I am first and foremost an artist and have identified as such since childhood. I do not recall a time in my life when it was otherwise. I live in a house full of art materials. Cabinets packed with myriad kinds of paper, more cabinets crammed with collections of pigments, brushes. Notebooks, sketchbooks are stacked about. And my desk! Where is my desk? It’s there, just underneath the organized chaos.

I was hospitalized for nearly a month when I was first diagnosed with multiple myeloma. The initial symptoms were puzzling; crippling pain in my right shoulder came with lost range of motion, and my back suddenly went out after a hard sneeze, bringing more pain. I went to a doctor at USC with what I thought was a kidney infection. The doctor immediately ordered tests and within a short while came back to tell me—I will never forget his words—"I hate to drop this bombshell on you, but we are admitting you into the hospital. Your kidneys have stopped working." Dialysis began almost immediately. But failed kidneys were only part of the problem. It soon became apparent that these diverse ailments were not unrelated, but pointed to a common origin.

Following a battery of tests, a team of doctors and USC medical students surrounded my bed to share with me the pronouncement of cancer. In that moment, my reality, my personal myth about who I was and what my life was about was abruptly upended. I was the person who believed I could overcome anything. I believed I could out-smart or out-maneuver whomever or whatever crossed my path. But something that attacked from within was a different kind of adversary. I was independent and self-reliant, but now I was going to have to fight against myself.

My first question was direct: Is this a death sentence? One intern said simply, "No." That was all I needed to hear. There was now a sliver of light reaching through what was otherwise one of my darkest moments. Even the inscrutable phrase "treatable, but not necessarily curable" did not phase me.

My back issue turned out to be a compression fracture—a signature complication of the bone damage caused by myeloma. I was given morphine to combat the excruciating pain I experienced when being lifted onto a radiation table every day for a ten-minute treatment, but after a few days, the side-effects of the drug were so onerous that I insisted on quitting "cold turkey." Fortunately, the fracture improved steadily with radiation treatment, and the brutal pain gradually became more bearable. One of the staff who transported me to my radiation sessions teased me that we would soon go salsa dancing together, and I was able to laugh without grimacing. My ordeal was made more tolerable by the extraordinary daily kindnesses offered by the staff at USC who regularly announced that a "famous artist" was in their midst. I laughed, warmed by their generosity.

Finally returning home, I was stunned to find the walls of our living room—my studio—lined with paintings. I asked my husband, "What’s all this?" His incredulous reply was "It’s your artwork!" I was aghast. I did that stuff? How? Suddenly, my artwork, which up until then was simply something I was compelled to do, seemed extraordinary. I viewed my art as if it had been painted by someone else, as if I stood outside my own ego.

I remained on dialysis for another month after arriving home. Cancer bothered me, but dialysis was horrible. This, along with the impending bone marrow transplant I was to receive and the new reality that I might not survive too far into the future made me shy away from deeper thoughts. I had been in the habit of journaling since my early teens, but there was no joy in journaling now, nor was there joy in playing the guitar. I had played classical and flamenco guitar for 45 years, but now I couldn’t move my right arm properly due to the scar tissue from tumors in my shoulder.

The one thing I still had was painting. I felt joy just looking at the materials. My medium is brush and ink painting, which is water based and derives from East Asia. The ink is comprised of pine soot or other forms of charcoal with hide glue as a binder. I was introduced to ink painting in the ’90s through Asian friends and became completely enchanted with it. Ink painting requires Zen-like concentration, and is, in fact, a discipline having much in common with Japanese martial arts. Simply touching an ink stone felt like a connection to a magical spirit. Picking up a brush was natural. I knew what it meant to be home when I held a brush.

My kidneys improved enough to get off dialysis. Months later I completed a course of chemo and radiation and gained enough strength for a bone marrow transplant. Once again, I was hospitalized for a month.

Thankfully, my artistic work continues to the present day. I have no way to tell whether my work would have been different had my life’s journey not met the detour of cancer, but I continue to develop my skills and experiment with the many ways ink can express extraordinary depth by a technique that often appears deceptively simple.

My life has reconnected with its continuum. Perhaps I can tell you I understand better how ephemeral our own lives are; I’ve been given a glimpse into that first hand. I’ve learned to be more patient. Things develop at their own pace, and it does not serve to be pushed or rushed. I am open to trying new things and often have to step beyond my zone of comfort. I love challenges; even more, I love overcoming them.

If I had a wish for every human being, it would be for each person to figure out what it is that ignites their spirit, then to hold fast to it and carefully hone it. It will always lead you back to who you are.

Lisa Chakrabarti is a multiple myeloma/autologous bone marrow transplant survivor of over eleven years and a member of CSAC. She lives and paints in her condo/studio in Koreatown.

USC Norris Cancer Survivorship Advisory Council Blog provides a broad range of opinions which do not necessarily represent the opinion of the USC Norris Comprehensive Cancer Center. This and all information related to cancer, cancer treatment and healthcare should be discussed with your physician.