• Kitaabfarosh

Hospital hue 'n' cry

We have all experienced this, sometimes as participants, sometimes as spectators. The agony of being at your patients bedside.

The presence of God in a hospital is morbidly unique. It is like the fiction of belief is writing itself over surety of science. Irony was never so naked. I am talking about the numerous and benevolent deities of Hindu gods, well mostly, that sit in the corridors of emergency, casualty, OPD, transplant unit, blood bank, ICU, ICCU and playing to the anxiety of the lowest common denominator- our intentional ignorance of our mortality. But these Gods are too close to comfort. Here I am, subjecting myself to science, hemorrhaging my cash reserve, consuming illicitly high priced snacks and food, only to be told to pray! The woes do not end here. Entertaining hyperactive and needlessly questioning relatives who want to know from Eden what went wrong with Adam and Eve, itself consummates oneself into desperate helplessness or the desire to kill your agent provocateur.

So what exactly happened?

He was trying to have sex with a kitten in a manhole with his eyes closed and collapsed or she collapsed on seeing him do this. Happy? Of course these answers always lie at the sub-conscious. Your conscious being is morally, if not legally bound to answer all your relatives’ queries. Because well before the nation wanted to know it was always the relatives who wanted to know. And everything. Because after this, some serious factual parameters of your patient will be asked by this Mother Teresa of boredom.

What is the pulse rate?

Not as throbbing as your pulse rate sir and precisely because of that he is in emergency. Right. Or were you under any confusion that we just strolled into the hospital in leisure. Quite a pulsating concern I must say.


Why, are you a doctor? Why do you need these measurements? Are you going to pump in some more blood in his system or do you have some hidden Freudian Dracula sitting in your system and fantasizing on blood.

Urine color?

Oh, it was cheerful yellow till morning today but guess it is turning dark now, as dark as your sense of sympathy.

Has he eaten anything?

Oh yes. We ordered some barbeque spiced chicken with Mojito but it was a bit inconvenient for him to dine on ventilator. So we’ve kept it for you. Wanna’ grab your bite?

When will the reports come?

Don’t worry; we don’t have to ‘stop press’. It will come well in time to be headlined in tomorrow’s newspaper in the recently launched pre-obit page.

Should we shift to another hospital?

Eureka! We were thinking the other way around actually. But the logistics of shifting any hospital to patients bed pan was proving difficult. Thank you for breaking this stalemate.

What next?

Can we put you live into formaldehyde to preserve such genuinely insane brain till eternity?

The questions are all real. Unfortunately, the answers lapse into unspeakable. The family always becomes a mute spectacle.

Hospitals are strange sites. Anesthesia and steroids go here hand in hand. So does the certainty of belief and uncertainty of science. So does a prayer and a nurse. And so do the questions and the unspeakable answers.

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