Each day in the hospital, I reflect that they should have spent more time teaching us about eyes. Eyes tell a doctor so much. I’m not talking about things like jaundice and anemia, though these are important too. Eyes do not lie, to a sensitive doctor.He is a twenty-year-old boy.
Embarrassed a little at his parents’ concern. “He’s had fever for 5 days, doctor.” The mother says. In spite of his would be bravado, he looks a little sick, and I admit him. Blood tests show he has a very severe malaria, and I am worried, angry too. Why did you bring him this late I want to ask her, but the misery and anxiety in her eyes as she looks at her shivering son hushes me.
We start him on treatment, but it is a steady downhill course.I am very concerned now. His breathing is becoming laboured, his kidneys are not working. His liver is packing up.
“We may need to intubate and ventilate him.” I tell the father. He closes his eyes and turns his face to the wall sobbing. “We may have to put him on a ventilator.” I tell the mother. “It’s expensive.” “Anything, do anything, doctor.” She looks at me, one mother to another, and says, “He is my only son, doctor.”
I have to save this boy. We connect him to a ventilator, we dialyze him, we put him on medicines to bring up his blood pressure . But I know , I know somehow that nothing is going to work. The boy lasts through the night but he does not see the morning sunlight that slants in to the ICU.
I have to tell the mother. I know she will die a little death herself as I tell her. However, I must tell her.I do not have to tell her. She sees it in my eyes and so does her husband . He is sobbing, wailing. She is frozen . “Can I see him?” “Yes.” I say, and as I lead her in to the ICU, she is shaking.
She softly touches the still face of the one she has borne, fed , brought up and loved, probably more than she has loved anyone or anything in her life . I am crying at the pain in her face. She looks up at me, dry eyed and says, “We would like to donate his eyes, doctor.”
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Something Good
Past midnight, and my night owl son is sitting on my lap and gazing up at me with wide-awake eyes. On the music system is Parameshwar Hegde singing barani na jaye. I wait wearily for the inevitable request to change the music to 'wheels on the bus' or something like that.
But, my little boy listens for a moment and pronounces 'chanda'. I am surprised, delighted and smile at him with pride. In response, he gives me that look of pure and unclouded affection that only a child's eyes can hold. It's been a long tough day, I am a sentimental idiot, and I’m undone by that look. I cry, just a little bit, but my baby is terribly concerned. He wipes my face with his treasured Mickey Mouse towel, looking very worried indeed. Then, he holds my hand, leads me to the balcony, points at the full moon, and says “See?”, looking at my face to see whether this has cheered me up a little . I watch the yellow moon float above the sleeping city, my child’s tiny hand in mine, and I reflect that to deserve a moment like this, I must have done something very, very good.
But, my little boy listens for a moment and pronounces 'chanda'. I am surprised, delighted and smile at him with pride. In response, he gives me that look of pure and unclouded affection that only a child's eyes can hold. It's been a long tough day, I am a sentimental idiot, and I’m undone by that look. I cry, just a little bit, but my baby is terribly concerned. He wipes my face with his treasured Mickey Mouse towel, looking very worried indeed. Then, he holds my hand, leads me to the balcony, points at the full moon, and says “See?”, looking at my face to see whether this has cheered me up a little . I watch the yellow moon float above the sleeping city, my child’s tiny hand in mine, and I reflect that to deserve a moment like this, I must have done something very, very good.
The horrific tale of the jet lagged parrot
The Horrific Tale of the Jet Lagged Parrot
We were one of those typical , so often caricatured apartment complexes – full of stolidly middle class families, energetically involved in each other’s lives, extremely right wing and righteous. Then how, how did we get drawn in to a web of attempted homicide, adultery and gang wars?
It all started with the parrot.
On the top floor of our building, strategically placed to catch the sunrise over Besant Nagar beach, there lived a kindly, mildly eccentric old widower, Mr. Alagappan. “How are you, Uncle?” I asked him one morning as we strolled around the 4-foot wide patch of withered grass we called our garden. “Lonely, my dear, lonely after my dear wife has left me. The house is so silent.” I wondered briefly if he was making a pass, but it was unlikely – he was ancient, toothless and completely benign. “Why don’t you get a pet? A parrot?” I suggested. “Good idea! I’ll think about it.” He said, smiling.
Mea culpa.
“Radhika, I followed your advice and bought a parrot. I’m forever in your debt, my dear. What an intelligent companion I have found! I discuss musical theory with him, and corporate law, and I swear he understands every word. Would you like to come up and meet him?” “Sure.” We walk up to his messy flat. “What have you called him?” “Chellam.” “Hey, Chellam chweety, chweety, say hello.” The parrot fixed me with a beady eye and looked terribly affronted. “Don’t talk to him in baby speak. It insults his intelligence.” Old Alagappan hissed from behind me. I tried again.
“Good afternoon, Chellam. Very pleased to meet you. And how are you today, sir?”
The parrot grinned. “Stop chattering, woman, and get me some food.” “You’re teaching him to be a chauvinist, Uncle.” I said, as I left their house. I felt a warm halo beginning at the top of my head. This was good for at least twenty credit points with the accounting angel who my mother assured me was sitting on a cloud and keeping track of everything we do.
It was probably a month or so later that Alagappan came over to our place to say good-bye. “I’m off to spend 2 months with my son in Houston.” “What about your parrot?” my mother asked. “I’m taking him along.”
It was in the middle of summer that Alagappan returned. He came loaded with gifts of chocolates, which my mother immediately confiscated. “You know they make you erupt in pimples, and Usha’s son is visiting India next week. I want you to look your best. We’ll have you dressed in that new violet silk.” … I fled to my room and found consolation in U2 singing ‘If you wear that velvet dress. Ah, what a voice! What a song!
Though my mother had an agenda for me, I had my own dreams, in pursuit of which I was taking a killer exam the following week. Fuelled with a cup of espresso and a cigarette sneaked in the bathroom, I was staring at pages of boring figures and bar graphs when an unearthly shriek rent the air. I rushed to my balcony, hand at my throat, certain I would see someone’s neck being slit. Other folk ran out too, all gazing wildly hither and thither, looking for what seemed to be some unimaginable violence. The shrieking continued, and it suddenly struck me that the sounds were nothing but Kurt Cobain’ s ‘ Lithium’ being belted out with unimaginable energy, volume and tunelessness by a .. by a... parrot?!
I returned to my room, bemused. This was the Vedanta loving, Bhaja govindam singing Chellam. Ah well, people did change, I reflected, and hoped that this 2 am enthusiasm to burst in to song did not become a routine.
Unfortunately, it did become a routine. It seemed that the parrot’s inspiration to sing struck only past midnight. “He hasn’t recovered from jet lag.” Alagappan explained. “He dozes the whole day.” “Doesn’t it trouble you?” “Oh, no.” he smiled cheerfully. “I sleep when he does, and wake when he starts singing.”
Night after night, we were awoken by that damned insomniac bird bawling out it’s melodies at unearthly hours. Its repertoire was vast. Some days, it chose to sing sentimental love ballads. Other days, it was more aggressive and screeched ‘Stairway To Heaven’ with nail on black board dissonance.
This went on for another week, and our tempers, already stretched thin by the unrelenting heat, were further roused by the lack of sleep, the assault on our ears and the utter - how shall I put it - musiclessness of Chellam’s renditions.
An emergency building society meet was called to discuss the issue. “Bad things are happening in the building.” said the society chairperson, Palaniappan. “Decent citizens, deprived of their rightful sleep, are becoming corrupted by that devil in parrot’s shape.” “Corrupted? What does he mean?” I whispered to Kavita, my best friend. “I believe Rajasekhar is spending the nights in Ranjani’s house.” She whispered back. “Oh, the louse! Where is his wife?” “Visiting her parents. And that’s not all, the colonel is up to some hanky panky with the English lecturer.” “Tell me more.” I whisper, thrilled at all these goings on in our hitherto boring complex.
“Calling the meeting to order.” Palaniappan snapped, glaring at us. “There have been serious complaints from various members. Mr. Jagannathan?” “My wife is seven months pregnant, and we went for an ultra sound scan yesterday. The sonologist said that the baby was making unseemly gestures at him. I blame it all on the devil’s music that we are forced to hear every night.” “True, true. And my son is having nightmares.” Raghav said. “Well, at least he is sleeping. My daughter has been sleepless for a week.” “That’s probably because she is plotting to ensnare my son.” “Now, now Mrs Shanti. That is probably unfair.” This from the very quiet Ramamurthy. “Don’t you say anything to me, I saw you pinching the flower vendor’s well, cheek, yesterday.” “WHAT??” screamed Mrs. Ramamurthy. The level of conversation rapidly deteriorated to levels rarely heard even in the less civilised kindergartens in the city.
Palaniappan banged his fist on the table. “This meeting is adjourned with a resolution to do something about the parrot.”
Things got worse rapidly. My brief periods of sleep were ruined by unbelievably graphic dreams of taking the parrot’s spindly throat in my hand and slowly squeezing, until it became silent. Now - I had - indeed, I have nothing against our feathered friends per se, and I happen to be a rock fan myself. Why, I possess the complete collection of Def Leppard , cover versions included. But to have a jet-lagged parrot carol its interpretation of ‘Animal’ at 2am was enough to make the gentlest soul protest.
I was on my way to college one morning when I spotted Captain Mahesh creep furtively along the sixth floor corridor. This captain is a retired army doctor, the epitome of dignity and chivalry and I knew something was very wrong when I saw him sidle along like an embarrassed crab. “Captain” I called “What’s up?” He whirled around and glared at me with the malevolence born of sleep deprivation. I recoiled when I saw the wicked orange handled knife he tried to hide from me. “May I enquire what you are planning?” He looked around with a hunted expression. “I’m off to finish off that ***## bird. I haven’t slept for 13 days. I fear I am losing my mind.” “Captain, I am sure you don’t mean that. There must be a law about pet homicide and I sure don’t want you arrested. Why, you are the only gentleman in this building. We can’t afford to lose you! You go on home, I’ll take care of this, I promise.” I attempted a flirtatious look, and batted my eyelashes at him. He seemed impressed. “Ok, I’ll return home, but only because you are telling me to , my dear child. I would not do this for anyone else.” We spent a few more minutes giving each other meaningful glances and returned to our respective lairs.
Time passed and things got worse with Chellam mauling a new song every night. But, one day, matters came to a head when the parrot sang ‘Fields Of Gold’. ‘Fields of gold’ that my very first boyfriend crooned to me over subsidized cafeteria coffee. ‘Fields of gold’, which ensured I remained celibate for a long, long time because I ‘was saving myself for Sting.’ Was nothing sacred?
I resolved to take action against the parrot, and fast.
What to do, what to do? I wondered. We were desperate for a solution, but short of physically throwing Mr Alagappan and his parrot off the terrace, I couldn’t really think of anything else. Unless…oh yes. Anbarasi mami! Why hadn’t I thought about her before?
The only time I had approached this lady was in my 12th grade, when I had been attacked by a virulent form of infatuation for my lanky, richly pimpled, maths professor. A friend recommended Anbarasi, and I shelled out a year’s savings to this obese, oily woman, who operated from a small cart next to the last bonda stall on the marina. She gave me an opaque white solution, which she asked me to feed to my beloved. It would ensure his undying adoration for me, she claimed. I’m sure it would have worked, but he succumbed to a bad attack of dysentery after drinking the potion diluted in Limca . And no, I don’t think my love potion can be blamed. Anyway, it was worth a try.
I took the cash I had been saving for a Roland keyboard and made my way to the marina. There was Anbarasi, fatter, and if possible, oilier than ever. I explained the situation to her. “Five thousand rupees.” she said. With a wince, I handed the cash over. She gave me a glistening green liquid. “It is called satvam. It will ensure your parrot starts behaving himself.” Now, it only remained to convince Alagappan to feed this to his parrot.
I entered his flat, and was rewarded by the sight of the parrot, dozing, a miniature fan blowing a cool breeze on it’s sleeping form and ruffling it’s feathers. “Sit down, Radhika, sit down.” I wedged my abundance in to the tiny chair normally occupied by the Alagappan posterior. I could feel the circulation to my lower limbs being cut off, but bigger issues than personal comfort were at stake here.
“Uncle, I so miss the Chellam of old. He was such a cultured little bird, singing devotional songs. What corrupted him?” “I don’t think he is corrupted. One has to move with the times.” said Alagappan. He then attempted the twist, singing ‘We are the Champions’ in double time. I gazed up at him, spellbound by the most revolting spectacle I had seen in my whole life. Fortunately, Alagappan caught sight of himself in the mirror. “My god, do I look like that??”
“Unfortunately, yes. And Chellam’s singing is the verbal equivalent of what you just saw.” “But what do I do? How do I make him revert to the old, god fearing soul?” “I can help. Just make him drink this.” I gave him the satvam. “It won’t harm him, will it? Promise me nothing will happen to my Chellam.” He murmured brokenly. “Come on, uncle. Don’t you trust me?”
He prodded the parrot awake, and when it was gazing around sleepily, getting it’s bearings, he forced satvam down its throat.
I am happy to say that this story had a happy conclusion. The parrot restricted itself to singing bhajans in the afternoon, Rajasekhar returned to his wife and the captain gave up ideas of homicide.
I bought my keyboards, and am now practicing every single waking moment.
I am considered a heroine by every one in our building.
Why, just 5 minutes ago, Rajasekhar from downstairs came to me with a glass of some magical concoction which he assures me will make my fingers even more nimble on the keyboards. There it lies on my table, shining in the evening light, with just one message in its magenta depths – “Drink me, Drink me ….”
We were one of those typical , so often caricatured apartment complexes – full of stolidly middle class families, energetically involved in each other’s lives, extremely right wing and righteous. Then how, how did we get drawn in to a web of attempted homicide, adultery and gang wars?
It all started with the parrot.
On the top floor of our building, strategically placed to catch the sunrise over Besant Nagar beach, there lived a kindly, mildly eccentric old widower, Mr. Alagappan. “How are you, Uncle?” I asked him one morning as we strolled around the 4-foot wide patch of withered grass we called our garden. “Lonely, my dear, lonely after my dear wife has left me. The house is so silent.” I wondered briefly if he was making a pass, but it was unlikely – he was ancient, toothless and completely benign. “Why don’t you get a pet? A parrot?” I suggested. “Good idea! I’ll think about it.” He said, smiling.
Mea culpa.
“Radhika, I followed your advice and bought a parrot. I’m forever in your debt, my dear. What an intelligent companion I have found! I discuss musical theory with him, and corporate law, and I swear he understands every word. Would you like to come up and meet him?” “Sure.” We walk up to his messy flat. “What have you called him?” “Chellam.” “Hey, Chellam chweety, chweety, say hello.” The parrot fixed me with a beady eye and looked terribly affronted. “Don’t talk to him in baby speak. It insults his intelligence.” Old Alagappan hissed from behind me. I tried again.
“Good afternoon, Chellam. Very pleased to meet you. And how are you today, sir?”
The parrot grinned. “Stop chattering, woman, and get me some food.” “You’re teaching him to be a chauvinist, Uncle.” I said, as I left their house. I felt a warm halo beginning at the top of my head. This was good for at least twenty credit points with the accounting angel who my mother assured me was sitting on a cloud and keeping track of everything we do.
It was probably a month or so later that Alagappan came over to our place to say good-bye. “I’m off to spend 2 months with my son in Houston.” “What about your parrot?” my mother asked. “I’m taking him along.”
It was in the middle of summer that Alagappan returned. He came loaded with gifts of chocolates, which my mother immediately confiscated. “You know they make you erupt in pimples, and Usha’s son is visiting India next week. I want you to look your best. We’ll have you dressed in that new violet silk.” … I fled to my room and found consolation in U2 singing ‘If you wear that velvet dress. Ah, what a voice! What a song!
Though my mother had an agenda for me, I had my own dreams, in pursuit of which I was taking a killer exam the following week. Fuelled with a cup of espresso and a cigarette sneaked in the bathroom, I was staring at pages of boring figures and bar graphs when an unearthly shriek rent the air. I rushed to my balcony, hand at my throat, certain I would see someone’s neck being slit. Other folk ran out too, all gazing wildly hither and thither, looking for what seemed to be some unimaginable violence. The shrieking continued, and it suddenly struck me that the sounds were nothing but Kurt Cobain’ s ‘ Lithium’ being belted out with unimaginable energy, volume and tunelessness by a .. by a... parrot?!
I returned to my room, bemused. This was the Vedanta loving, Bhaja govindam singing Chellam. Ah well, people did change, I reflected, and hoped that this 2 am enthusiasm to burst in to song did not become a routine.
Unfortunately, it did become a routine. It seemed that the parrot’s inspiration to sing struck only past midnight. “He hasn’t recovered from jet lag.” Alagappan explained. “He dozes the whole day.” “Doesn’t it trouble you?” “Oh, no.” he smiled cheerfully. “I sleep when he does, and wake when he starts singing.”
Night after night, we were awoken by that damned insomniac bird bawling out it’s melodies at unearthly hours. Its repertoire was vast. Some days, it chose to sing sentimental love ballads. Other days, it was more aggressive and screeched ‘Stairway To Heaven’ with nail on black board dissonance.
This went on for another week, and our tempers, already stretched thin by the unrelenting heat, were further roused by the lack of sleep, the assault on our ears and the utter - how shall I put it - musiclessness of Chellam’s renditions.
An emergency building society meet was called to discuss the issue. “Bad things are happening in the building.” said the society chairperson, Palaniappan. “Decent citizens, deprived of their rightful sleep, are becoming corrupted by that devil in parrot’s shape.” “Corrupted? What does he mean?” I whispered to Kavita, my best friend. “I believe Rajasekhar is spending the nights in Ranjani’s house.” She whispered back. “Oh, the louse! Where is his wife?” “Visiting her parents. And that’s not all, the colonel is up to some hanky panky with the English lecturer.” “Tell me more.” I whisper, thrilled at all these goings on in our hitherto boring complex.
“Calling the meeting to order.” Palaniappan snapped, glaring at us. “There have been serious complaints from various members. Mr. Jagannathan?” “My wife is seven months pregnant, and we went for an ultra sound scan yesterday. The sonologist said that the baby was making unseemly gestures at him. I blame it all on the devil’s music that we are forced to hear every night.” “True, true. And my son is having nightmares.” Raghav said. “Well, at least he is sleeping. My daughter has been sleepless for a week.” “That’s probably because she is plotting to ensnare my son.” “Now, now Mrs Shanti. That is probably unfair.” This from the very quiet Ramamurthy. “Don’t you say anything to me, I saw you pinching the flower vendor’s well, cheek, yesterday.” “WHAT??” screamed Mrs. Ramamurthy. The level of conversation rapidly deteriorated to levels rarely heard even in the less civilised kindergartens in the city.
Palaniappan banged his fist on the table. “This meeting is adjourned with a resolution to do something about the parrot.”
Things got worse rapidly. My brief periods of sleep were ruined by unbelievably graphic dreams of taking the parrot’s spindly throat in my hand and slowly squeezing, until it became silent. Now - I had - indeed, I have nothing against our feathered friends per se, and I happen to be a rock fan myself. Why, I possess the complete collection of Def Leppard , cover versions included. But to have a jet-lagged parrot carol its interpretation of ‘Animal’ at 2am was enough to make the gentlest soul protest.
I was on my way to college one morning when I spotted Captain Mahesh creep furtively along the sixth floor corridor. This captain is a retired army doctor, the epitome of dignity and chivalry and I knew something was very wrong when I saw him sidle along like an embarrassed crab. “Captain” I called “What’s up?” He whirled around and glared at me with the malevolence born of sleep deprivation. I recoiled when I saw the wicked orange handled knife he tried to hide from me. “May I enquire what you are planning?” He looked around with a hunted expression. “I’m off to finish off that ***## bird. I haven’t slept for 13 days. I fear I am losing my mind.” “Captain, I am sure you don’t mean that. There must be a law about pet homicide and I sure don’t want you arrested. Why, you are the only gentleman in this building. We can’t afford to lose you! You go on home, I’ll take care of this, I promise.” I attempted a flirtatious look, and batted my eyelashes at him. He seemed impressed. “Ok, I’ll return home, but only because you are telling me to , my dear child. I would not do this for anyone else.” We spent a few more minutes giving each other meaningful glances and returned to our respective lairs.
Time passed and things got worse with Chellam mauling a new song every night. But, one day, matters came to a head when the parrot sang ‘Fields Of Gold’. ‘Fields of gold’ that my very first boyfriend crooned to me over subsidized cafeteria coffee. ‘Fields of gold’, which ensured I remained celibate for a long, long time because I ‘was saving myself for Sting.’ Was nothing sacred?
I resolved to take action against the parrot, and fast.
What to do, what to do? I wondered. We were desperate for a solution, but short of physically throwing Mr Alagappan and his parrot off the terrace, I couldn’t really think of anything else. Unless…oh yes. Anbarasi mami! Why hadn’t I thought about her before?
The only time I had approached this lady was in my 12th grade, when I had been attacked by a virulent form of infatuation for my lanky, richly pimpled, maths professor. A friend recommended Anbarasi, and I shelled out a year’s savings to this obese, oily woman, who operated from a small cart next to the last bonda stall on the marina. She gave me an opaque white solution, which she asked me to feed to my beloved. It would ensure his undying adoration for me, she claimed. I’m sure it would have worked, but he succumbed to a bad attack of dysentery after drinking the potion diluted in Limca . And no, I don’t think my love potion can be blamed. Anyway, it was worth a try.
I took the cash I had been saving for a Roland keyboard and made my way to the marina. There was Anbarasi, fatter, and if possible, oilier than ever. I explained the situation to her. “Five thousand rupees.” she said. With a wince, I handed the cash over. She gave me a glistening green liquid. “It is called satvam. It will ensure your parrot starts behaving himself.” Now, it only remained to convince Alagappan to feed this to his parrot.
I entered his flat, and was rewarded by the sight of the parrot, dozing, a miniature fan blowing a cool breeze on it’s sleeping form and ruffling it’s feathers. “Sit down, Radhika, sit down.” I wedged my abundance in to the tiny chair normally occupied by the Alagappan posterior. I could feel the circulation to my lower limbs being cut off, but bigger issues than personal comfort were at stake here.
“Uncle, I so miss the Chellam of old. He was such a cultured little bird, singing devotional songs. What corrupted him?” “I don’t think he is corrupted. One has to move with the times.” said Alagappan. He then attempted the twist, singing ‘We are the Champions’ in double time. I gazed up at him, spellbound by the most revolting spectacle I had seen in my whole life. Fortunately, Alagappan caught sight of himself in the mirror. “My god, do I look like that??”
“Unfortunately, yes. And Chellam’s singing is the verbal equivalent of what you just saw.” “But what do I do? How do I make him revert to the old, god fearing soul?” “I can help. Just make him drink this.” I gave him the satvam. “It won’t harm him, will it? Promise me nothing will happen to my Chellam.” He murmured brokenly. “Come on, uncle. Don’t you trust me?”
He prodded the parrot awake, and when it was gazing around sleepily, getting it’s bearings, he forced satvam down its throat.
I am happy to say that this story had a happy conclusion. The parrot restricted itself to singing bhajans in the afternoon, Rajasekhar returned to his wife and the captain gave up ideas of homicide.
I bought my keyboards, and am now practicing every single waking moment.
I am considered a heroine by every one in our building.
Why, just 5 minutes ago, Rajasekhar from downstairs came to me with a glass of some magical concoction which he assures me will make my fingers even more nimble on the keyboards. There it lies on my table, shining in the evening light, with just one message in its magenta depths – “Drink me, Drink me ….”
Come, unfalteringly
Come unfalteringly
I am lying in bed in the MICU and I know that I am going to die. How do I know? It is not the way my wife’s eyes slide away from mine or the sadness in my son’s hello or the compassion in the doctor’s voice as he greets me. There is something else, something that tells a man that it is almost over. I am alone and I do not want to be. I ask the nurse to send in my son.
He comes in and I see he has been crying. “Rohit.” “Yes, dad.” “How is your mom holding up?” “Ok, I guess. We are trying to get her to sleep.”
“Can you sit here with me?” I ask. “Why?”
It is difficult to tell my son that I am scared shitless, but death has a way, somehow, of vanquishing pride. “I’m… I’m afraid.” There, the words are out and my son is looking at me, embarrassed, worried, a little unsure about how to behave in the face of this role reversal. But he is a brave boy, my teenager, and he sits on the bed next to me and holds my hand.
“Dad, does it hurt? Should I call the doctor?”
“No, Rohit, I’m ok. Just a little lonely and these monitors are maddening me.”
This white lie reassures my son. He looks around at the humming machinery keeping track of my life and grins companionably at me.
“They are all worried, dad. I wish you could see how many people have come to see you.” Rohit seems to expect me to be happy at the number of people who have come to visit but it does not really matter to me now. I am content to lie on this bed alone except for my son beside me, his hand in mine. We watch the doctor go on rounds, calm and kind. He is young but he seems to know what he is doing. I wonder, are doctors afraid of death? Having confronted and fought death so many times are they able to handle it better than the rest of us?
I finish my rounds in the intensive care unit, reach my cabin and sit down, exhausted. One of my patients is dying slowly. There are some things your training does not prepare you for. Dealing with the death of a patient is one of them. In spite of stretching to the absolute limits of your skill, the available technology, the patient’s endurance, there are times when you have to give up. It is humiliating, demoralizing.
Some one knocks on the door and interrupts my black reflection. “Mrs. Kumar, please sit down.” “You wanted to talk to me, doctor.” “Yes.” I reply, wondering how to say what I must say, gently. “We have been treating your husband quite aggressively, Mrs. Kumar, but…” “But there is not much hope, is there?” “I’m afraid not.” I pause for a moment, reluctant to speak, but this issue has to be raised. “I think it is time for us to discuss how far you want us to go.”
Mrs. Kumar is sitting very straight. “I have discussed this with my husband, doctor. He doesn’t want to be intubated or mechanically ventilated.” “Are you quite sure?” “Yes doctor, we’ve thought about it.” Her face crumples and she begins to cry. Any words I say now will be meaningless. All I can do is hold her hand until she calms down a little.
“I’m all right. Doctor, I’ll go and sit with Vasanth for a while.”
My wife has been sitting next to me pretending I will soon be okay. I want to tell her “Look I know that you know that I am going to die. Why hide from reality?”
But perhaps we have been taught for too long to utter only socially acceptable truths and I am unable to say what I am thinking to my companion of twenty years. “I’ll be back soon.” she says, leaving me alone with my thoughts and my fear and my pointless questions.
Like, for example, what have I accomplished in my forty years of life? I have written a couple of stories, cringed at bad reviews, floated on good ones. Ultimately, though, what is the use of what I have written? Perhaps I have made people think, smile, cry. It is what I aimed to do through my writing. But of what use it is in the end?
I watch my doctor at work. Now he can look back and say, “I have healed. I have relieved pain.”
I am sitting at my desk and trying not to remember Mrs. Kumar’s tears. I have studied eight years to become a physician. I have used technology and a few skills to heal people. I have been blessed by my patients, been looked up to with respect, with gratitude. I have taken all the good will as my due.
But now I am standing in the cold white of a room where my patient and his family are waiting for approaching death and I am frightened.
I remember my teacher saying “you need courage to be a doctor’ Kedar. Courage to fight for life - and to accept death.”
Courage… courage is what Mr. Kumar needs as he lies in bed and waits for that final end to pain. Where does he find it?
I am escaping in to the memory of an evening many years ago, when I was a confused teenager, full of smoky ideas of beauty and poetry that would not be written. It was on a trip to the Western Ghats.
I recall that evening so distinctly - sitting at the edge of the peak, with the velvet forests rolling below us, cloaked sometimes by the amethyst twilight mist. The air was full of the twittering of birds and insects and activity.
Then suddenly everything grew silent and it was dark. A moonless silky night fell upon us like a spell. We were all silenced by the abrupt fall of days end in to night.
I let my head fall back and felt vertiginous at the expanse of the sky around us- the sense of falling in to the stars. I remember thinking then, that I had experienced all the beauty that the world had to offer and that I would be content to die at that very instant.
I have had a few moments like that, haven’t I? Experiences that grabbed me so completely that I ceased to exist. Maybe there would have been more if I had been more aware. Aware of the patterns in the heart of the flower, of the million subtle nighttime perfumes of my village. If I had listened with more attention, perhaps I would have perceived all the hidden melodies in every song that I just half heard - a background to the white noise in my brain. I am hurting, thinking of all that I have failed to see and hear, when the doctor walks in. He examines me, asks me if there is anything I need. I smile a negative and he leaves, pausing to say “I am always on call. Buzz me if you need me.”
The calm acceptance with which Mr. Kumar faces his fear helps me a little. I am standing in the waiting room looking through the window at the lit up city below and thinking about the battles that we all fight.
I look at the people waiting. Some of them are sobbing quietly, some are gazing unseeingly in to space, some are looking resigned. Does the fact that I have tried to help them justify my existence? Perhaps not - maybe it is enough that I have never run away from a battle, never cheated and always done my best. Maybe.
I am lost in thought and I am startled when I am paged. “Bed 5 has arrested.” The nurse in charge says as I run in to the MICU. We successfully resuscitate the patient, and I watch the heartbeat reappear on the monitor, feel the pulse get stronger. I am feeling all the while that this is what I was born for, here is where I belong.
Before leaving, I pause for a moment at Mr. Kumar’s bed. He seems to be listening to music on his Walkman and I do not want to disturb him, I wonder is he is asleep.
I cannot sleep. I am listening to Mozart’s 20th concerto. There is such grandeur in it. In the music of course, but in the process of my listening to it as well.
Consider this. Mozart heard some poetry in his brain and played it on the piano.
Four hundred years later today what is happening? Rivers plunge down mountains to rotate huge wheels and release electricity. This decodes patterns buried in magnetic dust to liberate sound that strikes my ear. Three tiny bones tremble and the sound is translated in to the language of the neuron - electricity that blurs through my brain, echoes in my head. And who knows? Maybe these words that I have written today will echo in the cathedral of another human’s mind.
I return to the MICU. I watch as an elderly social worker walks in. She stops by a patient, places her hand on his forehead and says. “You will get better child, I am sure you will. God bless you.”
The patient looks up at her with faith. Perhaps she has done more with her gentle trust than I have done with all my pills. Ah well, we all have to choose our methods of healing and I have chosen medicine.
But some times, I have doubts about what I am doing. For instance, are these advances we have made in medicine fundamentally any good? We relieve pain, prolong life perhaps. However, we also lengthen the process of dying. What was once but a single instant of anguish is now drawn in to days of waiting and hopelessly hoping and hurting.
Is it worth it? Is it not cruel to make a human go through what Mr. Kumar is experiencing now? To make a man handle an unhandleable fear? What can a man think about in these last few conscious moments?
I am thinking about the last note. Like a gymnast’s final leap and touch down, the last note summarizes the entire performance. How does the musician decide what it is going to be? Some songs end with a gentle ‘yes of course.’ some with a triumphal head flung upwards ‘yeah!’ Some are left hanging, as if the composer is trying to say that the song is not over yet.
So much music and so many, many beautiful moments.
It’s been a good life, God, and I would not ask for more. No - not even more time. Perhaps I will pray for courage as I lie in the unchanging light, waiting. Thinking about life and death, thinking about dying. Wondering, when death finally comes, how will she come?
…Unfalteringly.
I am lying in bed in the MICU and I know that I am going to die. How do I know? It is not the way my wife’s eyes slide away from mine or the sadness in my son’s hello or the compassion in the doctor’s voice as he greets me. There is something else, something that tells a man that it is almost over. I am alone and I do not want to be. I ask the nurse to send in my son.
He comes in and I see he has been crying. “Rohit.” “Yes, dad.” “How is your mom holding up?” “Ok, I guess. We are trying to get her to sleep.”
“Can you sit here with me?” I ask. “Why?”
It is difficult to tell my son that I am scared shitless, but death has a way, somehow, of vanquishing pride. “I’m… I’m afraid.” There, the words are out and my son is looking at me, embarrassed, worried, a little unsure about how to behave in the face of this role reversal. But he is a brave boy, my teenager, and he sits on the bed next to me and holds my hand.
“Dad, does it hurt? Should I call the doctor?”
“No, Rohit, I’m ok. Just a little lonely and these monitors are maddening me.”
This white lie reassures my son. He looks around at the humming machinery keeping track of my life and grins companionably at me.
“They are all worried, dad. I wish you could see how many people have come to see you.” Rohit seems to expect me to be happy at the number of people who have come to visit but it does not really matter to me now. I am content to lie on this bed alone except for my son beside me, his hand in mine. We watch the doctor go on rounds, calm and kind. He is young but he seems to know what he is doing. I wonder, are doctors afraid of death? Having confronted and fought death so many times are they able to handle it better than the rest of us?
I finish my rounds in the intensive care unit, reach my cabin and sit down, exhausted. One of my patients is dying slowly. There are some things your training does not prepare you for. Dealing with the death of a patient is one of them. In spite of stretching to the absolute limits of your skill, the available technology, the patient’s endurance, there are times when you have to give up. It is humiliating, demoralizing.
Some one knocks on the door and interrupts my black reflection. “Mrs. Kumar, please sit down.” “You wanted to talk to me, doctor.” “Yes.” I reply, wondering how to say what I must say, gently. “We have been treating your husband quite aggressively, Mrs. Kumar, but…” “But there is not much hope, is there?” “I’m afraid not.” I pause for a moment, reluctant to speak, but this issue has to be raised. “I think it is time for us to discuss how far you want us to go.”
Mrs. Kumar is sitting very straight. “I have discussed this with my husband, doctor. He doesn’t want to be intubated or mechanically ventilated.” “Are you quite sure?” “Yes doctor, we’ve thought about it.” Her face crumples and she begins to cry. Any words I say now will be meaningless. All I can do is hold her hand until she calms down a little.
“I’m all right. Doctor, I’ll go and sit with Vasanth for a while.”
My wife has been sitting next to me pretending I will soon be okay. I want to tell her “Look I know that you know that I am going to die. Why hide from reality?”
But perhaps we have been taught for too long to utter only socially acceptable truths and I am unable to say what I am thinking to my companion of twenty years. “I’ll be back soon.” she says, leaving me alone with my thoughts and my fear and my pointless questions.
Like, for example, what have I accomplished in my forty years of life? I have written a couple of stories, cringed at bad reviews, floated on good ones. Ultimately, though, what is the use of what I have written? Perhaps I have made people think, smile, cry. It is what I aimed to do through my writing. But of what use it is in the end?
I watch my doctor at work. Now he can look back and say, “I have healed. I have relieved pain.”
I am sitting at my desk and trying not to remember Mrs. Kumar’s tears. I have studied eight years to become a physician. I have used technology and a few skills to heal people. I have been blessed by my patients, been looked up to with respect, with gratitude. I have taken all the good will as my due.
But now I am standing in the cold white of a room where my patient and his family are waiting for approaching death and I am frightened.
I remember my teacher saying “you need courage to be a doctor’ Kedar. Courage to fight for life - and to accept death.”
Courage… courage is what Mr. Kumar needs as he lies in bed and waits for that final end to pain. Where does he find it?
I am escaping in to the memory of an evening many years ago, when I was a confused teenager, full of smoky ideas of beauty and poetry that would not be written. It was on a trip to the Western Ghats.
I recall that evening so distinctly - sitting at the edge of the peak, with the velvet forests rolling below us, cloaked sometimes by the amethyst twilight mist. The air was full of the twittering of birds and insects and activity.
Then suddenly everything grew silent and it was dark. A moonless silky night fell upon us like a spell. We were all silenced by the abrupt fall of days end in to night.
I let my head fall back and felt vertiginous at the expanse of the sky around us- the sense of falling in to the stars. I remember thinking then, that I had experienced all the beauty that the world had to offer and that I would be content to die at that very instant.
I have had a few moments like that, haven’t I? Experiences that grabbed me so completely that I ceased to exist. Maybe there would have been more if I had been more aware. Aware of the patterns in the heart of the flower, of the million subtle nighttime perfumes of my village. If I had listened with more attention, perhaps I would have perceived all the hidden melodies in every song that I just half heard - a background to the white noise in my brain. I am hurting, thinking of all that I have failed to see and hear, when the doctor walks in. He examines me, asks me if there is anything I need. I smile a negative and he leaves, pausing to say “I am always on call. Buzz me if you need me.”
The calm acceptance with which Mr. Kumar faces his fear helps me a little. I am standing in the waiting room looking through the window at the lit up city below and thinking about the battles that we all fight.
I look at the people waiting. Some of them are sobbing quietly, some are gazing unseeingly in to space, some are looking resigned. Does the fact that I have tried to help them justify my existence? Perhaps not - maybe it is enough that I have never run away from a battle, never cheated and always done my best. Maybe.
I am lost in thought and I am startled when I am paged. “Bed 5 has arrested.” The nurse in charge says as I run in to the MICU. We successfully resuscitate the patient, and I watch the heartbeat reappear on the monitor, feel the pulse get stronger. I am feeling all the while that this is what I was born for, here is where I belong.
Before leaving, I pause for a moment at Mr. Kumar’s bed. He seems to be listening to music on his Walkman and I do not want to disturb him, I wonder is he is asleep.
I cannot sleep. I am listening to Mozart’s 20th concerto. There is such grandeur in it. In the music of course, but in the process of my listening to it as well.
Consider this. Mozart heard some poetry in his brain and played it on the piano.
Four hundred years later today what is happening? Rivers plunge down mountains to rotate huge wheels and release electricity. This decodes patterns buried in magnetic dust to liberate sound that strikes my ear. Three tiny bones tremble and the sound is translated in to the language of the neuron - electricity that blurs through my brain, echoes in my head. And who knows? Maybe these words that I have written today will echo in the cathedral of another human’s mind.
I return to the MICU. I watch as an elderly social worker walks in. She stops by a patient, places her hand on his forehead and says. “You will get better child, I am sure you will. God bless you.”
The patient looks up at her with faith. Perhaps she has done more with her gentle trust than I have done with all my pills. Ah well, we all have to choose our methods of healing and I have chosen medicine.
But some times, I have doubts about what I am doing. For instance, are these advances we have made in medicine fundamentally any good? We relieve pain, prolong life perhaps. However, we also lengthen the process of dying. What was once but a single instant of anguish is now drawn in to days of waiting and hopelessly hoping and hurting.
Is it worth it? Is it not cruel to make a human go through what Mr. Kumar is experiencing now? To make a man handle an unhandleable fear? What can a man think about in these last few conscious moments?
I am thinking about the last note. Like a gymnast’s final leap and touch down, the last note summarizes the entire performance. How does the musician decide what it is going to be? Some songs end with a gentle ‘yes of course.’ some with a triumphal head flung upwards ‘yeah!’ Some are left hanging, as if the composer is trying to say that the song is not over yet.
So much music and so many, many beautiful moments.
It’s been a good life, God, and I would not ask for more. No - not even more time. Perhaps I will pray for courage as I lie in the unchanging light, waiting. Thinking about life and death, thinking about dying. Wondering, when death finally comes, how will she come?
…Unfalteringly.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)