Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Hospital blues

Being told by the Doctor that I’d have to rest for a week at least was not the good news I had been waiting to hear. I was waiting for him to say that I was fine and could participate in next week’s Football tournament. I was dreaming of playing in center mid-field when he told me I would also have to walk on crutches for a speedy recovery. As if that wasn’t enough, I had to visit the hospital’s physiotherapy room-they should rename it the Physical Torture room-each day. The only silver lining is their physio, a cute woman in her late thirties. It is only her presence, and perhaps the presence of my male ego that prevents me from wailing like a little boy when she goes about her job.
I was disheartened to know that I would be immobile for a few days. But it was either that, or surgery and a two month rest.
There comes a phase in ones life where a certain kind of phenomena is repetitive. It
ranges from doggone good luck (Mahendra Singh Dhoni, anyone? Yes, we have a great team but in Lanka, tosses win matches!), tremendous good fortune, string of injuries and sometimes, as in the case of yours truly, a spate of hospitalizations. I have lived what I believe is 1/3rd of my wonderful life on God’s great Earth. After being born to a beautiful mother 25 odd years ago, I never had the misfortune of being admitted to a hospital. However in the past few years, I have been so frequent to the hospital that I am on first name basis with the Doctor’s son who is studying Gynecology, have been invited to attend a pooja at his place and know each matron’s name and the schools their kids are in.

I was what people considered to be a healthy and fit specimen. A bit round the edges, but an able bodied one nevertheless. Why, I still play football and was more than a match for the young (Yes, I have been called “Uncle” or more than one occasion.) teenagers. At least I used to till a few months back when a blinding pain in my stomach was diagnosed as Appendicitis/ Hernia.

I would advise anyone who is to go in for surgery to opt for general anesthesia. At least if the doctor gives you the choice.There are three kinds that I know of.
• General- You are rendered completely unconscious
• Spinal- Your body numbs temporarily from the chest down.
• Local- Given directly at the spot of bother.

Local anesthesia is for stitches and the lot. For graver surgeries, the Doctor opts for either General or Spinal. Insist on General as in the Spinal version, the Doc has to inject you with a 6 inch long needle right up your spine! The mere sight of that had me in a dizzy. And yes, it is painful. After recovering from that discomforting infirmity, I developed infection at the incision and had to spend a few more days under the caring Nurses. Each one mulled that it was time for me to get married, so as to give my old man a rest.
Coming back to my ankle- when the doc told me to rest for a few days, I had to agree. I wouldn’t be able to work either, as it required train travelling. I had already faced some demanding times trying to explain to my fellow passengers that stepping on my foot wouldn’t bode well for me. Eh, it’s not their fault anyway. Why, I have, at times, stepped on my own foot without realizing that its mine. Weird, but true.
My latest pet name is Salim, after the character of Salim in ‘Salim langde par mat ro’! Walking with the help of crutches and taking wax baths and physiotherapy each day is not only expensive but excruciatingly painful. My new best friend, ‘Combi-flam’ is truly a friend in need. Someone suggested a pooja at home to ward off evil spirits who surely had an eye on us. We did that, which resulted in an eye infection due to all the smoke and a very, very bad throat!
I am hoping this is the last of it. Someone remarked as it is the foot this time, the phenomenon is at its fag end. I certainly hope so.