We don't know about arrogance, but someone who takes a band saw to another's sternum, not in anger but in peace, must surely have enormous self confidence. And a team he can totally count on, from able deputies, to highly trained and committed nursing and support staff.
We are scheduled for 7 a.m. if there is no priority emergency case. A couple of kindly looking staff appear on the dot, slide us onto a gurney, strap us down and wheel us away. Wan smiles from Alok and Kusum as they walk along. A few words. A reassuring touch. A small squeeze.
All very much like the pre-op scene from countless movies - thirty seconds in English or three minutes in Hindi. Except no background music. And the scene is badly lit.
We reach the O.T. doors and are handed over rather like a le Carre character at Checkpoint Charlie. Dossier passed on and I.D. band on the wrist cross checked.
Just inside the doors in a holding area are two other patients. A young gentleman on a gurney. A young lady in a wheel chair. The chap is in for a kidney transplant. The lady is his sister, the donor. We send someone out to call Kusum in and introduce her to the real life heroine we have just met. Pleasantries are exchanged. Smiles all round.
Ere long we are taken in to the theatre. We can't see much. From muttered conversation emerges the now familiar 'small prick'. And before we can congratulate ourselves on not getting hassled this time we are hearing a babble of slightly louder voices. Words emerge. It's over. Welcome back. Darling. It's all over. Went well.
We open our eyes and are in the ICU bed surrounded by doctors, a few angels and the wife, dressed like an angel. Half smiles gradually spreading.
A tipping point
The easy part, for us, is over. The most difficult part for the family is over. So far they have been helpless, if somewhat petrified, observers. From now on they are a crucial part of the recovery team. The critical part for the doctors is also over, though they may not know it yet.
Surgeon One’s pre-op chats start playing back:
You will wake up with a tube down your throat.
Check.
Don't panic. Don't try to talk. It will be taken out in a couple of hours. Throat will be sore for a while.
Okay.
You will have multiple connectors into and out of you. Some to provide sustenance. Some to extract fluid from the chest. Some to track vital signs.
Check.
You will have a catheter inserted for urine elimination.
O God. Is this what it feels like. The constant feeling of wanting to but not being able to pee.
You will come out feeling like you have been hit by a locomotive.
Not at all, Sir. Not yet. There is no pain. There is also not much feeling. We are probably still partly under the influence.
We can see that it is latish afternoon. The wife comes in a few times. We drift in and out of slumber under the watchful eyes of angels. Various buzzes and beeps and a screaming baby constitute the background score.
The tube down the throat is taken out. First thing we do is ask about the catheter. No chance till tomorrow, we are told.
Small things will occupy all of your mind. Like a seed stuck between your teeth. It can't do any harm, but your tongue will worry it until you get it out: Sure enough. Our pillow is too fat. At home we use two pillows. Here, three different types are tried. Too fat. Angel One pulls out a roll of surgical cotton wool, peels off a cover from a pillow and fashions, on the spot, a pillow that feels just right.
We drift into a disturbed sleep. Enormously aided by the So Hum mantra dredged up by a drugged brain from a distant past.
Another tipping point
Day Two dawns with a glass of juice and offers of tea, coffee and breakfast. We are only interested in getting the catheter out. In due course it happens. The moment this irritant goes we start feeling the fractured sternum. It is like the rib-cage is in a vice.
Around eleven or so a young physio-therapist turns up accompanied by his deputy, a bespectacled young lady. He checks out the basic motor functions and reflexes and explains the rehab regime that will be put into practice.
We complain about the rib-cage. He sits down and gives us a magical vibratory finger massage. We know that he won't be around all the time and ask him if an electric massager will do. Sure. This will become a useful accessory over the coming weeks.
We will never see Physio One again. We don't know it but two things have just happened. Having examined the damaged goods, he has taken charge. And, once more, a young lady has sneaked in, unheralded, to tell us what we should be doing for the rest of our life.
Throughout the day various angels keep flitting around. Every now and then someone asks if we need the pee bottle. We don't. Restoring Input-Output is a major post-operative concern. Around 6 p.m. Surgeon Two tells Angel Two, "Reinsert the catheter if it does not happen in the next half hour."
Angel Two can see the look of panic on our face. She offers to pull the screens around the bed for privacy and help us pee standing up. We know that won't work in a public place. We ask if we could be taken to a bathroom. Being an angel she doesn't think twice. Commandeers help and organises a wheel chair. Removes whatever connectors are removable.
There is the chest drainage system which can't be disconnected. The tube connects to a cylindrical contraption in which is sloshing some reddish stuff. She helps us onto the chair and picks up the thingamajig and off we go.
Within minutes she has positioned us on the throne, dismissed the help, and started a tap running into a plastic container. This sets up the sound effect women have used for centuries to get recalcitrant infant bladders to let go. It works within minutes on a 63 year old. Angel Two who has been patiently standing by heaves a sigh of relief. As do we, never deeper.
The next morning we are released from the ICU and wheeled back to our room.
Next
Going Home
Check.
Don't panic. Don't try to talk. It will be taken out in a couple of hours. Throat will be sore for a while.
Okay.
You will have multiple connectors into and out of you. Some to provide sustenance. Some to extract fluid from the chest. Some to track vital signs.
Check.
You will have a catheter inserted for urine elimination.
O God. Is this what it feels like. The constant feeling of wanting to but not being able to pee.
You will come out feeling like you have been hit by a locomotive.
Not at all, Sir. Not yet. There is no pain. There is also not much feeling. We are probably still partly under the influence.
We can see that it is latish afternoon. The wife comes in a few times. We drift in and out of slumber under the watchful eyes of angels. Various buzzes and beeps and a screaming baby constitute the background score.
The tube down the throat is taken out. First thing we do is ask about the catheter. No chance till tomorrow, we are told.
Small things will occupy all of your mind. Like a seed stuck between your teeth. It can't do any harm, but your tongue will worry it until you get it out: Sure enough. Our pillow is too fat. At home we use two pillows. Here, three different types are tried. Too fat. Angel One pulls out a roll of surgical cotton wool, peels off a cover from a pillow and fashions, on the spot, a pillow that feels just right.
We drift into a disturbed sleep. Enormously aided by the So Hum mantra dredged up by a drugged brain from a distant past.
Another tipping point
Day Two dawns with a glass of juice and offers of tea, coffee and breakfast. We are only interested in getting the catheter out. In due course it happens. The moment this irritant goes we start feeling the fractured sternum. It is like the rib-cage is in a vice.
Around eleven or so a young physio-therapist turns up accompanied by his deputy, a bespectacled young lady. He checks out the basic motor functions and reflexes and explains the rehab regime that will be put into practice.
We complain about the rib-cage. He sits down and gives us a magical vibratory finger massage. We know that he won't be around all the time and ask him if an electric massager will do. Sure. This will become a useful accessory over the coming weeks.
We will never see Physio One again. We don't know it but two things have just happened. Having examined the damaged goods, he has taken charge. And, once more, a young lady has sneaked in, unheralded, to tell us what we should be doing for the rest of our life.
Throughout the day various angels keep flitting around. Every now and then someone asks if we need the pee bottle. We don't. Restoring Input-Output is a major post-operative concern. Around 6 p.m. Surgeon Two tells Angel Two, "Reinsert the catheter if it does not happen in the next half hour."
Angel Two can see the look of panic on our face. She offers to pull the screens around the bed for privacy and help us pee standing up. We know that won't work in a public place. We ask if we could be taken to a bathroom. Being an angel she doesn't think twice. Commandeers help and organises a wheel chair. Removes whatever connectors are removable.
There is the chest drainage system which can't be disconnected. The tube connects to a cylindrical contraption in which is sloshing some reddish stuff. She helps us onto the chair and picks up the thingamajig and off we go.
Within minutes she has positioned us on the throne, dismissed the help, and started a tap running into a plastic container. This sets up the sound effect women have used for centuries to get recalcitrant infant bladders to let go. It works within minutes on a 63 year old. Angel Two who has been patiently standing by heaves a sigh of relief. As do we, never deeper.
The next morning we are released from the ICU and wheeled back to our room.
Next
Going Home
