I woke up from a deep slumber to the loud beeps from nearby monitors in ICU. Indwelling needles, tubes and snug oxygen masks ruined the faint promise of a perfect day. The clock showed five past eight. It must have been morning. I wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter. When in gutter, one must look up to the stars. I sat up to gain attention.
The nurses looked busy. To my horror I saw one of them unpacking a nasogastric tube for insertion. I prayed that it wasn’t for me. I couldn’t resist a smile as they whizzed past my bed towards another unlucky patient. Happy moments in ICU were in fact sugar-coated doses of sadism.
I had seen better days. I missed my evening walks by the sea side. I thought of the sea waves kissing the setting Sun. Silent birds lining the distant horizon. Patches of white clouds overhanging like thought bubbles. It resembled a canvas with orange hue, silhouetted by swaying trees. It was surreal. How I wished to be there again.
Many others also walked by the sea about the same time of the day. There was something for everyone in it. Not all appreciated the scene like I did. For some it was a means of burning calories. They were easy to spot. Their walk had a purpose. They stole a glance at their wrist watches now and then. Some strolled lost in thought, contemplating the next move in their chess of life.
The kids were fun to watch, their energy boundless, running in no particular direction. They were always rooted in the present moment, often chased by their moms dressed in yoga pants. A dress designed to withstand the shearing forces of job, kitchen and parenting. I didn’t know any of them well enough to say hello and yet I connected with them all. They completed the picture I was painting earlier. Unlike others, I had the luxury to paint pictures in my mind. I had turned a wise 70 the previous month.
I wasn’t always happy and old. I practised medicine for the better part of my life. I retired professing it. I liked to believe that I saved lives, lessened miseries and mentored would be doctors.
“There is no better joy in this world than the grateful look of a cured patient.” I would say to my students.
A patient’s father once offered me a free ride to the railway station on his cycle rickshaw, in return for curing his only son. That gesture alone made me feel richer than Jeff Bezos net worth.
As a teacher, I felt responsible for the actions of my students. An utopian obsession where students became the shadows and extensions of my own ideal self. My students were an inspired lot, driven by a curiosity that could easily be quenched by smartphones and iPads. They would often stump me with the latest research on a discussed topic. I guess learning was a two way process. Compassion, I realized, was a more nuanced human attribute that could not be codified into a digital form. It grew in an unconscious corner, bereft of glory, between harsh words, difficult hours, pride and prejudice. My job was to tap into that precious resource and bring it to fore. It was easier said than done.
Facing the deceased patient, under one’s professional care, strikes a humbling blow. I would often stop by the bedside and close my eyes momentarily, to say a silent prayer. My way of thanking the departed soul for teaching me a vital something. My young mentees thought nothing of it. I ran the risk of being branded a lunatic.
“Listen, Listen, Listen…patient is telling you the diagnosis”, I often quoted Sir William Osler. An important quote, considering that one has been entrusted to be the last person standing between the patient and his grave.
A familiar voice interrupted my reverie. The consultant had begun taking rounds in ICU. He was on the bed farthest from me. Today was my lucky day. He had been my student once. I used to like him. He was inquisitive and compassionate. I wanted to believe that I had moulded those human attributes.
The consultant had reached the bed next to mine. He struck a conversation with the patient. An attempt at building rapport. I was proud of my mentorship. He engaged in small talk about the patient’s family, their well-being. Next he offered a listening ear to the patient’s problems. He listened with rapt attention as the patient went rambling from one misery to another. The connect was palpable. I patted myself. I had become a dried raisin but my years spent as a mentor was bearing fruit. I held back my tears.
I saw the consultant move to my bed. I tried to present my cheerful self under the given circumstances. I whispered pleasantries. The consultant didn’t respond. That was odd. He appeared sad. His young students were as usual busy looking into their smart phones. Then I saw it happen. The consultant closed his eyes and said a silent prayer. He then moved to the next bed.
