free treament

Free Medicines

Madhu (name changed) had been my patient for thirty years. She aged before my eyes, had three children, a few grand children, developed diabetes (uncontrolled), hypertension (also uncontrolled). She finally had a myocardial infarction and was taken to CMC Vellore.

She had  a couple of stents put in and was discharged with a long list of instructions and a large packet of medications. She came to see me with clutching both in her hand. Her feet were visibly swollen and her sugars 246.

“What is this? Did they not give you a diet to follow?”

“Yes,” she replied, “I eat it all. Not enough for a human to survive on. I then eat the leftovers---.”

I didn’t want to ask what leftovers she meant.

“What about your salt? It says here that you have to eat 1.5 gms a day.”

“Huh,” she said, “my daughter in law cooks the food with no salt at all. Human beings cannot eat it. I mix everything with tender mango pickle.”

That certainly explained the swollen feet!

She was very cunning. For two days before going for a check up, she would literally starve. It was made easy by the unpalatable salt free food. Her AC and PC  values were  normal and her HbA1c was 9 or10.

They gave her a glucometer and threatened to start her on insulin.

Then she came and told me that CMC had a scheme whereby everything was free for poor people. The glucometer, strips, tests medications--.”

“But,” I protested, “you are not poor.”

“No,” she admitted ,”I am a widow though.”

A rich widow, who lived in her own house, had a son who paid for everything and received the rent from a row of six shops every month like clockwork.

Against my advice, “It will not pay to tell untruths,” she went and registered for the free treatment or tried to.

She turned up with her son a few weeks later.

“Doctor, I don’t know what is wrong with her. She has tried to sign up for free treatment for an experimental drug for some sort of research. “

He held up a four page consent form. I did not go through the whole thing but It said various interesting things like they will “help with allergies, kidney failure etc.”

“I don’t know why my mother does this. I give her money for charts, tests and medicines when she goes to hospital.”

She looked sheepish. “The lady who was sitting next to me signed up--- I wanted to save money. “

“For what?” Asked the son.

She said she didn’t want to go back there (They might remember her). I tried to reassure her but in vain. “Doctor you treat me please.”

“Okay,” I said “but first some rules. No pickles. No extra food and walking for 40 minutes a day. I don’t care if you split it into 4  segments10 minutes each. The first time I find you are disobedient and non compliant, I will send you back there----”

She agreed to everything and we parted on a cordial note.

getting away

Getting Away

The woman was well into her seventies, agitated, depressed belligerent. Her daughter had brought her to the clinic.

“I don’t know what to do doctor, I go to work. She doesn’t sleep and she talks to herself night and day. I can’t manage. She doesn’t let me sleep either.”

What is the matter?” I asked the old woman.

“ I finally killed my husband . No one knows, but if I close my eyes  I see him coming for me.”

“I don’t think you killed him,” I said “he must have died of old age.”

“Oh no” she said “I ground 50 of these and put them in his night drink of Horlicks. He never  woke up.”

She showed  me  a strip of 10 tablets of alprazolam a sedative.

“Where did you get these? And why?”

Her husband  had retired from government service. He lived in his own house, received  a tidy pension and had salted away a large  sum of money in the bank. He had earned most of this money as bribes. He was in charge of disbursing pension to widows. He consistently gave them only 75% and kept 25%. This he put in fixed deposits.

Their only son was also working for the government. One day the son came home with a lady in tow.

“I have married her in Tirupathi” he said, ”she  works in my office.

Everything about the daughter in law was wrong. She was a non vegetarian, they were strict vegetarians. She treated the house like a hotel, eating breakfast, packing part of it for her lunch and turning up in time for dinner.

The old woman confided in a neighbor.

“What am I supposed to do? She doesn’t do any work.”

“Does she wash her clothes?”

The old woman snorted, “she does that on Sundays.”

“Don’t cook” the neighbor advised, “then see what she does.”

The daughter in law turned up in the kitchen , saw there was no food, picked up her tiffin and left. As she reached the door, the mother in law said “there is no food.”

“I don’t care “ said the daughter in law,” I am going to buy breakfast and lunch. I will eat dinner and come.”

“What about us?”

“I already told you I don’t care.”

The old lady’s blood boiled but she could do nothing. She sidled up to her son.

“Did you hear the way she spoke to  me?”

“Look said the son, “ if you don’t like it you can always go and live somewhere else.”

Aghast the old woman said,” It is my house.”

The old man came out of the room at that point. He waved his cane threateningly and advanced on the daughter in law.

The son hit him.

He fell to the ground and had a stroke. The right side of his body was paralyzed. The son and daughter in law left leaving him on the floor. The neighbours came and they managed to get him on the bed. She was too frightened to say anything.

The son and daughter in law went to Kolkotta for three months training. She did not know how to use the ATM and the money and provisions soon ran out.  The old man was unreasonable, angry and shouting day and night. He did not sleep at all. He became violently angry if she slept.

Unable to bear this any more and hungry to boot she went to the neighbour’s house and asked them to arrange a taxi to take her to her daughter’s house.

They had been there only for a couple of days when the daughter said“ I have to work and appa rants and raves all night. Let us ask a doctor for sleeping tablets.”

They did not even have to go a doctor. For a few extra rupees, a friendly neighbourhood pharmacist did the honours.

She managed to hoard enough tablets to knock him off. (She gave him a 100.)

“Well” I  said “let us be reasonable.  He probably would have died anyway. Besides people don’t return from the dead to torment you. Why don’t you watch movies and serials on television?”

I did not know what else to do. File an FIR?

“That’s where I got the idea in the first place. The TV. You are right. I am just going to enjoy my life. My daughter looks after me well, and I have enough money for my needs.”

“Just remember the good times----“

“Good times?” She retorted, “He was a bastard. Beat me up regularly and had a mistress---then became ill and tormented me----“

That is when I started questioning all the widows,--“so how did your husband die?”

I received all kinds of answers,” We were crossing the railway tracks. Then I saw the train approaching. I pulled my husband but he  fell.” She smiled, “The train ran over him”.

“My husband was choking in the night. I held his head back and poured water into his throat.”

The best one?

“I accidentally put Tik20 in his fish curry---“

martial arts

Learning the martial arts.

When my daughter was in 3^rd grade I suddenly realized that the world was no longer the secluded secure place I had grown up in. There  were all kinds of jerks and villains around, rapists, kidnappers, molesters---. Even though in India we tried to sweep all this under the carpet.

“It really doesn’t happen in India. It is a part of western culture. “ Remember this was twenty years ago!

Not really true.

Bad things were happening all around us. The few TV channels and the newspapers were slowly beginning to expose the goings on of Indian society. Now we get horrific news every day!

I decided that she needed to learn to defend herself. I looked for a karate class.

“Don’t” said my mother in law ,” she will become an aggressive violent girl. It is not lady like.”

My husband had no opinion on the subject at all. He was busy trying to figure out if antibiotic excretion into sewage was responsible for the emergence of resistant killer bacteria.

I took both my children to the karate class. It was full of young adult men. There was not a lady in sight. The master had a  squint and plenty of acne. He looked like a villain from a Tamil movie.

There was no way I could leave my children there. I decided to join too.

We progressed slowly up the belts. Yellow, orange, many stages of brown. It took several years. We missed classes during rain, examinations and holidays. (My children went to their grandparent’s house.)

I discovered that the martial arts are about control, mental and physical. You don’t attack until you are cornered and after you have warned the assailant. It is a last controlled resort. Once you attack, there should be no question of retaliation from the assailant. Your blows must be controlled and preferably lethal.

One day when my daughter was returning from school by public transport,  the bus conductor, who was walking up and down the bus ,stroked her arm. She thought it was an accident, but when he did it again and yet again, she rapidly lost her cool.

Master had taught us a “twist “ a single move that fractured the forearm, both radius and ulna. She caught his arm in a vice like grip and gave it a twist. There was a satisfactory cracking sound and the conductor started to scream. The driver slammed on the brakes. This was over a bridge not too far from home. Sundry people (including my daughter) exited the bus in the confusion. No one quite figured out what had happened. (The conductor seemed dazed too)!

She was in the habit of going to the video library down he road on Saturday afternoons to borrow Hindi movies. One day a man followed her back home. At the deserted foyer of the flat he grabbed her from behind. She released herself from his grip ( our villainous master was good!) She hit him with the DVD. She kicked him in the groin. Howling and screaming he attempted to escape. She chased him down the road yelling “catch him, catch him!” Some workers digging a ditch captured him.

My husband was summoned to the police station nearby. “Your daughter is here, she insists on filing  a case of molestation against a man. She is technically a minor. We need her guardian present.”

“Drop the case” advised the police woman,” Since he only touched you he will get only four years. He may come after you after that.”

“Huh” said my daughter, “register it. I will be in college elsewhere after your years. He won’t find me!”

He was taken away and we never saw or heard from him case after that.

My son went to the USA many years later. He was walking down the road with another Indian friend when four  drunk  students accosted them with sticks. They tried to hit my son. Wrong move. He caught the assailant in a vice like grip and shouted, “one step closer, I break his neck.” They ran. He released his captive and helped him on his way with a solid kick to the butt.

My husband is often  asked, “do you practice martial arts?”

“Oh no” he always replies, “I am a very non violent person. I just shout.”

“Shout what?”

“Son, daughter, wife, HELP.”

“Does it work?”

“Well I haven’t had to do it yet, but as a back up we also have this vicious dog---“

Dr Gita Mathai is a paediatrician with a family practice at Vellore.

gitamathai@gmail.com

running the trail

Running the CTMarathon

Last year I signed up for the CTM2013

On the morning of the race, I enthusiastically woke up the family.

“Get up, we have a long drive ahead. It says the venue is an hour from Chennai.”

Unenthusiastic groans reached me.

“It is too far—it is practically in Andhra Pradesh. They won’t have aid. You are old. You never mention on the form that you are asthmatic. There is no cell signal. If something happens we will never know.“

Finally the united front worked on my fears crushed me and my enthusiasm. I did not run.

 As the registration for the event in 2014 loomed I decided that “forewarned is forearmed.”

“Are there any hotels near the Red Hills where I can spend the night?”

The organizers said, ”There is dormitory type accommodation in the Gojan Business School.”

“My family won’t allow it,” I said “someone will come with me, I need a hotel.”

They found me a hotel and I booked a room. It seemed very cheap and they were offering free breakfast as  well. I kept silent about the charge for the room and we set out the day before the race. The hotel was just off the highway but no one seemed to have heard of it. We also passed it twice in our attempt to locate it. The problem was that a couple of the letters in the neon sign had fused. It read “S M Hot”

My grandson who was the look out on the left side thought it was an advertisement for a restaurant serving hot food!

We settled into the room only to find that they had not paid their cable subscription so all channels were blacked out with the notice ”channel unavailable due to non payment of dues!”

Grandson started a small agitation.

We got up at 4 am and followed a taxi with some other runners to the venue a half completed college with no electricity. A few focus lights had been set up on a generator. The bathrooms were dark and scary.

“I’ll go back to the hotel, sleep and pick you up after the race is over,” announced my husband.

I protested, ”It took us an hour to get here. It will take you an hour to get back and then an hour to return. I will take only three hours to complete---“

Husband and grandson said, “we can’t sleep in the parking lot.” And left.

Many wise “accompanying persons” did sleep in the parking lot. There was a lot of breeze and amazingly the place was mosquito free.

The race started in darkness. It was a muddy slushy red trail with a breathtaking view. The volunteers and photographers were excellent. Water ran out but since I always carry my own it makes little difference to me.

I finished in 2:47.

I had warned my family to take photos but husband and grandson were no where to be seen.

The breakfast was excellent. After  a good whack of kesari, idly vadai, pongal and hot coffee I started looking for family.

They finally turned up 2 hours later.

The lost the way, a van rear-ended them and then turned turtle on the highway, they had to extract the driver from the wreck, nothing happened to him, his van was totaled-----.

They never made it back to the hotel.

I climbed into the car and we reached.

Another calamity, the room key was missing.

By now I was quite irritated. I was covered in red mud and I wanted a bath!

“Where is the room key?” I asked.

“We lost it at the site of the accident.”

We finally made it home.

Yes you are right. No one wants to take me next year.

cmc 2014 alumni reunion batch of 1969

It was our 45^th reunion (batch of 69 CMC Vellore). This meant that even if you joined college at the tender age of 16 you were still a senior citizen over the age of 61! The men looked very different. Hair gone forever or pepper  grey. Women looked much the same.

“Huh!” Said a male classmate, “it is just the quality of the hair dye---. “

It was a challenge to produce an entertainment on stage that could be done by the oldies and appreciated by youngsters---something memorable!

I started work in Jan 2014 and sent out a few tentative feelers.

“We can do “lungi dance” follow it up with “Simon says” and exit with “limbo rock”

“I can’t do that” wailed a few. “We don’t know the steps.”

“That is okay, I will send you the links to the videos”.

A mistake.

One look at the video and three people developed “other pressing engagements.”

“We will come for the reunion to Mahabs on thursday, not back to Vellore.” 

We met in Mahabs,  where present in the spirit and in the flesh, we attempted a rehearsal.

Six more left for home.

Finally in depleted numbers, we headed to Vellore.

We needed an impact, otherwise, we oldies would just be “another batch.”

I hit upon the idea of having my gymnast grandson begin the performance with back flips and summersaults across an empty stage.

I like to think we put up a memorable performance. We even had a “rap.”

Goodbye till 2019 then. I have my eye and ear on Michael Jackson----, so check out the videos on youtube.