Pain in the Back

          As happens with all things wicked, the pain started off innocuously, shooting down the hip joint till the knee. “I can handle it,” I thought. When proved wrong, I was taxi-rushed to the nearest ‘Casualty’ of a multi-specialty, tertiary-care hospital. Between the retching and panic-stricken calls for un-responding gods, my mew-like moans were lost.

          The smooth wheel-chair that took me to the ward contrasted with the spine-rattling one on the gravelly railway-platform that was one of the causes of my ‘episode’.

It took long to fill forms: insurance, admission, consent, indemnifying bonds, proofs of identity, old history, etc. Big hospitals and TPAs should have workshops titled ‘Faxing is Fun’.

          My room was inexpensive. I settled in a bed that could be remotely controlled for movement: a facility I was grateful for.

          ‘Sister’ dropped by and asked, “You have a thermometer?”

          Me: “No. Why?”

Sister: “I have to take your temperature, if you don’t have a thermometer, I’ll indent one.”

Compulsory buying of a thermometer? Way to paisa banao. Big hospital, small trick.

          To answer Nature’s call, helped by a metal-pipe-walker, I hobbled agonisingly to the toilet. Clinging to walker and towel-rack, I sat back and down, down, until I rocked and rolled. The upper two limbs flailed willy-nilly. The lower two, like sulky teenagers, refused to come out of a defiant spasm. How much would it cost to have the pot installed a couple of centimetres higher? Or an extra metal handle conveniently located to help the infirm to manoeuvre themselves? People who build/treat/design must experience what an end user goes through. Would that mean all healthcare workers should be prescribed mock enemas? Perhaps. Or a ride on  unpadded, rickety trolleys whose wheels permanently face different directions. Or at least an injection with a big, fat needle, so they know what it’s like to feel fear, discomfort and helplessness. Familiarisation with nausea could be added to their syllabus at a later stage. Charge ‘practical fees’ and aur paisa banao.  

           The phone on the wall was kept out of reach. When it rang, trying to guess whose call I’d missed killed me. My mobile was lost in the midst of all those blankets, wires, tubes and naadaas. The patients’ uniform had no buttons. The naadaa from the left side had to be tied to its partner on the right. Some were less than an inch long and others longer than six. Others were made of several bits knotted together. Quite a challenge for the nails and for anyone with an average IQ and co-ordination skills. To tackle such a naadaa network, with no advantages of nails, IQ,  and skills, plus a ‘slip disc’ to deal with, is torture. My naadaas got either knotted tightly or opened with every breath I took.

          From time to time, ‘Sister’ kept beside me a small plastic cup with pills, chirped “Aunty, take SOS” and left. I could bear the pain, so didn’t take them. At ‘discharge’, I discovered that the pills I’d paid for and not consumed weren’t there for me to take back home. They hadn’t been returned to the pharmacy. Possibly they had some opiate in them. I wondered where they’d gone. Also wondered why the nurses smiled so much.

          The sliding in and out of the MRI tube with a half-hour’s stay within is going to be the plot of my horror story for potential claustrophobia victims. I’ve survived to tell.

          Discharge time was exciting. Began the night before with a search for the missing Intern. Once he dictated the narrative summary, he despatched himself once again to Nowhere Land. By the time the insurance faxing fun was over, Ward Nurse came to see me off. Her discharge instructions: “Theez madiseen yawr name not on computer,” she drawled. Interpreted: (Your) name not on computer because final bill had been cleared, hence required medicine not indented, hence medicine could be bought from elsewhere, insurance wouldn’t pay for it.  

         

          The most interesting part of this episode: the treating consultant was at the Everest Base Camp, reading my MRI films online, real time, on his laptop, advising his juniors about what medicines to give, checking out my progress. Viva technology.

          Before I left the hospital, ‘Sister’ tried but failed to tell me why there was no doctor’s signature on the discharge summary. The devil lies in the details, no? Fancy equipment and pretty curtains can’t be substitutes for that.

Pain is gone, episode over. Time for physiotherapy. Like I said, no rest for the wicked.