2001
The very next day after reaching home—on the 21st of November—I could hardly recover from jet lag. I was suffering from a severe headache. An American friend nicknamed Gums helped me get an appointment with Dr. M.K. Mani, Chief Nephrologist at Apollo Hospital, Chennai, India.
Before noon, my in-laws took me to see the nephrologist. Dr. Mani checked my blood pressure—it read 170 over 100. He advised me to discontinue the survival drugs I had been taking for months in the U.S. and prescribed a new set of medications. He also referred me to a vascular surgeon. The surgeon recommended a fistula procedure and directed me to consult a dietician.
The dietician laid down strict guidelines: 100 grams of chicken or the equivalent amount of dal or an egg, one fruit per day, no sugar, only one gram of salt, and so on. I knew the nature of my illness, so the restrictions didn’t feel like burdens. I followed them religiously. I saw the prescriptions as essential specifications—I was desperate to live. My only desire was to survive and play again with my firstborn, Big Chief. That was my sole objective then.
Two weeks later, three of my cousins came from my native village. As they entered the yard and looked up, they couldn’t recognize me. My eyes had grown weak, and my skin appeared blotchy. My mother-in-law noticed them and invited them upstairs. They were unaware of the gravity of my illness or what kind of suffering I was enduring.
When they came near me, they began to mourn—softly, like mourning doves. I looked sad to them, and their faces showed deep sympathy. We spent a couple of hours reminiscing about village life—my childhood labor, school days, and connection with the villagers. They lamented for a while and then returned to the village.
Three days later, I had an appointment with the vascular surgeon. My mother-in-law took me to the outpatient ward at half past six in the morning. The surgeon explained the procedure and decided to place the dialysis access site in my left arm. He began by cleansing the skin over my wrist with antiseptic, then administered local anesthesia. He made a two-inch incision to locate the artery and vein.
Throughout the procedure, the surgeon spoke warmly, sharing his experiences from the UK. I was half-listening, half-responding. I spoke about my time in New York City—its cultural diversity and the unforgettable 9/11 experience. The doctor understood my emotions and gently redirected my mind, helping me feel relaxed.
He carefully connected my artery and vein—creating the fistula—and finally stitched the skin back. The entire procedure took about an hour. When it was done, he informed me the surgery was complete. I turned my head and noticed the bandage on my left arm. The ‘fistula surgery’ was over.
Post-surgery, he instructed me to keep the access site elevated above the heart to reduce swelling. I was advised not to lift heavy objects or apply pressure on the area. In case of pain, swelling, bleeding, or fever, I was to report to him immediately. He gave me an outpatient appointment for a follow-up and discharged me that afternoon.
Once home, I collapsed into sleep, exhausted. I had no idea what awaited me next—the long campaign of dialysis.
“Be careful, or your hearts will be weighed down with dissipation, drunkenness and the anxieties of life, and that day will close on you unexpectedly like a trap.”
— Luke 21:34