“I “ declared the woman , “have diabetes. I have had it for the last 10 years”. I checked her blood sugar value. It was 430.
“Your sugar is very high!” I said.
She smiled smugly. “It has never been below 400”.
“These other values are also high. You seem to have diabetes , high blood pressure and high cholesterol.”
“I don’t know about all that doctor. I ate biriyani before coming. That is why my weight and cholesterol are is high. I always become tense before seeing a doctor.”
I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. “Do you take any tablets for the diabetes?”
“Yes,” she said , “sometimes, when I feel the sugar is high or I have drunk a Coke.”
I protested, “you cannot control your sugars based on feelings! Nor can you drink Coke.”
I could see she was not convinced. But she was willing to try. I gave her a diabetic diet sheet and asked her to follow it. “You also have to walk for an hour a day for the medications to work.”
“Can I walk up and down my hallway? “ She asked.
To me, that did not seem very practical. After all how long could a hallway be? There was the additional problem of interruptions, telephone calls, family members, the milk man-----.
“No” I said firmly, “you have to walk outside the house.”
She returned a week later. The sugar value had gone upto 500. She had put on weight as well. She had adhered to the diet. She said,” doctor it is not possible to eat all that you gave me. With my regular food as well, I am not able to eat all that.”
“The diet”, I said “is all that you get to eat. It is not in addition to what you already eat.”
Live and learn. The next 5 patients received detailed instructions on diet. It was “instead of” and not “in addition to.”
She came a week later. The sugars were still high and we were fast approaching the 100 kilo mark. In desperation I sent for her husband. Pot belied, obese with curry stains on the front of his shirt. I guess the large size of his paunch prevented him from eating his food without dripping it!
“Your wife urgently needs to exercise. She cannot go out to walk and there seems to be no park nearby. I want you to get her a treadmill or a cross trainer.”
He looked at me. “Shall I fire the servants?” we seemed to be talking at cross purposes.
“Why?” I asked.
“If she washes all the clothes and cleans the house—is that not enough?”
“No “ I said “it is not.” I had visions of trying to tackle the resultant back ache, painful knees and fungal infections of the fingers.
A month later she was brought in a state of collapse. The sugar was 63, but she was as fat as ever.
“What happened?”
I asked.
“Well,” said the husband , “today is the day she fasts.”
I had a bad feeling. “Did she take her medication?”
“Oh yes. I make sure she never misses a single dose.”
The next half hour was spent trying to explain that she should not fast. Even is she does, she should not take her medication as well. They were like recalcitrant children. . They found ways around every situation. They had an answer for everything. Within days the sugar was back to 430.
“Does she eat only 2 chappatis for dinner?”
“Yes “ he said “look.”
They were the biggest chapattis I had seen, the size of a thali meals plate.
“Does she use the treadmill?”
“Yes doctor,” it is a convenient shape and size to hang our undergarments.”
I don’t know why and how but she managed to maintain her weight (97 kg) and her sugar (330-450) for the next five years. Last I heard she was going to Mumbai to look after her grand children.
Maybe there is a lesson in this. Ideal body weight, controlled sugars and blood pressure—these are all myths. How you live and when you die – it is in the stars.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Sunday, November 20, 2011
parasites
“Lice “ announced my brother “can never leave the host. No matter how much blood they suck they still come back for more.”
I knew he was speaking figuratively. We were both fascinated by the antics of an aunt who seemed to have made this a way of life!
She was a beautiful and brilliant teenager topping the class in academic and sports. “I want to be a doctor” she announced. “
“I don’t think I can afford to send you to medical college” said her father, “you had better do engineering.” She hated her father from that day on.
Engineering college was a breeze. She spend very little time in academics, but a great deal at the bus stop. The naval academy was near by, and the sailors were really handsome. Starched white shorts and bulging crotches. What more could a girl ask for?
He noticed the girl with the long plaited hair and almond eyes (some thought they protruded too far out from her face ) her rose bud mouth(some thought it was pursed like that of a harridan) but those were just people who were bitterly jealous. He took to hanging around the bus stop too.
After a couple of weeks they started to smile at each other and then made tentative small talk. To their surprise, they were from the same village! Things progressed rapidly after that. He held her breasts (rather small and pointed) , she held his crotch, and then they both left in a bus for the next town.
“Lets get married” she said, ”come and ask my father.”
“I still have to complete my naval commission.”
“Otherwise?” she asked pursing her lips and rubbing her self against him.
He started to breathe rapidly. He no longer cared about the navy or anything else.
“I can quit” he said, “ but how will we live?”
“My father “ she said with an arrogant toss of her head “will give a huge dowry. We can live on that.”
Served the old bastard right. He was a doctor and had refused to make her one.
The old man was horrified when confronted with the two of them. For one thing, no one in his family had ever done anything like this. For another he really felt that the sailor had shifty eyes. He did not have as much money as everyone thought he had. There was the house to run and a family of four to feed and educate.
“25 lakhs “ announced the sailor,”I will not marry her for a penny less.
She stood behind him and smirked some more.
“I can’t give you that much.”
“Then I have to show everyone these photographs”.
The father balked when he saw the photographs. She was spread eagled naked in a hotel room. He did not even want to imagine what was in the photos below. He sold an estate he had purchased for his old age and handed over the money. She discontinued her engineering studies.
At first they played house living on the interest from the bank. After the first child came unexpected expenses ate into the capital. Expenses mounted and income fell They started to quarrel. He started to drink. Deprived of physical exercise, he proceeded to pound and box her regularly.
“Perhaps this will stop if I have another child” she thought to herself. She promptly became pregnant again. Nothing stopped the abuse. The child, (a pretty little girl) was born with a slightly bent nose. One of the father’s blows had hit the nose perhaps?
She had to take a job. With her incomplete education this was next to impossible. Her English was good, so she became a secretary. They pay was barely enough to provide for herself and her children. Finally her husband had a heart attack and died.
“It is all” she repeatedly told her father “your fault.”
The father finally died a broken man, but not before he willed away his fortune to his son saying, “its all yours my boy, I have given your sister more than her due!”
She desperately needed more money. Her son just shifted from one job to another. The daughters had both eloped. Neither wanted to speak to her. The elder one was furious after she found her having an affair with a college student. The younger was lost in a world of bulimia. Both did not seem to understand that women had needs spoken and otherwise.
Her cousin returned from Kuwait with what seemed like a fortune. He came to India looking for business opportunities.
“I will help you look.” She said, “my son and I have a lot of contacts.”
They bled him dry. Whenever he thought of extricating himself from this mess, her pursed lips and pointy breasts transported him to a point of no return.
One day his wife turned up. “I have had no news of you. You did not end me money.” There was very little money to send. One look at the rumpled double bed and the wife knew what was going on. “You will hear from my father .” She slammed the door as she left.
The cousin looked around. “What have I done?” He exclaimed. It was not just her father he was afraid of. She had a couple of thugs as maternal uncles. They would not rest till they had slit his throat.
“Nothing really,” said the aunt, “she is a money grubbing woman. She would sell you for money.”
It did not seem very likely as she was his wife and she did have some right to his money.
“Any way, my son needs a car . He can’t travel on a motor bike.”
He paid for the car. His bank balance was down to the minimum. After the car was delivered he went into the room and hung himself.
The Japanese were right death was preferable to dishonour.
Once the legal formalities were over, she discovered that she did not really miss him. It was time she moved on
I knew he was speaking figuratively. We were both fascinated by the antics of an aunt who seemed to have made this a way of life!
She was a beautiful and brilliant teenager topping the class in academic and sports. “I want to be a doctor” she announced. “
“I don’t think I can afford to send you to medical college” said her father, “you had better do engineering.” She hated her father from that day on.
Engineering college was a breeze. She spend very little time in academics, but a great deal at the bus stop. The naval academy was near by, and the sailors were really handsome. Starched white shorts and bulging crotches. What more could a girl ask for?
He noticed the girl with the long plaited hair and almond eyes (some thought they protruded too far out from her face ) her rose bud mouth(some thought it was pursed like that of a harridan) but those were just people who were bitterly jealous. He took to hanging around the bus stop too.
After a couple of weeks they started to smile at each other and then made tentative small talk. To their surprise, they were from the same village! Things progressed rapidly after that. He held her breasts (rather small and pointed) , she held his crotch, and then they both left in a bus for the next town.
“Lets get married” she said, ”come and ask my father.”
“I still have to complete my naval commission.”
“Otherwise?” she asked pursing her lips and rubbing her self against him.
He started to breathe rapidly. He no longer cared about the navy or anything else.
“I can quit” he said, “ but how will we live?”
“My father “ she said with an arrogant toss of her head “will give a huge dowry. We can live on that.”
Served the old bastard right. He was a doctor and had refused to make her one.
The old man was horrified when confronted with the two of them. For one thing, no one in his family had ever done anything like this. For another he really felt that the sailor had shifty eyes. He did not have as much money as everyone thought he had. There was the house to run and a family of four to feed and educate.
“25 lakhs “ announced the sailor,”I will not marry her for a penny less.
She stood behind him and smirked some more.
“I can’t give you that much.”
“Then I have to show everyone these photographs”.
The father balked when he saw the photographs. She was spread eagled naked in a hotel room. He did not even want to imagine what was in the photos below. He sold an estate he had purchased for his old age and handed over the money. She discontinued her engineering studies.
At first they played house living on the interest from the bank. After the first child came unexpected expenses ate into the capital. Expenses mounted and income fell They started to quarrel. He started to drink. Deprived of physical exercise, he proceeded to pound and box her regularly.
“Perhaps this will stop if I have another child” she thought to herself. She promptly became pregnant again. Nothing stopped the abuse. The child, (a pretty little girl) was born with a slightly bent nose. One of the father’s blows had hit the nose perhaps?
She had to take a job. With her incomplete education this was next to impossible. Her English was good, so she became a secretary. They pay was barely enough to provide for herself and her children. Finally her husband had a heart attack and died.
“It is all” she repeatedly told her father “your fault.”
The father finally died a broken man, but not before he willed away his fortune to his son saying, “its all yours my boy, I have given your sister more than her due!”
She desperately needed more money. Her son just shifted from one job to another. The daughters had both eloped. Neither wanted to speak to her. The elder one was furious after she found her having an affair with a college student. The younger was lost in a world of bulimia. Both did not seem to understand that women had needs spoken and otherwise.
Her cousin returned from Kuwait with what seemed like a fortune. He came to India looking for business opportunities.
“I will help you look.” She said, “my son and I have a lot of contacts.”
They bled him dry. Whenever he thought of extricating himself from this mess, her pursed lips and pointy breasts transported him to a point of no return.
One day his wife turned up. “I have had no news of you. You did not end me money.” There was very little money to send. One look at the rumpled double bed and the wife knew what was going on. “You will hear from my father .” She slammed the door as she left.
The cousin looked around. “What have I done?” He exclaimed. It was not just her father he was afraid of. She had a couple of thugs as maternal uncles. They would not rest till they had slit his throat.
“Nothing really,” said the aunt, “she is a money grubbing woman. She would sell you for money.”
It did not seem very likely as she was his wife and she did have some right to his money.
“Any way, my son needs a car . He can’t travel on a motor bike.”
He paid for the car. His bank balance was down to the minimum. After the car was delivered he went into the room and hung himself.
The Japanese were right death was preferable to dishonour.
Once the legal formalities were over, she discovered that she did not really miss him. It was time she moved on
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
aquatic antics
Aquatic Antics
“Ma,” said my daughter, ‘there is a master’s swim meet in Chennai. You stand a very good chance of winning.”
“But I can’t swim fast,” I protested.
“Don’t worry, half the people your age cannot even make it across the pool.” She paused for effect, “it is a 50 meter pool”.
The regular pool I swam in was only 20 meters. I could do a hundred non stop laps, but as a leisurely medley. Plus, I just could not do underwater turns. My aged vestibular apparatus acted up if I tried. I often wound up facing sideways.
“I can’t turn.”
My daughter said ,’People my age can’t turn. Don’t worry.”
I had run out of excuses. On the fateful day we went to Chennai’s aquatic complex in Velacherry. The pool was 50 meters long fairly opaque with a few feathers floating inside. We disrobed and entered. They had emptied a few buckets of chlorine into it. At least no bacteria could survive!
Many “masters” had turned up. There was a 72 year old gentlemen for 400 meters (4 lengths) freestyle. He was the only one in that category. He kicked off from the side as he could not dive. Everyone waited and waited patiently as he slowly inched across the pool
The coordinator hissed to the umpire, “ we are running late. He will take ages. “
The umpire said’ Start the next race in the other lanes.”
“What about him?”
“Let him continue. He won’t even realize.”
Two more races were completed before the old man got out of the pool. He received a standing ovation.
The newly married woman had about a kilo of bangles on each arm.
“Madam” said the coordinator, “those will weigh you down”.
“ I don’t care” she said “I waited thirty five years for my parents to find me a husband. I don’t want to remove my bangles now!”
As the race started it became very clear that she was swimming with “resistance weights.” She grunted and puffed and lagged further behind. She finished 30 seconds behind everyone else and sank to the bottom. They put in a bamboo pole to help her climb out.
At the prize distribution as a veterans name was announced for the first prize she came forward to collect her medal.
“Madam” said the coordinator, “you already have your medal around your neck.”
“That is my husbands medal. You didn’t give it to him so I took it from the side --over there”. She pointed to a pile of medals. “He wanted one.”
At the conclusion of the prize distribution the coordinator announced, “ the nationals are in Bangalore in December. All those who qualified are welcome to attend.” He looked at the motley group of senior citizens. “Please please make sure a relative accompanies you!”
Dr. Gita Mathai
The writer is a paediatrician with a family practice at Vellore.
If you have any questions on health issues please write to
yourhealthgm@yahoo.co.in
“Ma,” said my daughter, ‘there is a master’s swim meet in Chennai. You stand a very good chance of winning.”
“But I can’t swim fast,” I protested.
“Don’t worry, half the people your age cannot even make it across the pool.” She paused for effect, “it is a 50 meter pool”.
The regular pool I swam in was only 20 meters. I could do a hundred non stop laps, but as a leisurely medley. Plus, I just could not do underwater turns. My aged vestibular apparatus acted up if I tried. I often wound up facing sideways.
“I can’t turn.”
My daughter said ,’People my age can’t turn. Don’t worry.”
I had run out of excuses. On the fateful day we went to Chennai’s aquatic complex in Velacherry. The pool was 50 meters long fairly opaque with a few feathers floating inside. We disrobed and entered. They had emptied a few buckets of chlorine into it. At least no bacteria could survive!
Many “masters” had turned up. There was a 72 year old gentlemen for 400 meters (4 lengths) freestyle. He was the only one in that category. He kicked off from the side as he could not dive. Everyone waited and waited patiently as he slowly inched across the pool
The coordinator hissed to the umpire, “ we are running late. He will take ages. “
The umpire said’ Start the next race in the other lanes.”
“What about him?”
“Let him continue. He won’t even realize.”
Two more races were completed before the old man got out of the pool. He received a standing ovation.
The newly married woman had about a kilo of bangles on each arm.
“Madam” said the coordinator, “those will weigh you down”.
“ I don’t care” she said “I waited thirty five years for my parents to find me a husband. I don’t want to remove my bangles now!”
As the race started it became very clear that she was swimming with “resistance weights.” She grunted and puffed and lagged further behind. She finished 30 seconds behind everyone else and sank to the bottom. They put in a bamboo pole to help her climb out.
At the prize distribution as a veterans name was announced for the first prize she came forward to collect her medal.
“Madam” said the coordinator, “you already have your medal around your neck.”
“That is my husbands medal. You didn’t give it to him so I took it from the side --over there”. She pointed to a pile of medals. “He wanted one.”
At the conclusion of the prize distribution the coordinator announced, “ the nationals are in Bangalore in December. All those who qualified are welcome to attend.” He looked at the motley group of senior citizens. “Please please make sure a relative accompanies you!”
Dr. Gita Mathai
The writer is a paediatrician with a family practice at Vellore.
If you have any questions on health issues please write to
yourhealthgm@yahoo.co.in
Monday, October 17, 2011
frogs and the future
Frogs and the future
He had become a renowned surgeon, and one day, over a glass of beer, he said,
“did you know I failed twice during my undergraduate—once in physiology and then in OG (obstetrics and Gynaecology)?”
40 years ago boys were not interested in OG. The entire department, labour room and outpatient were avoided as far as possible. Most of them had only a minimum working knowledge of the female anatomy and its function. (They knew just enough to shout PMS during class arguments.). A few men who wanted to take up OG as a speciality in later life kept their interests very secretive. There was a tendency to consider them voyeurs .
“What happened?”
“Bloody woman examiner! Looked down her nose at me and asked me to lock the forceps. No matter how hard I tried I could not. Do you know I saw her in Chennai recently. I went up to her and asked if she remembered me.”
“Did she?”
“Yes. Actually said that she thought my knowledge had improved as I now had two children!”
I looked at him “how did you fail physiology?”
“They gave us a bloody frog. Told us to kill it ourselves for the practical. They killed the frogs for the girls though! I thought I would just give it a little shock before I killed it. It jumped out of the window. “
I said, “didn’t you ask for another frog?”
“I did, but the examiner had seen what I did. He asked me to leave and gave me zero.”
Dr. Gita Mathai
The writer is a paediatrician with a family practice at Vellore.
If you have any questions on health issues please write to
yourhealthgm@yahoo.co.in
He had become a renowned surgeon, and one day, over a glass of beer, he said,
“did you know I failed twice during my undergraduate—once in physiology and then in OG (obstetrics and Gynaecology)?”
40 years ago boys were not interested in OG. The entire department, labour room and outpatient were avoided as far as possible. Most of them had only a minimum working knowledge of the female anatomy and its function. (They knew just enough to shout PMS during class arguments.). A few men who wanted to take up OG as a speciality in later life kept their interests very secretive. There was a tendency to consider them voyeurs .
“What happened?”
“Bloody woman examiner! Looked down her nose at me and asked me to lock the forceps. No matter how hard I tried I could not. Do you know I saw her in Chennai recently. I went up to her and asked if she remembered me.”
“Did she?”
“Yes. Actually said that she thought my knowledge had improved as I now had two children!”
I looked at him “how did you fail physiology?”
“They gave us a bloody frog. Told us to kill it ourselves for the practical. They killed the frogs for the girls though! I thought I would just give it a little shock before I killed it. It jumped out of the window. “
I said, “didn’t you ask for another frog?”
“I did, but the examiner had seen what I did. He asked me to leave and gave me zero.”
Dr. Gita Mathai
The writer is a paediatrician with a family practice at Vellore.
If you have any questions on health issues please write to
yourhealthgm@yahoo.co.in
Sunday, October 9, 2011
snake attacks
More about snakes
“I don’t know why ma, you see snakes wherever you go.”
I protested, “I don’t see snakes! They really are there. Your grandfather actually killed one in the house.”
She was referring to the new snake, the bane of our lives. We had just finished the construction of our new house into which we planned to move in a couple of months. The garden was wild and overgrown. As I asked the contractor to clean it he said, “I can’t get any workers to do it , there is a snake.”
He pointed to an ant hill in the far corner.
“That “ I told him “is an ant hill.”
“Oh no,” he said, “it is a snake pit.”
I looked it up on Google. Apparently snakes eat ants, termites and whatever else lives in the pit. It is a sort of parasitic existence.
“Can we not pour a little kerosene on it and set it alight?”
Personally I thought it was a brilliant solution. Termites, ants and other vermin whatever it contained, disappearing in one glorious blaze.
The difficulty was that no one was willing to stomp through the underbrush (which may have lurking snakes) and approach the ant hill.
“We” announced the contractor “have to employ a snake charmer.”
He produced a snake charmer a couple of days later. A dirty wizened man in a loin cloth with many beads around his neck, his hair pinned to one side and a mobile phone in his pocket.
“How much?”I asked.
“Rs. 6000/ “- he said. “It is a dangerous business. “
“Too much “ I said.
He looked condescendingly at me. “There are many snakes there. When you want me, call. Here is my number.” He actually had a visiting card saying “world famous snake charmer” with a mobile number printed on it.
“I know snakes only live in pairs,” I said. (I had looked that up also).
“Books don’t know everything” he said, “I know.”
I spoke to my husband about it. “I am facing a lot of problems in getting the new house ready. There is a snake there.”
“How does that worry you? The snake is in the garden.” He disappeared for his daily run.
My mother in law called the next day. “I heard you have a snake in your new house.”
News travels fast in the family grape vine. “Yes, I have a snake in the garden.”
“All you need to do,” said my mother in law is to get a picture of St George killing the dragon and hang it in your house. The snake will not come .”
“Can the snake see the picture?” asked my grandson.
I had no answer for that.
I down loaded a picture from the internet, fixed it to a stick and stabbed the ant hill with it from a safe distance.
No one saw the snake for a couple of days. Perhaps St. George really worked?
I employed some labourers to shift the furniture. The thumping and movement must have disturbed the snake. It emerged and wriggled really fast in the garden.
“Yahoo” shouted a labourer, “snake snake!”. He was a particularly nasty looking specimen. He had a blue plastic earring in one ear, a denim shirt saying “Rajinikanth” and a red bandana.
He caught the snake by its neck and threw it against the granite wall. The snake fell down stunned. He then leapt around and beat it to death.
“Do you want to burn it?”
“Nah,” he said as he flung the mutilated snake over the compound wall.
I almost felt sorry for the poor creature.
Dr. Gita Mathai
The writer is a paediatrician with a family practice at Vellore.
If you have any questions on health issues please write to
yourhealthgm@yahoo.co.in
“I don’t know why ma, you see snakes wherever you go.”
I protested, “I don’t see snakes! They really are there. Your grandfather actually killed one in the house.”
She was referring to the new snake, the bane of our lives. We had just finished the construction of our new house into which we planned to move in a couple of months. The garden was wild and overgrown. As I asked the contractor to clean it he said, “I can’t get any workers to do it , there is a snake.”
He pointed to an ant hill in the far corner.
“That “ I told him “is an ant hill.”
“Oh no,” he said, “it is a snake pit.”
I looked it up on Google. Apparently snakes eat ants, termites and whatever else lives in the pit. It is a sort of parasitic existence.
“Can we not pour a little kerosene on it and set it alight?”
Personally I thought it was a brilliant solution. Termites, ants and other vermin whatever it contained, disappearing in one glorious blaze.
The difficulty was that no one was willing to stomp through the underbrush (which may have lurking snakes) and approach the ant hill.
“We” announced the contractor “have to employ a snake charmer.”
He produced a snake charmer a couple of days later. A dirty wizened man in a loin cloth with many beads around his neck, his hair pinned to one side and a mobile phone in his pocket.
“How much?”I asked.
“Rs. 6000/ “- he said. “It is a dangerous business. “
“Too much “ I said.
He looked condescendingly at me. “There are many snakes there. When you want me, call. Here is my number.” He actually had a visiting card saying “world famous snake charmer” with a mobile number printed on it.
“I know snakes only live in pairs,” I said. (I had looked that up also).
“Books don’t know everything” he said, “I know.”
I spoke to my husband about it. “I am facing a lot of problems in getting the new house ready. There is a snake there.”
“How does that worry you? The snake is in the garden.” He disappeared for his daily run.
My mother in law called the next day. “I heard you have a snake in your new house.”
News travels fast in the family grape vine. “Yes, I have a snake in the garden.”
“All you need to do,” said my mother in law is to get a picture of St George killing the dragon and hang it in your house. The snake will not come .”
“Can the snake see the picture?” asked my grandson.
I had no answer for that.
I down loaded a picture from the internet, fixed it to a stick and stabbed the ant hill with it from a safe distance.
No one saw the snake for a couple of days. Perhaps St. George really worked?
I employed some labourers to shift the furniture. The thumping and movement must have disturbed the snake. It emerged and wriggled really fast in the garden.
“Yahoo” shouted a labourer, “snake snake!”. He was a particularly nasty looking specimen. He had a blue plastic earring in one ear, a denim shirt saying “Rajinikanth” and a red bandana.
He caught the snake by its neck and threw it against the granite wall. The snake fell down stunned. He then leapt around and beat it to death.
“Do you want to burn it?”
“Nah,” he said as he flung the mutilated snake over the compound wall.
I almost felt sorry for the poor creature.
Dr. Gita Mathai
The writer is a paediatrician with a family practice at Vellore.
If you have any questions on health issues please write to
yourhealthgm@yahoo.co.in
Sunday, September 4, 2011
snake snake
Snake! Snake!
“Super veteran woman ” has a nice ring to it. In athletic jargon it means that you are over 50 and not yet ready to hang up your jogging shoes. (It does not mean you are superwoman- even though you would like to be!)
I found that no one (in that category) was really interested in representing the district let alone the state or country. I had found a nice little niche for myself.
I hired a trainer (he was national level hammer throw champion) and unable to decide on an event bought a discus, javelin and hammer.
All this equipment sat under the stairs, and I religiously took it and went for training once a week.
Perhaps it was the fact that the discus went into corners of the compound I had never noticed before, perhaps it was fate—anyway while flinging it around, I saw a termite mound, and ,peeping out of one of the ridges, the black beedy eyes of a snake.
“Santosh” I called to the trainer, “there is a snake here.”
It took that opportune moment to burrow itself into the mound.
“There is no snake. You must concentrate on your hand eye co-ordination.”
How could I. One eye developed a will of its own, refused to obey my command, and kept rolling to the termite mound.
Santosh was beginning to get exasperated.
“You have to throw in the area. Otherwise you will be disqualified. Look here”.
He marked a large V shaped area going dangerously near the snake.
The training session was a disaster.
My mother-in- law called later that day.
“Ma”, I said “there is a snake in the garden.”
“Don’t worry,” she said, “we Jacobites have a solution for that”.
Since I was a Jacobite by default (marriage) I really did not know what she was talking about.
She continued, “we take a picture of St. George killing the dragon and place it near the snake pit and in the house and the snake goes away.”
“Where does it go?”
“It just leaves, but you have to believe”.
I bumped into a friend of mine in the canteen and told her the story. She is a rationalist, so she said , “perhaps the smell of humans drives them away? Anyway try it. What do you have to lose?”
I downloaded a picture, printed it out and stuck it on the pit (from a distance with a stick.)
A few days later coming down the stairs, I noticed a snake slithering on the floor. As I stood there paralysed, it disappeared into the back of the. I woke up my father.
“There is a snake behind the fridge. Be careful.”
“Where are you going ?”
“To look for the watchman. I think he may kill it.”
My father sat down on a chair facing the refrigerator. My husband came down the stairs.
“What’s going on?”
“I saw a snake. It is behind the fridge.”
“Oh “ he said nonchalantly “I have been seeing it for a couple of days now. It lives behind the fridge.”
“Do something” I said.
“I have to run, otherwise it will be too hot. Besides it is never there when I return.” He disappeared for his jog.
I left too, and returned with the watchman a half hour later.
“Where is the snake?”
My 86 year old father replied,” I killed it. It came out again. I speared it with your javelin and then dropped your hammer on its head.”
Dr. Gita Mathai
The writer is a paediatrician with a family practice at Vellore.
If you have any questions on health issues please write to
yourhealthgm@yahoo.co.in
“Super veteran woman ” has a nice ring to it. In athletic jargon it means that you are over 50 and not yet ready to hang up your jogging shoes. (It does not mean you are superwoman- even though you would like to be!)
I found that no one (in that category) was really interested in representing the district let alone the state or country. I had found a nice little niche for myself.
I hired a trainer (he was national level hammer throw champion) and unable to decide on an event bought a discus, javelin and hammer.
All this equipment sat under the stairs, and I religiously took it and went for training once a week.
Perhaps it was the fact that the discus went into corners of the compound I had never noticed before, perhaps it was fate—anyway while flinging it around, I saw a termite mound, and ,peeping out of one of the ridges, the black beedy eyes of a snake.
“Santosh” I called to the trainer, “there is a snake here.”
It took that opportune moment to burrow itself into the mound.
“There is no snake. You must concentrate on your hand eye co-ordination.”
How could I. One eye developed a will of its own, refused to obey my command, and kept rolling to the termite mound.
Santosh was beginning to get exasperated.
“You have to throw in the area. Otherwise you will be disqualified. Look here”.
He marked a large V shaped area going dangerously near the snake.
The training session was a disaster.
My mother-in- law called later that day.
“Ma”, I said “there is a snake in the garden.”
“Don’t worry,” she said, “we Jacobites have a solution for that”.
Since I was a Jacobite by default (marriage) I really did not know what she was talking about.
She continued, “we take a picture of St. George killing the dragon and place it near the snake pit and in the house and the snake goes away.”
“Where does it go?”
“It just leaves, but you have to believe”.
I bumped into a friend of mine in the canteen and told her the story. She is a rationalist, so she said , “perhaps the smell of humans drives them away? Anyway try it. What do you have to lose?”
I downloaded a picture, printed it out and stuck it on the pit (from a distance with a stick.)
A few days later coming down the stairs, I noticed a snake slithering on the floor. As I stood there paralysed, it disappeared into the back of the. I woke up my father.
“There is a snake behind the fridge. Be careful.”
“Where are you going ?”
“To look for the watchman. I think he may kill it.”
My father sat down on a chair facing the refrigerator. My husband came down the stairs.
“What’s going on?”
“I saw a snake. It is behind the fridge.”
“Oh “ he said nonchalantly “I have been seeing it for a couple of days now. It lives behind the fridge.”
“Do something” I said.
“I have to run, otherwise it will be too hot. Besides it is never there when I return.” He disappeared for his jog.
I left too, and returned with the watchman a half hour later.
“Where is the snake?”
My 86 year old father replied,” I killed it. It came out again. I speared it with your javelin and then dropped your hammer on its head.”
Dr. Gita Mathai
The writer is a paediatrician with a family practice at Vellore.
If you have any questions on health issues please write to
yourhealthgm@yahoo.co.in
Sunday, August 21, 2011
making of a politician
Eating Vadais
He had only studied up to class five. That in itself was a great achievement for his family. The rest could barely read and write. This did not mean the brothers were stupid. Far from it. He, with their help had carved out a niche and a fortune for himself in the town.
He was the original land grabber, local mafia and exorbitant moneylender all rolled into one. He charged daily interest, and if you could not pay his band of goons dragged you before him for an audience.
The sight of him was frightening enough. He had a “Sai Baba” hairstyle with a Veerappan moustache. He twirled a large hatchet in his hand with the ease of a man used to swinging the wooden Karla. He also stripped his victims completely before they were brought to his presence. He was reputed ( I cannot really vouch for this) to have used the hatchet only once.
At one of his dhargas, he developed a shooting pain extending to his groin. He paused in mid speech. He had never felt pain , not even when he his teacher had caned him. Reputation had it that he just stood there, at the age of 10 years, and said “beat me more.” (That was probably why his education was terminated at that point in time).
He grimaced. A cry of pain would have been s sign of weakness. He could ill afford that. He did after all have to maintain an aura of invincibility.
“I have to go home,” he announced, “we have some guests. I will continue this tomorrow.”
His lieutenant was surprised. He never left business unfinished, particularly when it involved money.
“Shall I get your rum?” He asked.
“NO! Tell everyone to leave.”
Sycophants accustomed to free liquor and “chicken 65” were disappointed. After beating up a few wayward citizens who refused to pay their weekly “hafta,” a good drink and food was chicken soup for the soul.
He yelled, “get out.”
Everyone left.
Dragging one foot he managed to make it tohis parked motorbike. He could not lift his leg over the seat. Kick starting it would be impossible. He reached into his pocket, took out his cell phone and called his brother.
They got into a auto rickshaw and reached a private nursing home. His brother pushed a waiting patient aside and barged into the doctor’s chambers. The doctor did a double take.
“Please wait your turn.”
The brother went outside and shouted, “all of you go home.”
The patients melted away.
The brother came back.
“Now we are the only patients.”
“You can’t do this” protested the doctor.
“Why not ?” Asked the brother. “I will pay all their fees.”
He took a Rs10,000 bank bundle and laid it on the table.
He was bent over by then. The pain was agonizing. He felt he was going to disgrace himself by vomiting.
The doctor poked around a bit and said “you have a strangulated hernia. We need to operate.”
“What is this strangulation business?” He asked.
“Oh “ said the doctor, “it is nothing much a piece of your intestine is stuck and losing its blood supply. We will admit you now and operate tomorrow morning.”
The hospital room was bare and the cot uncomfortable. They stuck a needle in his arm and started an IV line.
“We are giving you something to help you sleep. You have to starve till morning. Not even water. ” The nurse left the room.
There was no question of sleeping. After all, he was a man who drank 320 ml of rum a day. Around 5 am he could not bear it any longer. The pain had subsided and he was hungry. He cautiously removed his IV line and opened the door.The corridor was empty.
He tiptoed down the stairs and on to the street. An old women was selling idly and vadai on the side of the road. The smell wafted into his nostrils. His mouth watered. He ate one then another then a third and fourth. He crept back upstairs and lay on his bed.
They took him into the operation theatre and draped him for surgery. The anaesthetist inserted the scope. Out welled the vadais and the tea he had washed it down with. The anaesthetist frantically called for the suction. As he turned it on there was a power failure. The theatre was plunged into pitch black darkness. Strange grunts could be heard from the operation table. The nurse finally switched on an emergency lamp.
“Isn’t there a generator?” asked the anaesthetist in panic.
“There is” replied the surgeon but you have to go outside and manually start it.”
The surgeon crept to the door and peered out. In the faint moonlight he could see a huge crowd standing there both men, women and children. There must have been fifty people bunched together.
“There is a huge crowd there. I can’t go out. I am scared of them. They are goondas and rowdies.”
They both looked at each other helplessly. Under the torchlight the patient looked very still.
The lights came on after about an hour. The patent was dead.
Without a word both doctors left through a back entrance.
“I am going to Chennai announced the anaesthetist. I have some work there. I don’t think they know who I am or where I live.”
“These fellows know everything ,” said the surgeon. “I am going to the police station. The inspector is a friend of mine.”
It took the relatives all of four hours to realize something was amiss and break down the theatre door. All the wailing in the world could not bring him back to life. After smashing the theatre in frustration, his brother left and went to the collection center. Before news of his death spread, he wanted to be sure that all money due to them would be paid.
He picked up the hatchet and twirled it. He was sure he could run the business better than his brother. Just being a goonda was not enough. One needed to join politics to really run the business. His brother did not understand this. He decided to join the party the next day. He could become a councilman a mayor or perhaps even a minister. The whole country was in front of him waiting to be looted. The possibilities were endless.
Dr. Gita Mathai
The writer is a paediatrician with a family practice at Vellore.
If you have any questions on health issues please write to
yourhealthgm@yahoo.co.in
He had only studied up to class five. That in itself was a great achievement for his family. The rest could barely read and write. This did not mean the brothers were stupid. Far from it. He, with their help had carved out a niche and a fortune for himself in the town.
He was the original land grabber, local mafia and exorbitant moneylender all rolled into one. He charged daily interest, and if you could not pay his band of goons dragged you before him for an audience.
The sight of him was frightening enough. He had a “Sai Baba” hairstyle with a Veerappan moustache. He twirled a large hatchet in his hand with the ease of a man used to swinging the wooden Karla. He also stripped his victims completely before they were brought to his presence. He was reputed ( I cannot really vouch for this) to have used the hatchet only once.
At one of his dhargas, he developed a shooting pain extending to his groin. He paused in mid speech. He had never felt pain , not even when he his teacher had caned him. Reputation had it that he just stood there, at the age of 10 years, and said “beat me more.” (That was probably why his education was terminated at that point in time).
He grimaced. A cry of pain would have been s sign of weakness. He could ill afford that. He did after all have to maintain an aura of invincibility.
“I have to go home,” he announced, “we have some guests. I will continue this tomorrow.”
His lieutenant was surprised. He never left business unfinished, particularly when it involved money.
“Shall I get your rum?” He asked.
“NO! Tell everyone to leave.”
Sycophants accustomed to free liquor and “chicken 65” were disappointed. After beating up a few wayward citizens who refused to pay their weekly “hafta,” a good drink and food was chicken soup for the soul.
He yelled, “get out.”
Everyone left.
Dragging one foot he managed to make it tohis parked motorbike. He could not lift his leg over the seat. Kick starting it would be impossible. He reached into his pocket, took out his cell phone and called his brother.
They got into a auto rickshaw and reached a private nursing home. His brother pushed a waiting patient aside and barged into the doctor’s chambers. The doctor did a double take.
“Please wait your turn.”
The brother went outside and shouted, “all of you go home.”
The patients melted away.
The brother came back.
“Now we are the only patients.”
“You can’t do this” protested the doctor.
“Why not ?” Asked the brother. “I will pay all their fees.”
He took a Rs10,000 bank bundle and laid it on the table.
He was bent over by then. The pain was agonizing. He felt he was going to disgrace himself by vomiting.
The doctor poked around a bit and said “you have a strangulated hernia. We need to operate.”
“What is this strangulation business?” He asked.
“Oh “ said the doctor, “it is nothing much a piece of your intestine is stuck and losing its blood supply. We will admit you now and operate tomorrow morning.”
The hospital room was bare and the cot uncomfortable. They stuck a needle in his arm and started an IV line.
“We are giving you something to help you sleep. You have to starve till morning. Not even water. ” The nurse left the room.
There was no question of sleeping. After all, he was a man who drank 320 ml of rum a day. Around 5 am he could not bear it any longer. The pain had subsided and he was hungry. He cautiously removed his IV line and opened the door.The corridor was empty.
He tiptoed down the stairs and on to the street. An old women was selling idly and vadai on the side of the road. The smell wafted into his nostrils. His mouth watered. He ate one then another then a third and fourth. He crept back upstairs and lay on his bed.
They took him into the operation theatre and draped him for surgery. The anaesthetist inserted the scope. Out welled the vadais and the tea he had washed it down with. The anaesthetist frantically called for the suction. As he turned it on there was a power failure. The theatre was plunged into pitch black darkness. Strange grunts could be heard from the operation table. The nurse finally switched on an emergency lamp.
“Isn’t there a generator?” asked the anaesthetist in panic.
“There is” replied the surgeon but you have to go outside and manually start it.”
The surgeon crept to the door and peered out. In the faint moonlight he could see a huge crowd standing there both men, women and children. There must have been fifty people bunched together.
“There is a huge crowd there. I can’t go out. I am scared of them. They are goondas and rowdies.”
They both looked at each other helplessly. Under the torchlight the patient looked very still.
The lights came on after about an hour. The patent was dead.
Without a word both doctors left through a back entrance.
“I am going to Chennai announced the anaesthetist. I have some work there. I don’t think they know who I am or where I live.”
“These fellows know everything ,” said the surgeon. “I am going to the police station. The inspector is a friend of mine.”
It took the relatives all of four hours to realize something was amiss and break down the theatre door. All the wailing in the world could not bring him back to life. After smashing the theatre in frustration, his brother left and went to the collection center. Before news of his death spread, he wanted to be sure that all money due to them would be paid.
He picked up the hatchet and twirled it. He was sure he could run the business better than his brother. Just being a goonda was not enough. One needed to join politics to really run the business. His brother did not understand this. He decided to join the party the next day. He could become a councilman a mayor or perhaps even a minister. The whole country was in front of him waiting to be looted. The possibilities were endless.
Dr. Gita Mathai
The writer is a paediatrician with a family practice at Vellore.
If you have any questions on health issues please write to
yourhealthgm@yahoo.co.in
Sunday, July 31, 2011
prison for prisoners
Prison for prisoners
The police outpost is just outside the gates to the mental hospital. This makes it very convenient to report missing sedated doped patients who have wandered off while their caretakers slept or went to the toilet. (Here the psychiatrists believe in an open system and do not lock up the patients). It also means that morning and evening, you can find them wandering around the medical college campus.
One morning at 4:45 am, I was running with my black Labrador in moonlit darkness near the mental hospital when a group of men charged at me. The front runner was an unshaven unkempt adult male totally unclothed, as naked as the day he was born. He was being pursued by a khakhi clad lathi wielding group with a powerful torch. The rear was brought up by a potbellied inspector on a microscopic TVS bike, his paunch jiggling up and down like a well set gelatin mould.
The naked man saw the dog.
“Help me! Save me” he shouted.
I ran faster towards him to do the needful.
“Help!” he turned around and ran back to the khakhi crowd.
They grabbed him, biffed him one over the ear for good measure and led him away.
The potbellied inspector, quite exhausted by his bike ride, paused resting on the handlebars.
“Excuse me” I said “Was that a mental patient?”
“Oh no” he said, “that was a man arrested for murder. Land dispute. He just hacked his brother to death.”
“What happened to his clothes?”
“Madam” he said, “you don’t understand these things. In the police station we only have a small lock up. It is barely big enough for your dog.’’
“So?” I asked.
“Today we had 10 arrests in this murder case. So we locked up their clothes instead.”
“And the prisoners?’’
“Madam, naked men will not run out on to the road. I figured this out some time ago. Besides, we will transfer them in the morning”.
“What about women?” I asked curiously.
“We hardly ever arrest women. If we do we just tie them to a chair. With their own clothes.”
An effective efficient travesty of human rights!
gitamathai@gmail.com
The police outpost is just outside the gates to the mental hospital. This makes it very convenient to report missing sedated doped patients who have wandered off while their caretakers slept or went to the toilet. (Here the psychiatrists believe in an open system and do not lock up the patients). It also means that morning and evening, you can find them wandering around the medical college campus.
One morning at 4:45 am, I was running with my black Labrador in moonlit darkness near the mental hospital when a group of men charged at me. The front runner was an unshaven unkempt adult male totally unclothed, as naked as the day he was born. He was being pursued by a khakhi clad lathi wielding group with a powerful torch. The rear was brought up by a potbellied inspector on a microscopic TVS bike, his paunch jiggling up and down like a well set gelatin mould.
The naked man saw the dog.
“Help me! Save me” he shouted.
I ran faster towards him to do the needful.
“Help!” he turned around and ran back to the khakhi crowd.
They grabbed him, biffed him one over the ear for good measure and led him away.
The potbellied inspector, quite exhausted by his bike ride, paused resting on the handlebars.
“Excuse me” I said “Was that a mental patient?”
“Oh no” he said, “that was a man arrested for murder. Land dispute. He just hacked his brother to death.”
“What happened to his clothes?”
“Madam” he said, “you don’t understand these things. In the police station we only have a small lock up. It is barely big enough for your dog.’’
“So?” I asked.
“Today we had 10 arrests in this murder case. So we locked up their clothes instead.”
“And the prisoners?’’
“Madam, naked men will not run out on to the road. I figured this out some time ago. Besides, we will transfer them in the morning”.
“What about women?” I asked curiously.
“We hardly ever arrest women. If we do we just tie them to a chair. With their own clothes.”
An effective efficient travesty of human rights!
gitamathai@gmail.com
Sunday, July 3, 2011
wedding invitations
Going for a Wedding
“Some things just have to be done,” said my husband, “one of us has to go to the this wedding. He held up a garish multi-coloured card with the mandatory gold Ganesh on the top.
“I can’t read it,” I said, “it is in Tamil.”
After peering at the card from all angles he said,” I have to go to Delhi, so you should go. “ I think he couldn’t read it either even though Tamil was his second language!
“Whose wedding is it?”
“ Granddaughter of a very old patient.”
I protested, “I don’t know them. They are your patients”.
“Ah “ He said ”they know you. They will feel really bad if you don’t go. ”
“Where is it?”
“Its very easy to find, a marriage hall on the by-pass road.”
I protested,” what is the name?”
“Don’t worry, you will see the lights. You can’t miss it.”
He was right. The wedding hall could be seen from far away. It was in a really well lit, festooned in garish brightly coloured running disco lights from roof to ground. The entrance had a giant dirty Goofy in attendance, shaking his plastic head from side to side. The man inside could be seen peering out through two apertures in the neck.
The bride looked like a Christmas tree, red shiny sari with crystals and sequins, smothered in gold bangles, gold chains and a large gold belt. Her neck stooped from the weight of the gold chains she was wearing. The groom had a gold rope around his neck and a similar one on his arm.
I looked around and realized that I did not know a soul. No one greeted me either. Putting on a brave front, mentally cursing my husband, I stood in line to pay my respects. I handed them the wedding present. No one smiled and it was quickly placed in a large pile behind the stage.
I decided not to stay for dinner (no one asked me any way) and started to leave. On my way out I noticed a smaller marriage hall next door, attached to the first one like a Siamese twin.
A smiling elderly gentlemen with a pink turban wound around his head (in lieu of Goofy) stood at the entrance. As soon as he saw me he did a smiling Namaste.
“Doctor” he sad, “ I was looking for you. Come in. ” He looked around. “This is my sister in law Sushila. She will look after you.”
Horrors! I had gone to the wrong wedding and given the gift to some unknowns.
“ I have to lock the car. Just give me a minute.”
I dashed back to the first wedding. The gifts were piled up behind the stage. I went around the side and fugitively picked out my gift. Clutching it to my chest I fled. No one stopped me. I made it safely next door.
I had a nice time at the real wedding. I was welcomed like a VIP. I handed over the retrieved gift, everyone smiled and insisted that I stay for dinner.
A year later a young woman came with her mother for a consultation.
“My daughter’s periods are late by a month. We came to check if she is pregnant. They looked embarrassed when they saw me.
“Don’t you remember us?” asked the mother.
“No” I said.
The girl answered accusingly,” You came to our wedding. You took one of our wedding presents and left without dinner. We have you on the video”.
Take about awkward situations! I really could not think of any way to explain that one!
“Some things just have to be done,” said my husband, “one of us has to go to the this wedding. He held up a garish multi-coloured card with the mandatory gold Ganesh on the top.
“I can’t read it,” I said, “it is in Tamil.”
After peering at the card from all angles he said,” I have to go to Delhi, so you should go. “ I think he couldn’t read it either even though Tamil was his second language!
“Whose wedding is it?”
“ Granddaughter of a very old patient.”
I protested, “I don’t know them. They are your patients”.
“Ah “ He said ”they know you. They will feel really bad if you don’t go. ”
“Where is it?”
“Its very easy to find, a marriage hall on the by-pass road.”
I protested,” what is the name?”
“Don’t worry, you will see the lights. You can’t miss it.”
He was right. The wedding hall could be seen from far away. It was in a really well lit, festooned in garish brightly coloured running disco lights from roof to ground. The entrance had a giant dirty Goofy in attendance, shaking his plastic head from side to side. The man inside could be seen peering out through two apertures in the neck.
The bride looked like a Christmas tree, red shiny sari with crystals and sequins, smothered in gold bangles, gold chains and a large gold belt. Her neck stooped from the weight of the gold chains she was wearing. The groom had a gold rope around his neck and a similar one on his arm.
I looked around and realized that I did not know a soul. No one greeted me either. Putting on a brave front, mentally cursing my husband, I stood in line to pay my respects. I handed them the wedding present. No one smiled and it was quickly placed in a large pile behind the stage.
I decided not to stay for dinner (no one asked me any way) and started to leave. On my way out I noticed a smaller marriage hall next door, attached to the first one like a Siamese twin.
A smiling elderly gentlemen with a pink turban wound around his head (in lieu of Goofy) stood at the entrance. As soon as he saw me he did a smiling Namaste.
“Doctor” he sad, “ I was looking for you. Come in. ” He looked around. “This is my sister in law Sushila. She will look after you.”
Horrors! I had gone to the wrong wedding and given the gift to some unknowns.
“ I have to lock the car. Just give me a minute.”
I dashed back to the first wedding. The gifts were piled up behind the stage. I went around the side and fugitively picked out my gift. Clutching it to my chest I fled. No one stopped me. I made it safely next door.
I had a nice time at the real wedding. I was welcomed like a VIP. I handed over the retrieved gift, everyone smiled and insisted that I stay for dinner.
A year later a young woman came with her mother for a consultation.
“My daughter’s periods are late by a month. We came to check if she is pregnant. They looked embarrassed when they saw me.
“Don’t you remember us?” asked the mother.
“No” I said.
The girl answered accusingly,” You came to our wedding. You took one of our wedding presents and left without dinner. We have you on the video”.
Take about awkward situations! I really could not think of any way to explain that one!
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
heart attack!
Heart attacks
“If you go around running marathons at your age,” announced my neighbour, “you will have a heart attack.”
“Why? “ I asked, “I train fairly regularly.”
She was a microbiologist as opposed to me a paediatrician.
“I read an article, athletes die a sudden death. Something is wrong with their hearts. It is better not to run.”
I checked. The article said this occurred only to young and elite athletes . Being neither, I was not too concerned--- that is until I developed chest pain in the middle of the night. It shot up into my head and produced tingling in my left arm.
“Get up,” I said to my husband, “I think I am having a heart attack.”
“Um” he said, “we will see in the morning.”
“I will be dead by then get up!”
Reluctantly, he opened his eyes, “Lets go to hospital.”
Remember, this is India. We have no 911 facilities. Relatives and bystanders have to get you to hospital in available transportation.
I started out of bed. “I need by clothes. They are in the cupboard.”
Further silence from husband. Then he announced, “The cupboard is locked.”
“The keys are on the table.”
After an eternity, he said” there are no keys here. Come in your nightdress.”
I could not face the thought of turning up in the chest pain unit attired in my nightdress. My husband had been teaching in the medical college for so many years that the doctors on call were very likely to be his students and people I knew.
I struggled, sat upright and searched unsuccessfully for the keys. “Perhaps I left them in the car.”
My husband opened the front door. Out bounded my 40 kg black labrador, unable to withstand the temptation of unexpected freedom.
“Catch the dog,” I shouted.
Husband disappeared behind the dog. I went back upstairs and lay down. Perhaps this was my destiny—to die of a heart attack inside a medical college campus.
Morning dawned—I was still alive, the pain had disappeared, the dog had been found and all was well with the world. As for the keys – they had been under my pillow all along!
I read an article recently—about how 50% of the women die with their first heart attack before they receive emergency care. I am not surprised. Men are taken to casualty wrapped in a towel, but women—they all have to dress first!
“If you go around running marathons at your age,” announced my neighbour, “you will have a heart attack.”
“Why? “ I asked, “I train fairly regularly.”
She was a microbiologist as opposed to me a paediatrician.
“I read an article, athletes die a sudden death. Something is wrong with their hearts. It is better not to run.”
I checked. The article said this occurred only to young and elite athletes . Being neither, I was not too concerned--- that is until I developed chest pain in the middle of the night. It shot up into my head and produced tingling in my left arm.
“Get up,” I said to my husband, “I think I am having a heart attack.”
“Um” he said, “we will see in the morning.”
“I will be dead by then get up!”
Reluctantly, he opened his eyes, “Lets go to hospital.”
Remember, this is India. We have no 911 facilities. Relatives and bystanders have to get you to hospital in available transportation.
I started out of bed. “I need by clothes. They are in the cupboard.”
Further silence from husband. Then he announced, “The cupboard is locked.”
“The keys are on the table.”
After an eternity, he said” there are no keys here. Come in your nightdress.”
I could not face the thought of turning up in the chest pain unit attired in my nightdress. My husband had been teaching in the medical college for so many years that the doctors on call were very likely to be his students and people I knew.
I struggled, sat upright and searched unsuccessfully for the keys. “Perhaps I left them in the car.”
My husband opened the front door. Out bounded my 40 kg black labrador, unable to withstand the temptation of unexpected freedom.
“Catch the dog,” I shouted.
Husband disappeared behind the dog. I went back upstairs and lay down. Perhaps this was my destiny—to die of a heart attack inside a medical college campus.
Morning dawned—I was still alive, the pain had disappeared, the dog had been found and all was well with the world. As for the keys – they had been under my pillow all along!
I read an article recently—about how 50% of the women die with their first heart attack before they receive emergency care. I am not surprised. Men are taken to casualty wrapped in a towel, but women—they all have to dress first!
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
help I'm being treated
The caterwauling could be heard in the corridor long before the young adult male was carried in on a plank of wood. His head was lolling from side to side, a red trickle of blood oozed from the corner of his mouth. His checked shirt was discolored and stained.
Evaluation was difficult.
I had to push past an old woman beating her chest and a young one (wife?) throwing herself at his feet and hanging on for dear life.
Haemetemisis perhaps? Whatever. Anyway, emergency treatment had to be given. Perhaps if I started an IV line, pushed in a stomach tube and washed out the stomach with ice water, the bleeding would stop long enough for me to send him to the nearest hospital. The sooner the better. The accompanying crowd can get very nasty if there is a death. I did not really want by premises destroyed or the publicity.
He was conscious, oriented and passive when I inserted the needle.
The stomach tube was another story altogether. He gagged, fought and sat up. Determined to succeed (Robert Bruce – try and try again) I held him down and tried harder.
Suddenly, he pulled out the IV line. (This made blood drip on the floor as well). He pushed me to one side, fell to the floor and clutched my feet.
“Save me!” He shouted.
“ I am trying to, but unless you cooperate what can I do?”
“I want to be saved from you,” he shouted, “you are killing me!”
“Nonsense! I am trying to save your life.”
“Ayoo! I am not vomiting blood. I just swallowed a brick dissolved in water to frighten my family. Let me go. If I stay here any longer, you WILL kill me.”
Gathering his clothes he ran out of the room followed closely by disbelieving relatives.
“ A miracle!” shouted one of them, “I told you this doctor has lucky hands. She just has to touch you and you will recover.”
Well, a little community goodwill doesn’t hurt , And, in the final analysis, “All’s well that end’s well!”
Evaluation was difficult.
I had to push past an old woman beating her chest and a young one (wife?) throwing herself at his feet and hanging on for dear life.
Haemetemisis perhaps? Whatever. Anyway, emergency treatment had to be given. Perhaps if I started an IV line, pushed in a stomach tube and washed out the stomach with ice water, the bleeding would stop long enough for me to send him to the nearest hospital. The sooner the better. The accompanying crowd can get very nasty if there is a death. I did not really want by premises destroyed or the publicity.
He was conscious, oriented and passive when I inserted the needle.
The stomach tube was another story altogether. He gagged, fought and sat up. Determined to succeed (Robert Bruce – try and try again) I held him down and tried harder.
Suddenly, he pulled out the IV line. (This made blood drip on the floor as well). He pushed me to one side, fell to the floor and clutched my feet.
“Save me!” He shouted.
“ I am trying to, but unless you cooperate what can I do?”
“I want to be saved from you,” he shouted, “you are killing me!”
“Nonsense! I am trying to save your life.”
“Ayoo! I am not vomiting blood. I just swallowed a brick dissolved in water to frighten my family. Let me go. If I stay here any longer, you WILL kill me.”
Gathering his clothes he ran out of the room followed closely by disbelieving relatives.
“ A miracle!” shouted one of them, “I told you this doctor has lucky hands. She just has to touch you and you will recover.”
Well, a little community goodwill doesn’t hurt , And, in the final analysis, “All’s well that end’s well!”
Monday, June 13, 2011
hooks in my nose
My grandson finally had to go into day care twice a week. We had put it off as long as possible, but now he was six and vocal. We thought he would be safe.
He did not really appreciate being sent there. The “aunty” asked what the rules were.
“No TV, has to do home work and finish his snack.”
He was there for only two hours so this seemed tolerable.
He was however used to being left with his great grandfather earlier.
That meant the old man snoozed and he spent the entire two hours watching “Kick Buttowsky” “Phineas and Ferb” and other strange creatures on television.
“She is very mean” he announced, “she makes me eat my food and do my homework.”
“Too bad,” said my daughter” unless she puts hooks in your nose and hangs you from the ceiling you have to go there.”
Grandson was very silent. A few days later he announced, “she took out two hooks today.”
There was a shocked silence in the room. Feebly, convinced my worst nightmares were confirmed, I said ,“ what did she do with the hooks?”
Grandson looked around the still and silent room room. Lowering his eyes he said, “ she hung a curtain.”
He did not really appreciate being sent there. The “aunty” asked what the rules were.
“No TV, has to do home work and finish his snack.”
He was there for only two hours so this seemed tolerable.
He was however used to being left with his great grandfather earlier.
That meant the old man snoozed and he spent the entire two hours watching “Kick Buttowsky” “Phineas and Ferb” and other strange creatures on television.
“She is very mean” he announced, “she makes me eat my food and do my homework.”
“Too bad,” said my daughter” unless she puts hooks in your nose and hangs you from the ceiling you have to go there.”
Grandson was very silent. A few days later he announced, “she took out two hooks today.”
There was a shocked silence in the room. Feebly, convinced my worst nightmares were confirmed, I said ,“ what did she do with the hooks?”
Grandson looked around the still and silent room room. Lowering his eyes he said, “ she hung a curtain.”
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