The most difficult ordeal a person endures is pain without explanation. Pain, physical or mental, is bearable if one understands the underlying cause. It becomes less intense. Sometimes, it’s even pleasurable. You might blame yourself or the bad things that have happened in your life. You have a reason and, whether consciously or unconsciously, you like it. The process can be addictive. Though it might leave you depressed.
But if you are experiencing severe pain and do not know why, you are unable to attribute it to anything. Then the pain becomes unbearable. Such was my state from November 2020 to January 2021. I was in excruciating pain, yet no one could explain it. I consulted the best doctors, but none could provide a satisfactory or convincing response. For more than two and a half months, I bore the excruciating pain with no explanation. When I learnt I had cancer, I was more happy than sad. The agony of not knowing had been intolerable. Deep inside I was satisfied, even while my entire world shook around me. At least, I now understood why I was in pain.
In early November 2020 on my way back to my posting in Lakshadweep, after finishing a mid-career training programme (MCTP) at the National Police Academy, Hyderabad, I was required to quarantine – first in Kochi and then in Lakshadweep for twenty days as part of the Lakshadweep administration policy. At the academy, I maintained a fitness regimen, running 5 kilometres every day and 10 kilometres every weekend. However, I began to notice skin irritations across my body. Meanwhile, I received my transfer orders to Goa, a change I welcomed enthusiastically.
While quarantining in Kochi, I stayed in a room with a lovely view from the balcony. Despite my fitness efforts at the academy, I had gained weight due to the delicious local food. So, I took advantage of my time and shed two to three kilograms before moving on to Kavaratti, the capital of Lakshadweep, where I faced another ten-day quarantine. The accommodations were well-equipped with a treadmill, a bench press and a set of dumbbells. One fine day, though, I developed chest pains. I thought, perhaps I had bench-pressed too much.
After completing the quarantine, I rejoined the Lakshadweep administration to finalize my relocation to Goa. On my request, the administration gave me fourteen days to move out of the islands to join Goa as per my transfer order. But the chest pain returned. One morning, I woke up to shooting pains – far more intense than what I had experienced in Kochi. From that moment, until my first chemo three months later, there was not a single day without pain – extreme physical pain.
The chest pain gradually became a persistent companion. After the island quarantine, during a meeting, someone cracked a joke and we all started laughing. As soon as I joined in, I felt a stabbing pain on the left side of my chest. Unable to laugh, I clutched at the area, tears streaming down my face. Sachin Sharma IPS, who was sitting next to me, asked with concern, “Sir, aap theek toh ho (are you alright)?”
“It’s such a good joke that I started cry-laughing,” I replied.
Intense fatigue soon became a regular feature of my days. At the time I was also winding down a long three-and-half-year tenure at my post and didn’t have much work to occupy my mind. I constantly felt the urge to sleep. Yet when I lay down, I couldn’t fall asleep, simply lying awake. Any movement, bending down or standing up, felt as though a sharp knife was piercing my lungs and heart.
While I was relocating from the islands, the police and Indian Reserve Battalion (IRBn) staff organised a ceremonial rope-pulling event. It was a proud and emotional moment for everyone, and some of the men even had tears in their eyes. As their commandant, I had always made sure their grievances were heard and addressed. That day, my officers told me that all the Lakshadweep police personnel, IRBn guys and LDCL (Lakshadweep Development Corporation Ltd) staff – I was their MD (Managing Director) for a year and made major changes in the company during my tenure – had displayed my photograph as their WhatsApp statuses. They had laid a red carpet for me at the rope-pulling ceremony, where, right at the beginning, a beautifully decorated open vehicle awaited me. Climbing into the vehicle was painful; my knees and thighs ached, forcing me to bend and hold my knees to manage the ascent. Once atop the jeep, the officers and men pulled the vehicle forward with a large rope tied to the front. As we moved, everyone threw flowers at me. Such a grand send-off was unexpected. I had led them through some tough times – elections, cyclones and the Covid-19 pandemic. When I was leaving, Lakshadweep remained the only green zone in the country, free from Covid-19 infections. Sadly, within a month of my departure, I began to hear about how the virus had started to claim lives, including those of my own men in uniform.
It was half past one in the morning in Thalassery, my hometown in Kerala. Alongside me were my wife Remya and our children, Ishaan and Niya, with my parents also under the same roof. What initially seemed like a peaceful night turned into the first of many a restless night to come. I was jolted awake by severe chest pain and a heavy sweat. Both my palms throbbed painfully, as if needles were about to burst through my fingertips, while a sharp knife seemed to tear through my body, slicing my heart open. The rest of the household was sound asleep, and I didn’t want to wake them. Though I suspected a heart attack, I knew such events typically involved shoulder and back pain. Instead, I endured severe chest pain and a painfully intense tingling in my fingers and palms. I chose to bear the pain, lying between my five-yearold son and three-year-old daughter. The pain was so overwhelming that I found myself silently screaming, tears streaming down my face. I remained motionless in bed, waiting for the sun to rise yet bracing for what might be my own personal sunset. For the first time, I truly feared I might be dying.
The next morning, a visit to the doctor diagnosed me with cervical spondylosis and emphasized the need to improve my posture. It was also pointed out that I was carrying an undue amount of stress and worry. A large assortment of medications was prescribed to me. My flight to Goa was set from Kochi, to which we were to travel by road from Thalassery. On the way, we stopped at a friend’s home for breakfast where, after the meal, I began sorting through my newly acquired medicines. This prompted our host to comment to Remya, ‘At such a young age, he is on so many medications!’ Indeed, my medicine box was brimming with tablets.
Devoid of rest, fatigue plagued me costantly, and sharp, tingling sensations in my fingers and palms became a regular nuisance. My nights were often interrupted as I found myself waking frequently to use the bathroom.
On reaching Goa with Remya and the kids, we settled into the police officers’ mess. The building was so old that at first glance, the rooms seemed to scream for major renovations. However, we had no choice but to wait until the Public Works Department (PWD) assigned us a quarter and allowed us to move there. We ended up staying in the officers’ mess for nearly fifty days. Little did I know, these seemingly mundane events were actually the start of a transformative journey within me.
Excerpted with permission from Cancerman to Ironman: A Police Officer’s Journey of Arresting Illness, Nidhin Valsan, Pan Macmillan India.
