My recent brief stint in hospital has taught me a thing or two, I tell you!
For one, I have learned that it’s impossible to look elegant and dignified in a hospital gown, even when it’s a becoming shade of lavender.
Lying in the adjustable bed with its adjustable railings, multiple buttons and a remote controlled nurse-fetcher, stripped of everything but the shapeless robe that ties at the back, I am reminded of a meme that did its rounds on WhatsApp: Health insurance is like a hospital gown; you are never as covered as you think you are.
I suppress an urge to giggle – not only is it bound to be painful, giggling might dislodge stuff in/on/running through my body, that should not be.
On the brighter side, there is the fact that I am lying inert on my back, and am bound to remain so for a while. So never mind the inadequacy of the cover.
As it turned out, those good insurance guys did a better job of covering than my lavender hospital gown did, thank God!
Another very important lesson I learn is that my woes are never as bad the ones that my friends and family and neighbours and strangers on the road have gone through, in the exact same situation. Random conversations sound something like this:
“And what did she say?”
“That I need a D&C urgently.”
“Oh D&C?” Do I detect a slight note of disappointment there, or is it my wayward imagination?
“Everyone does it these days. In fact, my friend had her second one recently. It’s nothing.” Yes, ma’am!
“What’s your HB level? Did the doctor tell you?”
“Nine, I think. I’m not sure. She just said that I lost a lot of blood, and I’ll need to have heavy doses iron supplements…”
I am to be the Iron Lady of Al Nahda 2, Dubai… But wait, not so fast!
“Oh? Then you’re better off than I had been. Mine was eight!” I’m outdone, yet again.
Such is the story of my life. Sigh.
Which movie is it where Boman Irani’s character keeps haunting Amitabh Bachan’s with Yeh toh kuch bhi nahi! and launches a tirade about the bigger fortunes/misfortunes of the various members of his family including himself?
Ok, this isn’t half as bad, really. I’m just being mean.
I also come to understand that waiting for a calamity (I’m allowed a bit a hyperbole, in my condition) to happen can stretch one’s nerves thinner than the calamity itself does.
Quite possibly because the latter, in my case, happens under general anaesthesia. I go to sleep under bright white lights with benevolent eyes peering at me over white masks that tell me to breathe deeply, there, there… And voila! an instant later I wake up with my innards hoovered and fixed!
Then it’s just a matter of drifting in and out of the twilit zone trying to smile bravely at the world, but sleeping off in the middle, only to get up wincing, painfully aware of the fluids – clear and coloured – being pumped into me. I am informed that this one kills pain and stops bleeding, while the other is the hormone my body badly needs, and a third that looks like strong black tea is actually haemoglobin to replace what my body has been generously dispensing with for a while.
The latter, despite all its innocuous black tea pretensions, turns out to be painful enough to make me protest, albeit feebly. There, there…let me flush this out. Then it will flow more easily, the smiling lady in aquamarine uniform reassures me. Impressive bedside manners, though I’m glad Indian nurses don’t use the first person plural to address their patients.
I recall reading a Mills & Boon romance once where the red-haired heroine is in hospital, and her kindly doctor asks: Shouldn’t we go to bed now? It’s rather late. To which the lady retorts: Do you think there’s enough space in this bed for both of us?
You see the kind of muck my brain is filed with?
This time though, the memory does not even make me smile. And the ‘flushing’ itself turns out to be— Ah well! The less said about it the better.
But I was talking about the waiting-for-the-calamity part, before all this.
Not only am I painfully connected to various pieces of gadgets that sound like multiple hearts sinking at once in no particular rhythm, I am also being poked around with sterile equipment by serious people in white coats and uniforms. The collective frown on their faces when they do so is not reassuring either.
The worst thing, however, is the hunger. A cup of tea and an omelette wrapped in half a khubus – ingested before 6:00 am and nothing, not even a sip of water after – is just not my style. I function best on a full tank. Ask my family.
“Your room is not ready yet, so till we roll you in for the procedure, can you please share a room with another patient? We’ll make sure your room is ready by the time you come out.”
Of course I can! Anything at all, as long as it does not require me to be vertical.
So here I am in a cheerless, artificially darkened room. Horizontal, hungry, in pain and terrified – I’m never brave on an empty stomach.
From the other side of the floral print curtain, I can hear conversations.
There was a time in the past when I would have wanted to see the people involved, to engage in small talk, but I no longer have the will. So I listen, not particularly curious, only because I have nothing better to do. Italo Calvino, though light enough to hold with one hand, doesn’t mix well with painkillers and antihemorrhagics.
The patient on the other side – a lady much younger to me, from the general drift of the conversation – sounds scared too, so her husband tries to be breezy enough for both of them. An older woman, his mother, not hers, obviously, gives sensible pieces of advice every so often which are taken by the other two with pinches of salt.
I hear lunch being rolled in, and then I smell it being opened. Agony!
“What’s this?” The mother sounds puzzled.
“Marrakech, an Arabic dish made of brinjal and olive oil and all that,” I hear him explaining.
Last I heard, Marrakech was not a dish, but a city in Morocco. I wonder if I should call out: That’s muttabel, not Marrakech! Then I decide against it.
Instead I close my eyes and dream about the okra curry my friend’s mother had brought for me the last time I was admitted in a hospital, sixteen years ago. It’s good for you, especially since you have a premature baby to feed. I had been frightened then too, but strangely, it was her kindness that released the tears I had thus far suppressed.
“When are they taking me to the OT? I want this done with, and I really, really want to eat something!”
“Another half-an-hour, they said,” my better half tries to console me.
And true to their word, they come on the dot of two, and wheel me out. The rest, as they say, is history. Herstory. Mine.
Interesting how even the most fleeting brush with the grim reaper (of course, woh toh kuch bhi nahi tha, in real terms, I know) has a way of reorganising one’s priorities.
You realise that as you watch, unmoved, an ageing Tom Cruise going about his business with missions impossible and otherwise. And while looking outside the window at the buildings languishing in summer sunlight, with random thoughts flitting in and out of you. Later again when, while watching a Jolie-Pitt movie with artsy pretensions, you’re more excited by the sight of a Morandi print in a pub than by the explicit scenes the movie is generously littered with.
And you begin to feel that all the iron and hormones and painkillers you’re brimming with have done their good deed. For your mind if not your body.
Back home, what I feel is a sense of release. Coupled with a positive disenchantment with things that had me in their spell for a long while, without even realising it. It is with a deep sense of shame that I admit I had actually begun to count the ‘likes’.
I don’t want to be doing that with/for the rest of my life.
Some are born good, while others have goodness thrust on them. I belong to the second category, where I’m repeatedly told that I’m a good person by those who love me too much to see the less-than-truth of it. Of me.
Maybe it’s time I gave an honest shot at goodness.
And guess what? The second generation of laughing doves have taken over the nest in my balcony, and begun the next cycle of life.
Which, I’m beginning to see, is beautiful indeed. Perfect as it comes.