Don't Mess with My Breasts

Sometimes it takes getting cancer, to discover that your breasts don't belong to you. That they never did. That they're politically and sexually-charged lightening rods, dominated by public discourse. That every single human-being, on earth, has an opinion on their purpose, their appearance and their relevance. But I'm done.

Today, I'm reclaiming my breasts.

I'm a feminist, but my breasts do not belong to my sisters in the resistance.
I've nursed my baby, but my breasts do not belong to the pro-breastfeeding movement.
I've been leered at, but my breasts do not belong to the misogynist male gaze.
I belong with my husband, but by breasts aren't his to own.

Yesterday, I decided that I want to have breast reconstruction, after my mastectomy. It's a long, brutal surgery, with an arduous and painful recovery. It's a hard choice, but, again, the right choice for me.

I'm not doing it for my sisters, my son, my partner, or the man on the street.

I'm doing it because I love my breasts. Because I like their shape and feeling and meaning. And at the end of it all, I'll get fabulous, forward-facing breasts, that no longer stare at my toes.

So, today, I've officially reclaimed my breasts. 

My Breasts, My Choice

On January 21, 2017, I joined an ocean of women across America, on the march of our lives. The atmosphere was electric, as we drummed, danced and chanted our truths. We went hoarse, shouting, "Our Bodies, Our Choice!" and I have to believe that the universe actually heard us roar. 

Today, my body called upon me to make a choice. And I made a radical, life-changing one. The right one for me.

At our long and intense meeting with my surgeon, this morning, we discussed all of my medical options. With my non-invasive cancer detected so early, I would be the perfect candidate for a lumpectomy, followed by radiation, and, possibly, long-term use of the anti-cancer drug, Tamoxifen. I'd continue to need aggressive-screening, and there would be the risk of either a recurrence, or a new cancer forming in one, or both, of my breasts. 

I closed my eyes and put my hand on my heart, and for the very first time, it spoke to me with an unambiguous, inarguable, clarity.

"What I want," I heard myself state, "is a bilateral mastectomy, without reconstruction. I want to be free from fear, and anxiety, and medication, and mammograms, and biopsies, and radiation. My amazing breasts have done what they were meant to do, and I'm truly ready to let them go."

My doctor listened. Ranabir listened. I listened. To me, speaking my truth. Without fear. And for very the first time since my abnormal mammogram, my pulse slowed down, and I experienced the deepest sense of peace.

I'm having my surgery on September 12th. It'll be the beginning, of the rest of my life.

But first, I'm taking my beautiful, hard-working, loyal breasts, on one, last, fabulous, beach-holiday to Mexico!

O Godot, Where Art Thou?

Waiting is excruciating. I've spent 16 years obsessing over the cancer, 12 days dreading my biopsy and 48 hours anticipating its results. It's almost a relief to finally get it, so I can get on with getting it out and over with.

I ask my therapist if having a god would have eased this endless uncertainty? Not necessarily an omnipresent, all-knowing one, but, you know, just someone who could keep vigil while I took a nap, or a shower, or a coffee break.

I tell her about my brief experiment with prayer. When my mother was sick, I walked an entire mountain trek, silently chanting her name. Five days later she was gone, never to return.

"What were the chances," she asks, "of Deepa, in India, falling in love with Ranabir, from Houston, who lives by the best cancer hospital in the world, where they discover your tumor, before it barely even exists?!"

"I see what you mean." I reply "Someone's watching over me."

Maybe I don't have to call god, god, for god, to be god.

So thank you, person watching over me. I guess you were around the whole time I was napping and showering and caffeinating.

The Sum of All Fears

I've had 16 years to prepare for this moment in my life. From the day my mom got breast cancer at 50, the awareness of my elevated risk has become an inseparable part of my being. I've denied and avoided it, raged and cried, resented and negotiated. But it's a given. A constant. Embedded in the DNA that informs every cell in my body.

Yesterday, I was diagnosed with DCIS, or ductal carcinoma in situ - a very, very early stage, non-invasive cancer of the breast - usually treated with a lumpectomy, followed by radiation.

Since January, I've been screened as a high-risk patient at MD Anderson, one of the best cancer hospitals in the world, and, coincidentally, a short walk from our home. I'll be having both my surgery and treatment there.

As many of you know, I recently fully recovered from a pretty brutal depression and am in great shape mentally. I feel strong and optimistic and filled with gratitude - to have the earliest possible diagnosis and access to talented doctors and excellent care.

I'm surrounded by my beautiful boys, amazing friends, and compassionate doctors and therapists, all of whom have cared for me as if I were one of their own. I'm counting on all of you for long-distance love and support.

One request - I've learnt how to effectively advocate for myself in the medical system and am 100% confident in the choices I'm making. I would prefer not to receive advice on alternative therapies, dietary changes, or questions about whether I'm making the right choices, although I'm sure they all come from a space of concern and love.

I intend to do some writing through this journey. I've always found it therapeutic. There's something vaguely liberating about confronting the sum of all your fears, looking it in the eye, and saying, "Hey! You've got nothing on me!"

For Maya, fifteen-years later

Loss moves in mysterious ways. It's a searing shapeshifter - formless fog one day, dazzlingly clear flashback another. A mangled heart. A mess of sorrow and rage and denial. But mostly it just is. Immutable. Enduring. Endless.

My Amma died fifteen years ago today. In the 5,479 days since, I've pined for her, pushed her away, picked myself up and struck a fragile truce with her absence.

The first years were intolerable. My beautiful, bright-eyed, beloved mother, gone at fifty. I'll be forty-two next month. That's how young she was.

Beautiful. Bright-eyed. Beloved. Such platitudes. They belong in obituaries, not a daughter's tribute to a parent. But there's some comfort in their vagueness, because it's devastating to remember those warm, finely-lined hands, the pearl-drops worn everyday, the neat bob, parted to one side, the letters asking if I was eating my vegetables, the eyes that lit up when I entered the room.

In these fifteen years, I've moved forward, but never on. I've made a new life, in a new home, in a new land, with a boy and a man who make my eyes twinkle with the same joy. I struggle to imagine her in a reality so alien to the one we once shared. Yet, she walks with me today and everyday. 

I tell Adil that I'm thinking of my Amma. That she died many years ago. That I miss her. "Did she love you", he asks? "Very dearly', I reply. "But you can still love someone after you die, Amma", he says. "Yes, Adu. You're absolutely right."

For Bear, on his 50th

Every single year, on my birthday, Ranabir writes me a letter. It’s a love letter, reflecting on the year gone by and contemplating all that lies ahead - travels, family projects, personal goals, new adventures. It’s a gift I genuinely look forward to, read with delight and save in my special box of treasures. The thing is, I’ve never written back. But today, I will. So Bear, on this, the most special of birthdays, here is MY, very public, love letter to YOU.

My dearest Bear,

On the very first day of my visit to Houston, many months before we were engaged, your best buddy Rishad, whom I’d never met before, walked over and welcomed me with the warmest hug. After much fine wine and silly conversation, when you stepped away for a moment, he looked me in the eye and said, “Ranabir is the most incredible person I know. He’s the kind of man I’d want to introduce to my sister.” I’ll never forget that moment (even if Rishad denies he ever said it).

So on a gorgeous March day in 2010, when you proposed on the terrace of an exquisite fort palace in Rajasthan, I already knew that I’d be marrying the kindest, gentlest man I’d ever met.

We’ve been together for almost seven years now. We’ve laughed and fought and kissed and made-up - more times than I can remember - but I’m still sure that I’m married to the kindest, gentlest man I know.

And then, of course, ADIL ROHAN DUTT arrived, bringing with him boundless joy and endless sleep deprivation. From quibbling over where to go for dinner, or which film to watch, we were suddenly arguing about whose turn it was to change the dirty diaper and who was on the night-shift when the baby cried - which was at least ten times, EVERY.SINGLE.NIGHT. There truly is nothing less romantic than cleaning up a major diaper blow-out, even if it’s the only thing you’ve done together ALL.DAY.

Incidentally, thank you for drawing up our five year spending report - the kind of thing you do in your spare-time (eye-roll) - and calculating that our alcohol expenditure spiked dramatically, and unsurprisingly in 2013 - the year after Adu was born!

Now, at three, Adu is funny and affectionate, defiant and maddening, a real little three-nager. My greatest joy has been witnessing your growth into parenthood and watching you fall in love with each other. I’m not even slightly jealous that Adil gets the first (and best) hugs, when you get home from the airport. You're now even a legitimate Soccer Dad (apart from the minivan, of course!)

They say that the most important thing that we, as parents, can do for our children, is to love and respect each other whole-heartedly. At this, I know we are succeeding, over and over again. In spite of ALL of our differences, of which there are MANY, there’s not the shadow of a doubt that we are, and continue to be, in love with each other - even if I ask you if you still love me, EVERY.SINGLE.DAY.

One of my happiest, most comfortable feelings, is being in the same room as you, quietly doing my own thing, while you do yours. (This, of course, only happens when a certain person is away at preschool.) Your presence is serene and non-demanding, secure and authentic. It’s what’s helped me battle powerful personal demons and become more and more of the person I want and am meant to be - truly the greatest gift we can give one another.

Together, we’ve watched Adil learn how to crawl, take his first steps and speak his first words. We blinked, and he was already in preschool. I’m afraid to look away and find that he’s already graduating high-school. As our baby journeys from boyhood to manhood, my greatest hope for him, is a life that’s as rich in friendship, as yours and a personality that’s as full of your special brand of kindness and gentleness. However, I will not complain if he doesn’t inherit your unbelievable messiness, but given how cluttered our house is most of the time, I suspect he already has!

Every night, at bedtime, you and I exchange our three things - one thing we appreciate about each other, one thing we appreciate about ourselves and one thing that made our day special.

So here are my three things - not just for today, but for always.

I’m grateful that you asked me to marry you.

I’m grateful that I said yes.

And I’m grateful for our life together - surrounded by incredible friends, immense love and infinite possibilities.

It's a beautiful, BEAUTIFUL, life and I couldn’t imagine living it with anyone but you and Adu.

All my love,
Deepa

The Unbearable Lightness of Being Fine

A vengeful and ferocious depression had swallowed me whole. For months, I occupied it's murky and desolate innards, barely remembering a life in the light. And then one day, I determinedly clawed my way back up, pried open it's fanged jowl and catapulted myself out.

A potent cocktail of intensive therapy, painstakingly titrated medication and radical self-care, had conspired to mend my head and my heart. 

What's most frightening about descending into a chronic depression, is how rapidly you forget the sensation of well-being. But more petrifying, by far, is coming up for air, knowing how incredibly fragile and ephemeral that recovery can be.

I continue to live with a tempestuous toddler. He regales and torments me. He charms and challenges me. He forces me out - of home, of comfort zones, of myself. But what was once unrelenting overwhelm, is now organized chaos. 

With eyes shut, I occasionally attempt to recall those days of untold despair. I cannot, truly, and am incredibly grateful for that fact. Yet, I'm fully-aware that there's always darkness lurking, just around the corner, taunting and tempting me into re-entering it's bleak, but familiar confines. But I've found my way out once, and I will, again. And again.