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4th March 2025 – A quiet surrender
It was 8 a.m. I was on my adventurous ride – lying on a hospital bed with wheels, gliding through the Neurological Department of Melbourne Private Hospital. I smiled at everyone I passed. I was a little nervous, yes – but also grounded, calm, and ready.
As my stomach began to rumble, I requested a quick toilet break. Then I was wheeled into the anaesthesia room. My anaesthetist joked that I was her first case. I laughed. “Then you’ll never forget me,” I said.
I entered the operating theatre, surrounded by machines blinking quietly around me. I closed my eyes.
Then, nothing.
Where it all began
This journey began in May 2024 – not with a step, but with a stillness. A whisper in the soul that said, “It is time.”
Relentless headaches had become my daily reality. Day after day, they crept in like waves eroding a shoreline. This pain felt different. It wasn’t just a symptom – it was a message.
My GP ordered an urgent MRI: a 6 cm arachnoid cyst had made my brain its home. Two other complications had joined it. I was told to go straight to the emergency room.
On 28th May, I was admitted to Monash Emergency – the first hospitalisation of my life. The neurosurgeons gave me two stark options: undergo high-risk brain surgery or adopt a “wait and watch” approach.
We sought second opinions. One left us terrified. Another rejected my case entirely. Eventually, we found a neurosurgeon who listened with patience and compassion. He confirmed what we feared: brain surgery was necessary. The risks were heavy – in doing it, and in not.
Joshi prior to being admitted (Source: supplied)
The months that followed balanced hope and uncertainty. PET scans ruled out cancer and Moyamoya disease, but three diagnoses remained: occipital cyst, two brain aneurysms, and carotid artery dissection.
Amidst the fragile balance of hope and uncertainty, grief slipped in. My elder brother, only 50, left us suddenly in November, leaving behind a silence that no words could fill. Our 25th wedding anniversary became a quiet hawan in his memory, the celebrations we had imagined replaced by prayer and reflection. Worn down by sorrow, I set aside the surgery planned for early January. brain surgery journey
But pain doesn’t wait. By late January, I was ready. We set a new date: 4th March 2025.
In pain, I kept flowing
In the weeks before surgery, I anchored myself in daily rituals. I visualised rays of peace dissolving my illness. I walked barefoot on grass. On those walks, two strangers – a kind old man and a joyful aunty – became unexpected messengers of strength.
I spent two years as an ambassador for a brain rewiring program, sharing my journey through posts and paintings — small acts of healing, for others and for myself. I painted, drummed, laughed at Garfield, journaled with gratitude, and kept tutoring. My students gave me purpose.
I learned to embrace the quiet joy hidden in small moments and simple things.
A week before surgery, friends created a WhatsApp group called “All the Best Vineeta.” Messages of love and encouragement poured in from around the world. They even organised meals for my family, ensuring we would be cared for. Surrounded by their kindness, I felt ready – carrying with me a heart full of blessings.
Joshi post surgery (Source: supplied)
3rd March: The day of admission
I hugged my children goodbye – one off to school, the other to university. My husband and I took a walk. A friend blessed me through a short Guru Pooja. By 2 p.m., we arrived at the hospital.
A private room awaited me. My neurosurgeon arrived. We laughed. I asked if the cyst had disappeared. He smiled and said, “Not yet.”
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I drew. I chatted with friends. At 4 a.m., I whispered, “My adventure begins.”
At 6 a.m., I showered, changed into my gown, and set my WhatsApp photo to Lord Shiva. I hugged my husband and whispered, “Don’t worry. I’ll be back soon.”
Then came the corridors. Then came the smile. Then came the machines.
Then, nothing. Brain surgery journey
Waking up new
At 3 p.m., I woke in the ICU. My neurosurgeon smiled. “How are you?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “How are you?”
The surgery had gone well. My husband arrived, eyes gleaming. “You did it,” he said.
Pain followed – deep and sharp. The painkillers made me sick, so the doctors changed them. I was smiling through my pain, and even through my own discomfort, I prayed for others in the ICU.
The next day, I walked. It was a small, stubborn triumph. Brain surgery journey
Back home, back to life
On 6th March, just two days after brain surgery, I walked into my home.
By Day 5, I had stopped strong painkillers. Day 6, I returned to the park. Day 8, I resumed tutoring. Two weeks later, I had 21 staples removed from my 15cm long scar – each one a silver badge of survival.
Joshi on her usual walk post admission (Source: supplied)
I still carry some “uninvited guests” in my brain. But I no longer see them as threats.
This journey didn’t break me.
It sculpted me.
I was cut open.
But I healed within.
And through it all, I kept flowing.
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