people I was angry with or bitter about. This process made me feel very light.

The major learnings In the end, I want to share what was most important in the whole treatment—ACCEPTANCE, LOVE, GRATITUDE.
My own reaction to the illness was: it has come, and it will go. My faith in Vipassana helped me considerably, since Vipassana is based on the fact that nothing is permanent and on looking at all experiences or sensations with equanimity, or samtabhav. It is not that I did not get distressed. I did. Sometimes I wanted to die. I felt that Arvind and Bali could manage without me. But these were short spells too—they came and went.
The amount of LOVE I have received I cannot count. During this period, I felt I was surrounded by love. And that, I feel, was the most important aspect of my healing: visits, emails, phone calls, hospital support, books, music, clothes, letters, organic food, flowers, Alphonsos, HUGs… oh, a basketful of it. The love, care, and support we received—from my family (my seven siblings, spouses, and children), Arvind’s uncles and aunts (from ages 50 to 85), my friends from school, college, and work, the whole of Arvind’s friend circle, neighbours, domestic help, teachers, colleagues, people I hadn’t met in 20 years, and those I did not know but who guided me; cancer patients who advised me and instilled confidence in me.

During this period, I realised how GRATITUDE is so important. It gives so much happiness to oneself and to those to whom you show your gratitude. On my last chemo, I made cards for the nurses, doctors, the cook, and the lab technician, and wrote letters to my doctors in Dewas and Indore. I could sense that they were touched. One nurse said, “Can you make another copy of this? I would like to put it up in the staff quarters.” Dr Suri, the pathologist whose lab I visited regularly, said, “Can I contribute in any way to your organisation?” Dr Kacchara said, “Get well; then we shall work together.” And, you know, I thanked the room I lived in, the terrace I walked on, the neem and gulmohar trees, the aloe and wheatgrass, the birds who came every morning… and I felt really, really good.

And finally, I wish to thank all of you who have been with me in this healing journey. I am thinking of you all today and bless you for being with me.

Anu
13 March 2010

(Reposted with Permission from Ms Anu Gupta)