(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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