(13 Nov 10)
It was the third time I
felt the shooting pain in the lower back, this time whilst crossing the road.
Agonizing, but I managed to do something that resembled an out of step salsa
sequence and got across through the horny (horning?) cars. Luckily, was on the
OPD side, so decided that I must see a Spine Doctor. Unluckily, once I reached
the building, I couldn’t climb those four stairs. Tried the ramp, couldn’t
climb that either, because no railings there. Ten man-minutes were wasted
helping me reach the glass door.
When I made the voucher,
the girl at the counter said what I thought sounded like ‘stomach’. I chided
her because she didn’t know that Dr N had nothing to do with that part of the
anatomy. She looked shocked, then told me she said: “Chamak” the Marathi term
for a catch in the back. The person behind me, who also wanted a spine doctor,
asked me where Dr Chamak’s name was in the schedule that he was holding!! My
bad.
For one who normally
doesn’t wait for a lift and takes stairs two at a time, it felt silly to say
‘first floor’ to the liftman. Someone remarked in Marathi: “She’s only first
floor, we’re third” in a superior tone. I was ready to climb out but the lift skipped
the first floor (someone had forgotten to press the button or it wasn’t
working) and I got a ride to the third floor and back. Smirk, smirk, who’s
superior now, I thought as those Marathi people walked out.
Next came The Wait.
Doctors are always attending emergencies. A few of us patients couldn’t sit.
The chairs were too low. We didn’t want to lie on trolleys. So we stood by
them, our elbows and palms taking the weight of our painful backs. One wanted
to go to the loo. She came back and told us that the seat was lower than the
lobby chairs. Oof.
Then came The MRI. It’s
difficult to get out of a sari, fold the darn thing, put it on a hanger and
change into loose, crisply laundered, tie it yourself, hospital pyjamas and
tops in a 4 x 4 cubicle. I’d heard stories of claustrophobic patients demanding
their money back, and was nervous about the loudness of the sound inside as
well as the order “if you move, we have to repeat the sequence”. I was to press
one balloon attached to a wire if I was in any way uncomfortable. Screaming and
shouting wouldn’t help. The other way to attract attention of those outside the
room (one is alone inside) is to wave the legs, for the rest of the body is
inside the metal tunnel. Of course, the pain wouldn’t allow any movement of the
legs so that wasn’t an option anyway.
No one told me how cold it would be. The blankets helped, though. The
machine takes you in smoothly enough. The metal tube’s inner edge is more than
6” from the nose, so if one sneezes hard, there’s enough space to counter the
move. You won’t bang and injure yourself. The drilling, hammering sound is
easier on the eardrums than most car horns or construction sites. When the
sound stopped and the trolley moved (with me lying stiffly on it) I believed
‘it’s over’. I was wrong. It keeps moving you, sliding you, bit by bit, every
couple of minutes for what seems a very long time and is actually approx half
an hour. Each time I opened my eyes and saw the white light and gleaming metal,
I wondered how many brain tumour and road traffic accident cases had thus lain
in here, possibly unconscious. How many lives had this machine helped save?
It’s eerie, the thought that you’ve shared this little space with almost dead
or dying fellow beings.
The big film with the little photos all over it showed pictures of my
insides that I didn’t know existed. Between two vertebrae or discs, one tiny
bit of inner lining had slipped out. A hernia. Like a little balloon. Luckily,
no nerve was damaged, said the Spine Specialist; the pain is caused because the
strong back muscles ‘guard’ or protect the injured area, go into a spasm and
don’t allow any movement whatsoever. Nature does its thing.
Therefore, I have to lie flat (22 hours a day) I’m told, to allow
relaxation. A bit of loo and a bit of keyboard won’t hurt, I think, though the
doctor disagrees. What are rules for if not to be flexed at times? When I’m
better, will write about what went through my mind as I stared at the ceiling
day after day after day.
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