The surgery had drained her. She lay in a an alien world, within an alien body. The only sensation was of pain. Pain that was all consuming, that seemed to be devouring her. In a haze of medication and alternating between consciousness and blackouts, she wondered how she had ever got there. Who had trapped her, more vital, how on earth would she escape. She opened her mouth to scream.
But the screams were already resounding in the room and penetrating her consciousness. Then she saw her. The tiny five year old being wheeled in to her twin sharing room. Strapped to her hand was an I V. From somewhere behind her back emerged coils of tubing leading down to drains, affixed to the tubes. The paraphenalia emerging from her body seemed to be larger- and heavier- than her body even.
Pinky, or Kuku, as her parents called her was born prematurely in the thirty second week of pregnancy. Her young parents, for whom she was the second daughter, their elder child was a normal healthy ten year old, doted on her.She was a tiny ethereal little thing, and there was such little hope that she would survive even. "Kachre ke dibbey main phek do," was the brutal opinion of the head nurse, which the mother overheard . As if to prove her wrong, she lived and kept living until a pediatrician, a relative, was able to call a neo natal specialist who gave her the vital injections needed to get her lungs to work.
But there her battles did not end. Nor did her ability to survive each and every crisis that came her way. Each time the doctors gave up on her, like a baby Phoenix, she rose from the ashes. If it was her eyes that needed attention one year, it was her liver the next, and her kidneys the next. The last time had been her gravest challenge yet. She kept getting fevers, which were eventually diagnosed as a reflux of urine back into the kidneys because of a blocked ureter. This needed a minor operation for which she now had been admitted.
Selfishly, when i learnt that a baby had been admitted into the other half of my daughters room, i was alarmed. How would there be the peace and quiet, she needed to recuperate if their was a wailing or naughty kid in an adjoining bed. Should there not be a paediatric ward in the hospital i questioned.
The vagaries of misfortune and ill health throw together the most random of people in life. That has been my experience in the multiple times i have been to hospital as a companion for various family members. Also people who are nervous and scared for their loved ones, bored too i guess, with the endless hours of waiting in shared rooms where nothing, from ablutions to conversations on finance remain confidential, take to strangers readily. Kindred souls in suffering, tho strangers otherwise, they pour out their fears, in fact their entire life stories to each other, the anonymity acting as a catharsis.
So when the child's grandma, with total disregard for privacy, peered into our section of the room, i turned into a cold, discouraging alien, who answered all her queries about my child in a cold off hand fashion. I also requested her to maintain silence, to keep the child quiet as my daughter needed rest.
She nodded sympathetically, and for the rest of the day, there was total silence, hushed whispers were all we heard. Some part of my mind registered that even the child was whispering only. Which Five year old is so good, i thought to myself. After one more day of model behaviour, i was defeated. Curiosity getting the better of me, i stepped into their side of the ward. Their she lay. a small fragile thing clad in hospital robes. A small face with the most brightest of eyes. Light brown hair, framing a delicate profile. A small toy in her hand had her engrossed. I tried talking to her, she hid behind her mum, answering in small whispers.
The next day, the child was wheeled in for surgery. When she was brought back, it was imperative that she be kept lying on her side, so we tiptoed around our respective spaces, hoping the sedation would last for a few hours. By evening tho she started to come around and that was when the screams started. Sedated again, she slept, getting up occasionally and repeatedly asking for water. Her vigilant grandma and mother took it in turns to keep her distracted. Amazing child that she was. she heard them out then would keep quiet dozing off again. On asking i was told, that she had been to hospitals so many times that she was used to it all !
Day turned to night. Anguished about our respective children, an uneasy silence fell as we slept, our senses alert should the children awake. Every time she would moan, her grandma would pat her down, Morning dawned and the nursing staff descended on us. The child screamed as her I V's were shifted from one hand to another. Unable to bear it, i asked her mum to lift her up and take her out of the room. Distracted, the child quietened down. That entire day, the child did whatever the parents asked her to. Gradually, they gave her water, liquids. Once, only the granny was there with her when she threw up. The cleaning staff took almost thirty minutes to come, during which the small figure sat patiently with her granny clutching on to her, seated precariously on a chair. Come evening, the physiotherapists arrived. My daughter was taken outside the room with her IV's trailing her. As she walked the corridor, a small figure emerged behind her also trailing IV's..
Returning to the room, my daughter was in acute pain. As a mother, i could feel the tears in my eyes, as she battled pain and depression. How would she recover ? How would i get her back on her feet ? Suddenly i heard a soft little voice, singing an all too familiar song. The baby behind the curtain was crooning " We shall overcome, We shall overcome.." softly to herself ! In a flash, i tore aside the curtain, and together we sang that inspiring song, our troubles receding, our souls uplifted, our burden of pain, much the lighter.
How fair was life, how did the Gods allow such a small child to be stuck in a quagmire of hospitals and medicines. Why was her older sister leading a perfectly normal life while this little scrap of humanity laboured to survive. Day after day.. Was this her childhood, a boon in that she was alive, or was it a cruel affliction, that robbed her of the joys, and unfettered liberties due to such small children.. ? Who is to judge ? Who is to decide ?
But the screams were already resounding in the room and penetrating her consciousness. Then she saw her. The tiny five year old being wheeled in to her twin sharing room. Strapped to her hand was an I V. From somewhere behind her back emerged coils of tubing leading down to drains, affixed to the tubes. The paraphenalia emerging from her body seemed to be larger- and heavier- than her body even.
Pinky, or Kuku, as her parents called her was born prematurely in the thirty second week of pregnancy. Her young parents, for whom she was the second daughter, their elder child was a normal healthy ten year old, doted on her.She was a tiny ethereal little thing, and there was such little hope that she would survive even. "Kachre ke dibbey main phek do," was the brutal opinion of the head nurse, which the mother overheard . As if to prove her wrong, she lived and kept living until a pediatrician, a relative, was able to call a neo natal specialist who gave her the vital injections needed to get her lungs to work.
But there her battles did not end. Nor did her ability to survive each and every crisis that came her way. Each time the doctors gave up on her, like a baby Phoenix, she rose from the ashes. If it was her eyes that needed attention one year, it was her liver the next, and her kidneys the next. The last time had been her gravest challenge yet. She kept getting fevers, which were eventually diagnosed as a reflux of urine back into the kidneys because of a blocked ureter. This needed a minor operation for which she now had been admitted.
Selfishly, when i learnt that a baby had been admitted into the other half of my daughters room, i was alarmed. How would there be the peace and quiet, she needed to recuperate if their was a wailing or naughty kid in an adjoining bed. Should there not be a paediatric ward in the hospital i questioned.
The vagaries of misfortune and ill health throw together the most random of people in life. That has been my experience in the multiple times i have been to hospital as a companion for various family members. Also people who are nervous and scared for their loved ones, bored too i guess, with the endless hours of waiting in shared rooms where nothing, from ablutions to conversations on finance remain confidential, take to strangers readily. Kindred souls in suffering, tho strangers otherwise, they pour out their fears, in fact their entire life stories to each other, the anonymity acting as a catharsis.
So when the child's grandma, with total disregard for privacy, peered into our section of the room, i turned into a cold, discouraging alien, who answered all her queries about my child in a cold off hand fashion. I also requested her to maintain silence, to keep the child quiet as my daughter needed rest.
She nodded sympathetically, and for the rest of the day, there was total silence, hushed whispers were all we heard. Some part of my mind registered that even the child was whispering only. Which Five year old is so good, i thought to myself. After one more day of model behaviour, i was defeated. Curiosity getting the better of me, i stepped into their side of the ward. Their she lay. a small fragile thing clad in hospital robes. A small face with the most brightest of eyes. Light brown hair, framing a delicate profile. A small toy in her hand had her engrossed. I tried talking to her, she hid behind her mum, answering in small whispers.
The next day, the child was wheeled in for surgery. When she was brought back, it was imperative that she be kept lying on her side, so we tiptoed around our respective spaces, hoping the sedation would last for a few hours. By evening tho she started to come around and that was when the screams started. Sedated again, she slept, getting up occasionally and repeatedly asking for water. Her vigilant grandma and mother took it in turns to keep her distracted. Amazing child that she was. she heard them out then would keep quiet dozing off again. On asking i was told, that she had been to hospitals so many times that she was used to it all !
Day turned to night. Anguished about our respective children, an uneasy silence fell as we slept, our senses alert should the children awake. Every time she would moan, her grandma would pat her down, Morning dawned and the nursing staff descended on us. The child screamed as her I V's were shifted from one hand to another. Unable to bear it, i asked her mum to lift her up and take her out of the room. Distracted, the child quietened down. That entire day, the child did whatever the parents asked her to. Gradually, they gave her water, liquids. Once, only the granny was there with her when she threw up. The cleaning staff took almost thirty minutes to come, during which the small figure sat patiently with her granny clutching on to her, seated precariously on a chair. Come evening, the physiotherapists arrived. My daughter was taken outside the room with her IV's trailing her. As she walked the corridor, a small figure emerged behind her also trailing IV's..
Returning to the room, my daughter was in acute pain. As a mother, i could feel the tears in my eyes, as she battled pain and depression. How would she recover ? How would i get her back on her feet ? Suddenly i heard a soft little voice, singing an all too familiar song. The baby behind the curtain was crooning " We shall overcome, We shall overcome.." softly to herself ! In a flash, i tore aside the curtain, and together we sang that inspiring song, our troubles receding, our souls uplifted, our burden of pain, much the lighter.
How fair was life, how did the Gods allow such a small child to be stuck in a quagmire of hospitals and medicines. Why was her older sister leading a perfectly normal life while this little scrap of humanity laboured to survive. Day after day.. Was this her childhood, a boon in that she was alive, or was it a cruel affliction, that robbed her of the joys, and unfettered liberties due to such small children.. ? Who is to judge ? Who is to decide ?
