2002
Month of March.
March drifted in, but the fever refused to leave. Everyone thought it was just pyrexia—something that would settle on its own. But it didn’t. It became a puzzle for the medical team, a stubborn mystery that refused to be solved.
Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. All of them fruitless.
Frustration crept in. The waiting, the helplessness—it was grinding us down. My entire family began to weaken under the emotional strain.
As the fever dragged on, my haemoglobin levels dropped steadily. The nephrologists prescribed iron tablets to boost it, but instead, they made me vomit more and more. The side effects became unbearable. I felt completely debilitated. Dialysis turned into a nightmare—each session was a steep hill I no longer had the strength to climb.
Eventually, I couldn’t walk. My family had to wheel me into the dialysis centre. Every trip felt like crossing a chasm. I had reached a stage where I wasn’t healthy enough for surgery. I was unfit for a transplant.
The whole experience felt surreal—strange, unfamiliar, and frightening.
The medical team tried everything they could, but nothing worked. Each failed attempt tightened the knot of anguish around us.
In that hollow space of despair, I began to ask questions I had never dared before. If God is so good, why does He test us this way? Why must His creations struggle so hard for even the basics?
My thoughts kept circling back. Why must we sweat for survival under the burning sun? Why is life so relentless?
My condition continued to decline. My immune system collapsed. Vomiting overtook everything.
Seeing me in that state, my two sisters came to Chennai—one older, one younger. They wept when they saw me.
They reached out to our church—CSI Church, Virugambakkam—and called the elders.
Three of them came to our home. They prayed with deep reverence, pleading for life, for mercy, for survival.
In that moment, many voices became one. I joined in. I, too, sought God’s grace—His extended grace.
Prayer gave me some strength. I realized I needed more than healing—I needed perseverance.
And God gave me that.
I watched my wife—Mrs. Jeb—standing firm despite the storm. In the darkest hours, she remained composed, audacious even.
The following week, despite the ongoing fever, my family requested the doctors to go ahead with the transplant.
But the medical team advised against it.
“This could complicate the post-operative treatment,” they explained gently, helping us understand.
Mrs. Jeb didn’t show her fear to anyone. But I saw it. I knew it was there.
I thought about her future—what she would face if I were gone. One evening, I told her, “I feel bad these days.”
She looked at me and said, “You’re not seeing the good things.”
She reminded me of everything we’d been through together—our travels, the romance, our stubborn fights and long chats, my toughness, her strength, my ventures, her adaptability, my survival, her suffering, my anger, her perseverance.
Her words pulled me back into the life we had once built, especially those years in the USA.
Then came March 24th—Palm Sunday. The beginning of Holy Week.
I looked at the palm leaves and saw what they stood for—joy and victory. Hope stirred in me again.
On Maundy Thursday, I went to church. I watched the Communion, remembered the Last Supper. I thought of healing, of mercy. I believed something new was coming.
Good Friday arrived—quiet and heavy. The solemnity struck me. I realized the only way to conquer suffering was through grace, through good.
Holy Saturday followed—a stillness before dawn.
Then, Easter Sunday. The feast of resurrection. The joy of new life.
In our home, Easter had always been special. A celebration of hope in a world that didn’t always make sense. That year, it felt deeper than ever.
I told myself: The resurrection is for all of us. Joyous days lie ahead.
At the next dialysis, I asked for repeat tests—blood and urine cultures. Still, no organisms had grown. No clarity. So, I pushed for another MRI and CT scan.
This time, the panel saw something.
“Signs of tuberculosis,” they said. “Possibly an infectious type.”
They immediately quarantined me. A new course of treatment began. A new set of drugs. A new hope.
After four long months, the fever finally broke. Within a week, it was gone.
We quickly informed my sister—the donor.
But her response stunned us.
She had contracted chickenpox.
We gave the news to the transplant team. Their decision was clear: “She can donate four weeks after complete healing.”
And so, the wait began again. The transplant was put on hold. Dialysis had to continue.
I needed more patience.
And God gave me that, too.
Through it all, I held on to hope, and I proclaimed His name—not because the path was easy, but because I survived it.