Staying Sane
During radiation, I needed to stay sane. I knew that the relentless grind of treatment could push me over the edge, could make me lose my grip on reality if I didn’t find a way to ground myself. I focused on chanting mantras internally, drawing on that connection to a life-force beyond my physical experience, but it wasn’t enough. I needed to express myself, to give voice to the chaos inside. In these moments, I would reach for my drawing pad.
Pinned down on my back, unable to move freely, it was important that the pad was small enough to hold with my left hand while I drew with my right. My movements were restricted, but even within those limitations, I could still create. I tuned in to what I was feeling in each moment, letting the raw intensity of my emotions guide me. Deep green, grey, sky blue, red—each color had a meaning, each hue a reflection of something simmering inside.
I’d begin with the first layer: a thick, opaque surface of oil pastel that mirrored the emotion demanding to be felt. I pressed the color into the page, letting it take shape, building a layer of that particular feeling until something shifted within me. The change happened once the emotion had been heard, acknowledged. These feelings, however intense, didn’t just want to be experienced—they wanted to be expressed.
Once that layer was complete, I’d pause, listen again. What emotion was next? Which feeling wanted to make itself known? I’d reach for another color, layering it over the first, sometimes completely covering the original color, sometimes letting them coexist. Each stroke of pastel carried a weight, a message, a release. I listened, responded, and let the emotions dictate what color came next, which direction to take. The process was deeply meditative, each step a dialogue between me and the experience unfolding within me.
As I drew, tiny balls of oil pastel gathered on the page, little round bits of wax that collected on the white hospital sheets beneath me. They smeared and smudged, staining the sterile environment with color and life. In that space, amidst the medical machinery and the cold, clinical surroundings, I found warmth in those smears of color.
Then came the scratching. I’d take a bamboo pencil and carve into the layers, etching the unspoken words that needed to be released:
Help.
This feels too hard.
Only 103 hours left of radiation.
Each time I scratched away at the colors, my emotions carved into the page, my mind found a place to travel—a place where I could escape the relentlessness of radiation. The simple act of drawing gave me access to life, to the deepest part of my internal being. Radiation felt like an attack, like my body was being burnt alive from the inside, but drawing was my way of fighting back. It allowed me to reclaim a sense of control, to create in the midst of destruction.
The art I created wasn’t meant to be seen by anyone else. It wasn’t about beauty or aesthetics—it was about survival. Each stroke, each layer, was a lifeline. The act of creating in that moment felt vital, as though it was the only thing keeping me tethered to myself.
