Written on November 30th about events of November 21-23, 2011
Having honored my resting period to the hilt this time (lesson learnt) these notes come from a fair distance of the recounted events that might cause them to be more reflective and fantastical than the earlier accounts. Nevertheless, I will put down the details that I consider worthy of remembering for the rest of my life, long after the pain has gone and arrogant smugness has returned.
Monday
The day of the week-after-surgery check up at the hospital, though technically, it has been a weekend more. Amma needs to be at the bank early that morning, so Achan takes me to the hospital in a cab. She had been impatient to get me OK-ed so that she can take off to Bangalore to be with Tara who needs her more at this time.
Cab driver Baiju, a plump man in his late 30s, is extra careful after I tell him the purpose of the hospital visit. Traffic being less, we make it to the hospital in 15-20 minutes instead of the usual half hour.
At the entrance, as I collect Baiju's cell phone number, before he goes to park and wait, I notice the notorious bald assistant of my "ICU move" trauma-drama fame! I think he recognized me.
Like a petulant child, I refuse to make eye contact. I walk in with my head held down, paying great fake attention to the blank cellphone screen, like a school boy who has spotted a teacher who pinched his ear the previous day.
My pettiness astounds me.
Gone are the bombastic philosophies of Asanga and altruism.
Gone are the searches for Asanga in everyone.
I shrink back to my selfish 'worminess'.
The rational bit of the mind tries to lighten up the deep embracing comforting darkness of hate by telling me to look up and talk to this person. At least smile in recognition in return.
Nothing, Nada!
I sit on the cream colored plastic waiting chair closest to Dr. Haridas's office. Consultation at the pediatrician's office is in full swing. A nurse pops her head out every now and then and calls out names, clearly the children's names, and some little man or woman will go into the room accompanied by their bigger versions, either on their arms or led in by a little finger.
There was one boy so enthusiastic that as soon as he heard his name, he took off his tshirt and monkey-cap and walked briskly into the room, his mother making haste to follow, gathering her bag and water bottle. As soon as he entered the room, this 2.5 feet bundle of energy turned to the side where I presume the examination bed was. I wished I could be so upbeat about doctor's appointments.
Dr. Shyam and Dr. Manoj asked me to lie down in the examination room behind the sliding doors as Dr. Haridas was on his way. A look for concern appears on Dr. Haridas's face as he examines me. He presses the different regions, asks me to cough with my head turned sideways.
"Kurachu fluid und, Arun, njan athu aspirate cheythu kalayalam" (There is some fluid. I will aspirate it away) he tells me and asks the nurse to hand him a syringe. Dr. Manoj and Dr. Shyam also enter the examination area. The needle goes in. I purse my lips. I can feel some warm fluid exiting.
"Come on this side" the doc asks the nurse since he needs some cotton to clean and another syringe.
But 'that' side is already populated with the two other doctors.
There is me on the bed and 4 people in attendance in a 4 ft by 7ft examination area. As the doc holds up the first syringe, I see a mix of blood and translucent fluid.
A second syringe goes in. I let out a muted 'ah'. Perhaps it wasn't much muted.
"Can you hold this, Manoj?" Dr. Haridas seeks help in holding the location of the insertion steady. It is towards the top edge of the scrotal sac to the left. "Or you aspirate it, I will hold" Doc changes his mind. I turn my head to the side and close my eyes.
"I am not comfortable doing this, you are not comfortable doing this, Arun, so let us wait 3 more days" says Dr. Haridas. "This is not the way to do it." As I sit up pressing the small piece of cotton with the antiseptic solution on it over the puncture point, doc explains, "In normal case, the body absorbs most of the fluids as it has happened on your right side. Let us wait till Thursday. Highly possible that fluid will be absorbed, otherwise I will take you upstairs to the theater and quickly aspirate it. There might be a fake sac that the hernia had left behind. May be I should have removed it at the time of the operation itself."
He assures Achan, "There is nothing to worry. Some fluid built up. Let us wait till Thursday."
The needle puncture is invisibly minute. There is hardly any pain from it. But the words 'theater', 'sac' etc strike terror in my heart. Even as Baiju drives us back carefully, I begin to transmogrify into a ball of worry.
Wounds may be specific, but fear hurts all over!
Back home, Kala chechi and Venu chettan visit. Achan takes the opportunity of their presence to go pay the BSNL internet bill. I lie in bed. Venu chettan sits by the bedside. We have a nice long discussion ranging from anesthesia-induced dreams to Kunjikuttan Thampuran. He had worked in the tribal regions of Wayand. He said that some tribes don't inter their dead deep, so after heavy rains and mud falls, it is easy to find skulls and bones by the wayside. He had once played with one such skull and was then troubled with nightmares for almost a week. He would lock his own arms against each other while asleep and dream that someone is pushing him. Relief came only after he stopped living alone and shared accommodation with few others.
I slept little in the afternoon. Worry and fear growing. Swellings don't subside by the minute even if you stare at their location long and hard frequently.
Tuesday&Wednesday
A mind indistinguishable from worry! No other concern in the world.
I make earnest attempts to think about less fortunate people.
Folks who endure far more pain.
People condemned to life long suffering.
The 30 lakhs of people in Kerala who are in danger of a dam bursting.
All these attempts manage to relieve me only for a few seconds.
My awareness returns to the possibilities of more needles, more pain, more uncertainty.
"I thought you would have become less worrisome over all these years, " Amma teased.
I decide to check if Tavernier's travels through 17th century India can distract me. He manages to succeed much better than my own previous attempts. But his trips from Surat to Delhi, Bengal to Bijapur and Goa to Masulipatam are frequently interrupted by images of syringes.
By Wednesday evening, miraculous change of shape for the swelling. Hope! I sleep better hoping the doctor would grant me two more weeks of waiting time to let the body absorb all the wretched fluid that got dammed up inside.
Misplaced Hope!
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