Second year in the college and the first visit to the hospital! Truly remarkable' said the Lady in White behind the counter, when I went to get my file at the city hospital. That was it, and that year saw me jinxed and making frequent visits to the hospital.
Well, it was the year 2005 and it began in January when I was attacked by a chronic infection. After getting myself registered at the counter, the lady in white directed me to the respective floor and wait till the file arrived. I waited for my file (im)patiently; it was then that I discovered that I was a patient with lots of patience. I sat and looked at the names of the doctors and the numerous letters that followed the names like obedient children separated by a dot that supposedly were their 'n' number of degrees. To me they were only a set of degree accomplishments and super-specializations the full forms and details of which I did not know, and wondered what it could be.
The doctor to whom I was directed to turned out to be rather a unique one. My previous experiences with doctors were that they talk a lot and ask too many questions. This one turned out to be quite different. I felt as if I were the doctor and he the patient. I did the talking and the questioning while he just gave me the prescription. No …please don’t get me wrong, I’ll explain what exactly happened. I told him what brought me to the hospital, while he was busy writing something in the file, and then directly gave me the prescription. So finally it was me who asked ‘why, what, when and how’ of the problem.
A few months later, a sharp pain attacked me in my feet, and upon consultation by the doctor, I was said that it was a corn that had been infected. I was told that had to be removed by operating upon it. To a layperson, operation/surgery is the same. I shocked my friends when I very coolly said that I had a surgery the next day. They then corrected my medical vocabulary by saying that it was a ‘minor procedure’ and not a surgery. I was treated like a princess for the days to follow, where people even offered to wash my clothes.
Come October and I am a guest at KMC (very unwillingly) for 4 days due to severe pain in the abdomen and constant vomiting. I tossed, turned on my bed and vomited ‘n’ number of times the previous night, not letting once my roommates sleep in peace. I was rushed to hospital first thing next morning where I found myself being questioned and cross-examined by junior doctors, interns and the like. Finally it came to a point that I thought they were very selfish not to share notes with each other, because of which they came and asked me the same questions so many times. I (tried to) patiently answer the questions while ‘tossing’ and ‘turning’ on the bed. The next thing I knew I had to spend the next few days of my ‘precious life’ in the hospital. I was diagnosed of a stone in my urethra (doctor…did I spell that right??)
The usual stories from my friends who had been admitted in the hospital, was that they felt so good because of the unusual number of visitors who turned up for sympathizing. I found myself sympathizing with myself…not because I did not have visitors. I had visitors. But, because I was feeling sick, because there was nothing in my stomach, and the lady in white was searching my veins to put me on drips and thus I was just being poked all over. And also because of the hurry in the early morning, I had been deprived of my bath. On top of that I was not allowed to relieve myself, as I had to collect the urine and give it as a sample. And the chatter-batter of the crowd who had come to see the other patient in the room gave the ward a fish market-like look.
I marched obediently to the X-ray department the next day where I had to get a test done. I was in great spirits, as I would be discharged the following day after the tests. But to my disappointment, my bowels were not clean and the tests couldn’t be conducted. I cursed everyone who came in front of me…no one from the hospital staff to the doctors and the nurses was spared. After 4 days stay at the hospital, I had come to realize one thing. If you want to be cured in life, get away from the hospital.
I hopelessly sat staring at the ceiling, when the doctor walked in and announced that I’d be discharged in a while (long live the doctor!!). After completion of formalities, everyone saw a gleeful girl walk out in merry. I turned back to have one glimpse of the hospital.
Two days break and the hospital saw me in the funny white gown at the x-ray department. I looked like a patient who was caught running away from a mental asylum. Speaking in literary terms, I had to change into a gown and lie down on the x ray machine in a room that had 4 air conditioners. I was shivering with a hope not to die at the X ray table. The doctor present there did his best to distract my attention from what seemed like the Arctic region to me. I was finding an igloo to escape into. I finished the examination successfully and I survived it!! (Thanks to the cheerful doctor who kept me in high spirits). The results showed no traces of the stone, the nearest possibility being that it had drained off.
I said a big thanks to the doctors and the hospital and bid a cheerful farewell hoping I never have to return!!!
Not long after, a friend of mine was admitted to the hospital because of xyz reason and the lady in white of that ward gave a wide smile of acknowledgement as we walked into the ward to meet him (hey Elvin...u remember that :D)
The most unfortunate visit happened when we met with an accident. The auto rickshaw we were traveling in skid not because of the rain, but only because of the driver’s drunken state at 8 in the morning. We were immediately rushed to the hospital. My father ended up with a fractured wrist, mother with swollen feet and me with bleeding jaw. Daddy got a cast on his hand. Mummy was adamant on not having any tests taken (it was later found out that she had a hairline fracture on her feet). The doctors insisted that I have stitches on my jaw else it would leave a scar behind (doctors, the scar is still there long after the stitches have been removed). The doctor then recommended me to the dental department for a filling because the accident had broken a piece of my teeth (just a small part of it). It was done because if left that way, it would look ugly when I came on NDTV as a reporter a few years later. I was given a long list of eatables to avoid. Not withstanding the temptations of delicacies and of hunger, I broke the ‘long list’ of do’s and don’ts (actually dos are over-weighed by don’ts).
At the end, a vote of thanks to a few people.
To the lady in white who welcomed me to the hospital: My Fair Lady…I had been to hospital before that, but for others and not for myself. Your grand welcome kept me coming to the hospital for a long time for myself.
To the doctor whom I visited first: thanks doctor…I am taking all precautions against the chronic infection attack, not because I don’t want to come to you, but because I dislike taking the strong doses of antibiotic that you had prescribed to me.
To all those who told me about the difference between ‘surgery’ and ‘procedure’: thanks for enlightening me…
And to the doctor who said ‘Hope we meet again…but not in the hospital.’ (‘Hey doc… I am still waiting to meet you’).
To the doctor who recommended me to the dental department: thanks for being so thoughtful doctor, you shall surely see me on NDTV a few years later, I assure you, and then I’ll thank you for my beautiful smile.
And to doctors who think I have offended them (if at all), here is what I would say to them:
‘Its not intentional, you can interpret it the way you want to.’
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