This is not just a brain surgery story. It is my journey of pain, faith, gratitude, and survival, a journey that sculpted me into who I am today.
11 May 2025—A Huge Win & A Thank You Celebration
Here I was, surrounded by my dear friends, hosting a heartfelt thank-you party.
A celebration not just of life after major brain surgery, but of the love, support, and strength I was given, before, during and after the journey.
It was my way of saying: I could not have done this without you.
For this is not only about surgery…
It’s my adventurous journey from:
Denial ➡ Acceptance
Fear ➡ Faith
Uncertainty ➡ Confidence
Doubt ➡ Belief
Resistance ➡ Surrender
Confusion ➡ Peace
FOMO ➡ JOMO
“I can’t” ➡ “I CAN”
And so, let me take you back to where it began.
May 2024—When Pain Began to Speak
For 25 relentless days, headaches became my shadow, every moment, every breath. Pain had long been my companion, one I even thanked for making me stronger. But this time, it spoke differently. It whispered: something is wrong.
The MRI revealed unwelcome guests: a 6 cm occipital cyst pressing hard, two silent aneurysms, and a vanishing carotid artery withholding blood from my brain. Neurosurgeons and experts studied the case, puzzled and hesitant. Surgery might help, but no clear roadmap emerged.
We searched for second opinions. Some doctors turned us away. Some frightened us further. Finally, a compassionate neurosurgeon listened. He explained, with clarity and care, that brain surgery would be the only way forward once the artery healed. The risks were brutal: blindness, deafness, even death. Confidence wavered. But at least, at last, there was a path.
In Pain, I Kept Flowing with Gratitude
As the weeks passed, I prepared myself, not through fear, but through trust. Gratitude became my anchor.
For two years I had been volunteering as an ambassador for a US-based brain rewiring company, helping others find joy in chronic pain. Now I leaned deeper into that work. Every post I wrote, every story I shared, became an act of healing, for others and for myself. Their blessings returned to me as precious gifts.
Prayer carried me forward. Each morning and evening I performed Agnihotra, sang bhajans to Shiva and Durga, and prayed for strength, not only for me, but for all who suffer. In meditation, I visualised rays of peace cleansing my body, my cyst shrinking, my illness dissolving. Quiet rituals of hope became my medicine.
My family, my husband, my children, and my friends, anchored me every single day. Their love steadied me when pain tried to shake me.
Nature too held me. On daily walks, I spoke to trees, touched leaves, listened to birdsong, and let their silent presence absorb my pain. Creativity became another refuge: abstract paintings released my inner turbulence, while drumming taught me joy in rhythm, mistakes and all. Garfield’s humour by my bedside brought laughter into our home, lightening even the hardest days.
I began and ended each day with thanks, to my family, my friends, my body, and the Universe. Teaching maths and English never stopped; tutoring gave me joy and kept me connected.
In pain, I discovered flow. In flow, I discovered gratitude. And in gratitude, I found healing.
A Storm of Loss
My surgery was set for 6 January 2025, and I prepared by learning each step of the craniotomy. But in November, I lost my elder brother suddenly, at just 50. Shattered, I postponed surgery to March. At the same time, my younger brother was in rehab, struggling, while my parents in India, already grieving, were terrified of losing me too. I hid the new date from them, shielding them from more pain. Yet even in grief, I held on, like a small flame refusing to be extinguished. Healing would begin with courage.
Blessings Before the Battle
A week before surgery, my friends surrounded me with love. They created a WhatsApp group called “All the Best Vineeta,” sent endless good wishes, and even coordinated home-cooked meals for my family. I also visited an old aunty I had once met in the park; her hug filled me with quiet strength. With their blessings, I felt ready.
3 March 2025: The Adventure Begins
I hugged my children goodbye, one off to school, the other to university. By 2 pm, we reached the hospital. A private room felt like a blessing. My neurosurgeon arrived, calm and kind. We laughed. I asked if the cyst had vanished so I could go home; he smiled, “The adventure is still on.”
That night, sleep escaped me. I sketched, called friends in India, thanked God, and set Lord Siva as my WhatsApp picture.
At 7:30 am, I hugged my husband tightly and whispered, “Don’t worry. I’ll be back soon.” Then I lay on the wheeled bed, gliding through the Neurological Department like on a strange journey. Nervous, yet smiling. My anaesthetist joked I was her first case. I laughed: “Then you’ll never forget me.”
The operating theatre blinked with machines. I closed my eyes, ready.
Then, nothing.
The First Breath of Life After
At 3 pm, I awoke in the ICU smilingly. My neurosurgeon smiled. “How are you?”
“I’m fine,” I replied. “How are you?”
The surgery had gone well. My husband soon arrived, his eyes filled with joy. “You did it,” he said.
The pain followed. Deep and sharp. Painkillers made me sick. I could hear others in the ICU crying. I prayed for them as I lay in my own ache.
The next day, I stood. I walked. A small, stubborn triumph.
Two Days Later: Home Again
On 6 March, just two days after brain surgery, I stepped back into my home, like crossing a threshold into life again.
By Day 5, I let go of heavy painkillers, holding instead to faith and homeopathy. On Day 6, I returned to the park, breathing in freedom with every step. By Day 8, I was teaching once more, my mind alive in the joy of connection. Two weeks later, 21 staples were removed from my 15 cm long scar, each one a silver badge, a mark not of pain, but of survival and renewal.
I still carry some “uninvited guests” in my brain, but I no longer see them as enemies. I live with them now, peacefully, faithfully, and with deep gratitude for the gift of each day.
This journey did not break me; it sculpted me.
I am here, still flowing, with scars of survival and a heart full of thanks.
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