The week before surgery

After a painstaking week of consultations, second opinions, investigations and difficult conversations with urologists and oncologists, the surgery is finally planned for Monday.

It is strange how quickly life can change.

Just a few days ago, our biggest concerns were his studies, frequent cricket matches, timely intake of meals, and the ordinary arguments that happen in every family.

Now, the entire family calendar seems to revolve around one date.

Monday.

The week leading up to it has been a strange mixture of hope and despair. Some doctors spoke with confidence and gave us reasons to remain hopeful. Others carefully explained the possible complications, the difficult road ahead, and the things we may have to prepare ourselves for.

As parents, you listen to every word. You want to hear only the good news.

But you also know that you cannot close your ears to the difficult possibilities.

Some conversations left us hopeful.

Some left us frightened.

And some stayed in our minds long after the consultation was over.

But somewhere between all these consultations, reports and medical opinions, we realised something important.

We cannot control everything that is going to happen. But we can control how we face it.

So we prayed. Duas were made. Ayat-e-Karimas were recited. Sadqas were given.

Family members prayed from different parts of the world. His Chachoo (uncle) flew all the way from Australia to be with him on the day of surgery.

It was his way of saying, without needing to say it: “You are not going through this alone.”

And perhaps that is what this week has really been about. Not just doctors and hospitals. Not just reports and scans.

But people.

Family.

Prayers.

Love.

And hope.

And then there was cricket

Perhaps the most surprising thing about this entire week has been the boy himself.

While the adults around him were discussing surgery, chemotherapy, treatment plans and possible complications, he was busy being an 18-year-old.

He played four or five cricket matches.

He went out for dinners.

He watched a movie at the cinema.

He met his friends.

And then, as if the universe had decided to give him one more reason to smile, his AS Level result was announced. He did reasonably well. Good enough to lift his spirits. Good enough for us to celebrate something other than medical reports.

We deliberately tried to keep him busy.

Not because we wanted to pretend that nothing was happening.

But because we did not want the disease to occupy every corner of his mind.

For a young person, perhaps that is even more important.

He needs to remain a son, a brother, a student, a cricketer, a friend.

Not become only a patient.

And so, between medical appointments, he continued playing cricket.

Which brings me to something that has made us smile during a week when smiling has not always come easily.

As Monday approaches, he does not seem particularly frightened about the surgery itself.

What worries him more is cricket and college classes.

He is concerned about missing matches.

He is concerned about chemotherapy.

He has heard the doctors talk about fatigue, lethargy, avoiding crowds, possible infections and staying away from cricket for some time.

For us, these are serious medical concerns.

For him, the biggest question seems to be: “When can I play again?”

And strangely enough, that question gives us hope.

Because it tells us that somewhere inside him, he is already thinking about life after treatment.

He is thinking about the next match.

The next season.

The next innings.

He is not thinking only about the disease.

He is thinking about returning to life.

There was another moment this week that touched us deeply. He asked why his younger brother wasn’t fighting with him anymore.

Why Amma and Baba were taking extra care of him.

Why everyone was being unusually gentle with him.

It was almost as if he was uncomfortable with the special treatment.

He wanted things to feel normal.

He wanted his younger brother to annoy him again.

He wanted the usual fights.

The usual teasing.

The usual arguments over absolutely nothing.

And perhaps that is when we understood that, for him too, the diagnosis has changed the atmosphere of the house. He doesn’t want everyone looking at him as someone who is sick.

He wants to be himself.

He wants his brother to fight with him.

He wants his parents to scold him.

He wants to complain about cricket.

He wants to worry about studies.

He wants to live.

And maybe that is exactly what we should help him do.

One of the things the doctors have repeatedly emphasised is the importance of mental health during treatment. We have therefore decided to consult a psychologist as well. The idea may seem strange to involve a psychologist when there is a physical illness that needs surgery and possibly chemotherapy. But the more we think about it, the more it makes sense.

The body will need treatment.

But the mind will also be tested.

There may be days of pain.

Days of uncertainty.

Days when treatment feels exhausting.

Days when he may not be able to play cricket.

Days when friends are going about their normal lives while he is sitting in a hospital.

Days when he may ask, “Why me?”

And there may also be very good days.

Days when he laughs.

Days when he feels completely normal.

Days when he returns to the cricket ground.

Days when this entire period begins to feel like a distant memory.

We want him to be prepared for both.

Because fighting a disease is not only about removing a tumour or completing a course of treatment.

It is also about protecting the person’s confidence, identity, dreams and belief in the future.

We have made a conscious decision not to allow fear to become the centre of our lives. The disease is here. We cannot wish it away. We cannot pretend it doesn’t exist. But neither will we allow it to define our son.

Monday

Now Monday is approaching.

The surgery that we never imagined discussing for our 18-year-old is just around the corner.

There is anxiety.

Of course there is.

There are unanswered questions.

There are uncertainties about what comes next.

But there is also something else.

Hope.

Not blind hope.

Not the hope that ignores reality.

But the kind of hope that exists alongside fear.

The kind that makes you wake up in the morning and say:

Let’s take the next step.

One step at a time.

One report at a time.

One treatment at a time.

One prayer at a time.

We don’t know exactly what the coming weeks will bring. We don’t know how difficult the treatment may become. We don’t know how many cricket matches he may have to miss. We don’t know how many difficult days lie ahead. But we do know something.

He is surrounded by people who love him.

He has doctors working to treat him.

He has a family praying for him.

He has a brother waiting to fight with him again.

He has friends and cousins waiting for him.

He has studies to continue.

He has cricket matches he desperately wants to return to.

And he has a life waiting for him beyond this diagnosis.

Perhaps that is the most important thing we can tell anyone going through something similar.

A diagnosis is a chapter in your life. It is not the whole story. There will be difficult chapters.

But there can also be beautiful ones afterwards. For now, we are taking a deep breath.

We are praying.

We are trusting the doctors.

We are standing together.

And we are walking towards Monday.

With fear in our hearts, perhaps.

But also with faith.

And hope.

Lots of hope.

Because somewhere in all of this, an 18-year-old boy is still thinking about his next cricket match.

And that, more than anything, makes us believe that there will be a next match.

InshaAllah!