(6 Feb ’11)
My first tryst with the
ceiling was about three months ago when my slipped disc or herniated disc first
presented its symptoms: back pain and more back pain. There must have been a
spot just above my tail bone, called L-4 or something by the doctors, weakened
by years of abuse: picking up a cycle with a flat tyre, buckets of water when
the taps ran dry, pushing suitcases and trunks in and out of narrow train
doors, dragging furniture and fridges to clean corners of floors, sitting long
hours with books on lap, running to catch buses, typing articles to not miss
deadlines, and more. The last straw (would the present generation know what a
real straw is? Most will know it’s something to drink from) was when I tried
helping someone get up after a surgery. Snap. I felt it. Like someone stabbing
me in the back, so sharp, so sudden, so shocking was the pain. It will go away,
I told myself. It didn’t. I could bear it, brave me, I thought. One day, two
days later, whilst crossing the road, the sharp pain returned. I managed to
dodge the traffic, but had got a fright. Promptly, I visited the doctor, who
said, “I want you in bed.” Off I was packed, with a sick-leave chit in hand,
home. Alone at the time, I couldn’t get up to answer the ringing phone….
Blessed are mobiles, they’re at hand. 23
hours of bed rest meant I was allowed to use the loo and feed myself. Rest of
the time, I was sleeping. As in lying down, not as in fast asleep. That’s when
I noticed how poor the workmanship was: the walls were full of bumps and depressions.
Plastering is so important to the looks of a room. The lights were high up on
the wall, no scope for reading. I could
hear the traffic below and kept guessing what might be happening down on the
road. Friends pitched in with food. Love my friends.
A week later, better
already, I joined work. It was too early. The body didn’t like it at all.
Another muscular spasm, more pain, and back I was on the mattress. This time, I
made sure I wasn’t brave at all. The putta on my abdomen stayed on until way
after the doctor said No Need.
Still, two months down
the line, I’d ignored the hints of pain in my knee and hip on one side. It
wasn’t much and there was no point fussing over something that wasn’t hampering
my work. So I carried on at a frenzied pace. There was an audit, an inspection
coming up, it was important, so I was on my feet, doing this, that and the
other. One day, late evening, as I walked home, I couldn’t take the steps, so
painful was the leg. By the time I reached home…. Just a couple of minutes it
took, the pain was unbearable even whilst I rested. So painful, it felt
cold, and I was shivering. This was not
normal, and I dragged myself out and to the hospital where the doc on duty
said: I want you in bed. This inappropriate sentence has no romantic hints in
it, I’d learnt. It means: you’re in
medical trouble.
For the second time in
three months, I was back inside an MRI, pumped with strong painkillers that
gave me the false impression that I was perfectly all right. The Spine Doc told
me: nothing works like a bed rest: 23 hrs flat on back into 22 days. Back I
went to my good friend, the ceiling. Family, friends, neighbours, facebookers
have pitched in with advice. We’re Indians, no, we have to give advice: sleep
on a wooden plank, sleep on a soft mattress, take a pillow, throw that pillow
away, use reiki, pranic healing helps, herbal tea a must, those pain—killers
work like magic, don’t touch allopathic pills, pray, even God can’t help you
through this, lie down still, get up and get going, wear a belt, belts are mere
reminders of your condition nothing more. About whiling away those hours: pray
(seems to be a fave pastime with those
who need to while away time, meditate (another fave with the praying types),
think of nice things, think of how to take revenge on enemies, this is a good
opportunity to cook up crazy ideas, plan your future…. Too old for that? Then
dwell on the past. So on and so forth. I can’t watch tv because of the angle
involved. Can’t read books because neck and eyes hurt. Can’t listen to music
because it irritates others at home. Can’t use the headphones because ears get
tired…. Yes, they do. It’s taught me one lesson, though. We can empathize with
those who can’t walk or see because we can mimic that disability by restricting
our movements or tying a cloth to our eyes. But we can’t ever know what a deaf
person feels like because we can’t, as try we might, feel what s/he feels.
Truly, it’s a disability that is difficult to comprehend.
The boring ceiling has
taught me that one great lesson. And also, that health indeed is wealth, that
I’m blessed to be privileged to enjoy a
climate of freedom so many people don’t… that food, an appetite and a good
digestion contributes so much to well being, that we need care-givers other
than doctors to help us back to health. Even jokers who say: repeat so and so’s
name a zillion times and all will be
well contribute to wellness in some way. They mean well. And that’s what a
patient clings to when boring ceilings are to be encountered. @@@@@
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