No good bones, only funny bones

Main aur meri tanhayi aksar yeh baatein karte hain…

 

The tanhayi in me is the voice in my head, a fiery, filter-less, chatty one. You’d think I am walking alone but I would be talking to that voice.

 

I wonder what is the big deal about a candle-lit dinner. You cannot even see your food, and what if you were eating fish with bones on Valentine’s Day? Maybe they have other sources of light too.  

 

I am seeing someone since the last two weeks. I did not anticipate it this early in life. A burly man with a paunch and the kind of laughter that makes you wonder if he ate a pair of Bose speakers for breakfast. I only knew of one Mody before I met him. I was destined to meet the second Mody the day I woke up and could not move my hips due to stiffness. The sleepy voice in my head wondered if I was already dead and this is rigor mortis setting in with my spirit talking to me.

 

A general physician had asked me to get an MRI before seeing Mody. Mody, a specialist, looked at the MRI reports, prescribed medicines, and asked me to see a physiotherapist who works next door (like literally the door next to his). I noticed that Mody’s name and his spouse’s name have four out of five letters in common. That’s an eighty percent match! Even sunshine and moonshine are not as close.  

 

I waited for a long time in the waiting room. I read about all the medical miracles he can do through the laminated cutouts of printed text he has put all over the walls. Many of them are written in grammatically wrong English. My inner vice scolds me for unconscious colonialism for noticing wrong English when English is neither of our native language. What a hypocrite I am!

 

I see Mody’s picture standing next to a tall, White doctor in scrubs. I see names of cities from Germany and the US printed on those laminated walls. I have no idea what he was doing in those places (getting trained, I suppose). I wonder if he would post a picture of himself standing next to a Black doctor.

 

Mody surely knows how to market himself.  

 

And when you have a lot of time to kill, you think of things that do not concern you.

 

And then the power goes off! It’s dark.

 

A power outage! I haven’t experienced one in a while. Suddenly I hear a lot of footsteps and shuffling around. A lot of hustle. People talking loudly in Gujarati, which, I can understand, not!

 

My eyes adjust to the darkness and I crane my neck from the waiting room to catch a glimpse of what is happening.

 

Mody is attending to his patients as the receptionist holds up the cell phone torch light. You’ve got to be kidding me!

 

I keep hoping that my turn never comes till power is back. And the woman loudly screams something that sounds like my name followed by, “Ben aaucho!” (sister, are you coming?)

 

I enter his room, half hoping that he will send me back. The woman is now holding two thin candles, looking like she is about to sing a haunted song from the 1950s by Lata Mangeshkar. Mody looks scary in the shadow. He asks me to touch my toes. He asks me to arch my back. He asks me to show a Bruce Lee kick in the air while facing away from him. He scribbles down the name of some medicines in illegible writing, prescribes more physiotherapy, and asks me to come back in a month.

 

On hearing that I work where I do, he tells me how impressed he is that I am a faculty at my age. I remind him that young people do not have orthopedic issues (although I want to remind him that being a faculty does not depend on age). He tells me the names of all my colleagues he has treated, possibly his way of making me comfortable through informal small talk. Patient confidentiality (and privacy) be darned! Those are subjective social constructs, some western society bee-ass anyway! I shudder thinking which colleague of mine will now learn about my creaking hips that are threatening to fall apart. Such a hypocrite I am, writing about my health and daily life on the blog but complaining about privacy.

 

G’s decade-old forecast that I may have my childbirth and hip replacement surgery on the same table still makes me shudder. I remember that line every time my hips creak. Mody tells me how intelligent both his sons are (also practicing medicine). He shares that he wanted his sons to study engineering but they did not listen. Good call, I say. Good riddance, I think!   

 

I ask him if he will show me the exercises. He says his physiotherapist will. Who knows, his paunch might have lashed out at me in the dark for asking him such a question.

 

I get up to leave. I tell him that this is my first candlelight consultation (I skip the Valentine’s Day reference). He laughs with an abandon that hurt my eardrums. As a child, I have studied for many an exam in candle light (especially during summers). I think that I have turned out to be fine, so this should be okay too.    

 

I walk up to the receptionist and show her my ID. I write down my name on a receipt book. I pay nothing. My employer and my insurance will sort it out and take care of the bills. I count my blessings. One of the many perks here include never paying for a doctor, medicines, blood work, tests, etc., if I see someone within a quite extensive healthcare network in India. They have my parents covered too. And here I am complaining about lack of patient confidentiality!

 

I walk back to the campus clinic and hand over the prescription. The receptionist makes a copy and notes my secretary’s number. Tomorrow, my secretary will collect the medicines and leave them at my office even before I am there. That was, in a nutshell, my Valentine’s Day this year. January was all about experiencing COVID-19 and February has been about getting orthopedic spas. What else will keep me busy this year, I wonder as I walk back home.   

 

sunshine

Checking up the doctor

Humor makes light the gravest of illnesses. At the doctor’s office, the doctor turned out to be a cute guy. Back home, the discussion naturally boiled down to, is he single? Could he, all cute and nice smiles and nerdy glasses and all, be single? The discussion took various turns, with the over-protective dad frowning as if the daughter finding someone cute is a terrible thing to happen to humanity, and the mom going off on an unending rant about how she let go off so many opportunities by getting hitched early in life and how I should continue valuing my freedom to do whatever or live wherever I choose to.

Apparently I have a psycho-magnet inside me, which is how I attract all the psychos in my life, she claims. Very oddly, she reminded me of the last time a guy I was interested in came home (odd because I could not even remember who the guy was), and she had put on her designer blouse and silk sari in the summer heat and cooked up a storm, even forgot to serve him posto because there were so many things to eat, yet there was no tangible outcome (tangible meaning a wedding in the timeline). I have no idea why mom chose to wear a designer blouse to impress someone I was interested in, or why does she even remember what happened in the last decade, but that's beyond the point. Both the parents started reacting as if I am underage or the doctor is underage. They both looked like they are suffering enough in their own marriage.

However, grandma became my hero. In between all this verbal commotion, she spoke up.

"We need to find out if the young man is single to begin with," she proclaimed. And how?

"I'll come with you the next time and while he is examining you, I will start making small talk. Small talk how? Ki baba, kemon aacho, bari kothaye? Barite ke ke thake?"

How are you doing? Where is your home? Who else lives in your family?

Will old grandma accompany her grandchild the next time to the doctor, holding her walking stick with shaky hands? Will grandma make small-big-talk, like she promised? Will the cute doctor turn out to be single?

I may or may not get hold of the doctor, but I hope that I can hold on to my cute, loving grandma till the last day of my life.

Update: The doctor turned out to be single. I happened to lose interest in him.

Dad sighed in relief. And my mom acutely observed (and remarked): "I think you are looking for a manager in life, not a partner."

I think she might have a point.

sunshine

Skelessism

I had a profound moment of skelessism today (there, I made up a word!). I saw the image of my own skeleton on the X-ray display board at the dentist's and fell in love with myself (skelessism is skeletal narcissism).

A skeleton cannot be fat or thin, dark-skinned or light-skinned, but just a skeleton. If you look closely, all skeletons look like they are laughing. So there, I saw the image of my own face, bony, and laughing back at me. It had tooth number 14 missing, and in that gap, there was a tiny implant (like a metal screw), giving the image that a cigarette is tucked in between my teeth. I forgot that I was at the dentist to get treated and started laughing at my own image.

Later, a male doctor with a resounding voice saw me in my most awkward position, gaping like a crocodile, an oxygen cylinder taped to my nose, lying flat with a thick piece of cloth on my eyes to block out the light. Boy, I am glad he could not see my face, I wouldn't want any man to see me in such a flattering pose. He introduced himself as Dr D, and I extended my hand in the air to shake his, solely based on the direction of his voice. A strong grip, I liked it! I had no idea what he looked like.

During the brief, 20-minute procedure of exposing my gums, he gave me an odd compliment. Not something another man would tell me. He said that I had grown a lot of bone around my gums since my procedure in February, and today, he had to shave off some of the extra bone to do this procedure, which is great! "You can grow a lot of bone in a short time" is the oddest compliment I have received.

The procedure went well, they stitched me up, took an exit X-ray, and that is when Dr. D entered the room and shook my hands again. Boy, he is a good-looking doctor! He spent some time talking about the floods in Kerala and how one of his colleagues was stuck there. Every American who has been to India either tells me about their trip to Rajasthan and the Taj Mahal or a natural disaster of epic proportions someone he knows got stuck in. He talked briefly about his work in Karnataka. It was all small talk. It's so strange, good looks can even momentarily block out dental pain. As I left Dr. D's office, I was left wondering how someone could be so good looking. To complete the circle of thought, I reminded myself that at the end of the day, and at the end of all that skin and muscle and fat and cartilage, he too is a skeleton.

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Teething Troubles

The most horrific thing happened to me this Halloween. While chewing on a piece of Halloween candy flicked from the office kitchen, I bit on a piece of something rock solid. In a split second, I instinctively knew what it was. I was engulfed with a sinking, panicked feeling in my stomach. I'd be less freaked out had I spotted someone staring back at me in the bathroom mirror. I had bitten on a porcelain cap that was guarding one of my upper molars. I had gotten it done in Kolkata last year, amid lying in a pool of blood and tears during a root canal surgery. What is even more horrifying is that I had woken up that same morning in cold sweat after a nightmare where I saw some of my teeth falling off. I could not believe that I was living my nightmare happening for real within a few hours.

I immediately smelled dental cement. Shit! This was not good. I could have swallowed it by mistake and then, they would have to trace my plumbing system to get it out. Worse, I could have choked on it and died in my thirties, even before attaining tenure. Carefully, I spat out the tooth cap, my tongue feeling very raw on the exposed remains of the tooth. I wanted to keel over and throw up.

Last year, I had spent an arm and a leg and a sizable portion of my kidney to get a root canal done from this dentist who claimed that the sophisticated machinery he used meant one would feel no pain. Far from it, I had wept and whimpered, periodically spitting salty mouth wash and coagulated blood. His hands had felt like boxers pummeling fists inside my mouth. I had been sore for days. Even with all this, he had not done a foolproof job. Danger bells had started ringing in my head when I overheard him take a call and brag to someone about an upcoming Dubai trip and plans for buying the new iPhone. I instinctively knew whose wallet would be riddled to pay for it. I have always had a hate-hate relationship with dentists since my milk teeth days.

In a fit of panic, I made a terrible mistake. I somehow managed to put back the cap in its position. I instantly knew it was a mistake because now, I could not eat without fearing that I might swallow it once again. At night, I was afraid to fall sleep lest I swallow it and choke and die in my sleep (I slept on my stomach that night and duct taped my jaw). The next morning, I chewed on another piece of Halloween candy and there, the cap was out again. I was so relieved.

I messaged the Indian dentist on Whatsapp. Rather than sounding apologetic, he admonished me, sounding defensive and telling me how he had taken fresh impressions and gotten me a second cap (yes, this was the second cap that came out, he did such a good job). I wasn't expecting him to miraculously cure me on Whatsapp, but I was not expecting rudeness either. He alluded that the architecture of my teeth must be faulty (blaming the victim, as always). He asked me to find a dentist in the US and ask them to glue it back. As if I did not know that already. I hope that the Dubai trip was worth it. Someday, when dentists in India start getting sued for malpractice, I'll be the one laughing. Perhaps a toothless, gummy laughter by that age, but I'd definitely be having my last laugh.

It's been a nightmare since then. The next few days found me dentist-shopping, and the wide array of options confused me. Some said I need an endodontist, some said an orthodontist, and some, just a dentist. I have never seen a dentist in the US or Germany before (always depended on my Kolkata trips to get my vision and dental issues fixed), don't know how the insurance works here, and the thought of lying in another dentist's room scared the hell out of me. I am suddenly way more troubled at the thought of getting older. I am suddenly repentant for asking grandma more questions and making her talk more on purpose every night after she removed her dentures (and giggling at how funny she sounded). I feel sorry for having thrown grandpa's dentures on the garage roof at the age of five, just for fun. I can sense karma catching up with me big time. Will I ever be able to chew on a mutton bone from my biryani in peace? My Korean dentist friend once told me that most of the patients who visit her do so to fix their dentures since they sometimes come out while kissing with force (why people would be kissing with dentures on is a different story, but who am I to judge anyway?). Would I ever be able to do that without fearing disastrous consequences? Would I be able to fix my tooth without filing for bankruptcy? Would I ever be able to chew on a piece of bone without worrying? Or smile without looking funny? Would I be able to teach three-hour long classes from the next semester without bellowing like a broken harmonium? Or feel less mental about my dental problems? Stay tuned if you have nothing better to do in life and want to know. And if you have secretly suffered from dental problems all your life like I have, let's bond over virtual coffee and share those stories.

sunshine

T(r)oothfully

Every time I landed in Kolkata, he was among the first few people I would meet. Sometimes, we set up a meeting date even before I had reached Kolkata. With a thumping heart and sweat trickling down my face due to my nervousness, I would go meet him. And then, he would usher me inside, close the door behind him, ask me to lie down, grab my hand, and without wasting much time, go straight for my mouth. A quick summer romance, not really. For in the aftermath of all this action, we would often be left in tears, mine shed due to all the pain, and my father's, not shed, for the deep holes it made in his pocket.

This is the first time in many years that I have not had to see the dentist in Kolkata. Touchwood. Needless to say, my life is so much better for it and my smiles, so much brighter!

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The Malady of Ageing

There was a half hour wait at the doctor's office. A little boy with big, bright eyes showed up with his parents. On asking him what had happened, he showed me his right arm, which had a huge, black burn scar. The rongmoshal er baaji (colored fire cracker) went off in the wrong direction and burnt his arm.

Despite his injury, the little fellow seemed to be in high spirits, enjoying the attention everyone was giving him. The medicine shop owner gave him a disposable plastic injection cap to play with. He first turned the cap into a makeshift pistol, standing like a cop, hands on hips, and pointing at everyone. Then, he pointed at the doctor's office and said, "daktar kaku ke injection diye debo" (I will give the doctor an injection shot). When the fellow went inside to get his wounds dressed, we heard loud screams and wails. A candy or two would have been nice to pacify him, but all I heard was the doctor's rather scary, baritone voice saying, "noro na noro na, rokto porbe" (Don't move, you will start bleeding again). Rokto! Blood! What a morbid thing to tell a little child.

And why was I there? Because I have no real ailment, except perhaps the malady of old age. I was there with the reports from my blood work for a battery of tests- Blood sugar, urea, thyroid, creatinine, cholesterol, and the other usual suspects. I was pretty convinced that nothing is wrong with me, but science relies on data and not instincts. I have no issues with sleep or hunger, I could eat anything and fall asleep anywhere. But I am in that age bracket that demands that I get myself checked from time to time. I was there at the same doctor 16 years ago when I had a real injury, like the little one did. I had slipped and fractured my leg. Dad had hauled me up on his shoulders like we do with babies, and carried me to the doctor's. I was no lightweight back then, but being lifted seems unimaginable for me now. I was instructed to rest for a month, and what a ball I had. Friends visited me every now and then, signing "get well soon" notes on my pink plaster, turning it into a mural. I was almost sorry to let go of my plaster after a month.

The nature of my ailments was different then. Now, I go to the doctor to make sure that my heart, lungs, kidneys, and innards are working fine, and I am not at a risk of having an unforeseen heart attack, collapsing on the streets, and dying out of the blue.

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Dental-Mental

Sometimes, it feels like I visit Calcutta to visit family, and a man. This man makes me wait for him with nervous energy, and the first thing we meet, he wastes no time but goes directly for my mouth. But not to kiss me.

I am talking about the dentist. 

Weeks before I land, my sister meticulously makes an appointment. There is no time wasted. I meet him even before I meet my greater family, cousins, recent crushes, or ex-flames. This is because every time I visit Calcutta, I have no idea how long these dental sessions would last. Sometimes, a few days. Sometimes, weeks. This pretty smile comes at a huge maintenance cost. 

This time, I thought it was not too bad. I was here less than a year ago (sobbing and having meltdowns and tantrums in this same seat), and what could go wrong in ten months? Just that the cap he had put on after my root canal last year had come off. Seemed pretty innocuous. My brother-in-law had the same problem, and was done in less than ten minutes. He had even smiled and waved at the dentist saying, "Dekha hobe abar", or "See you soon!". I think that the irony of that statement was lost on him.

So as usual, I was there at the dentist's. His two assistants instantly recognized and smiled at me, very used to seeing me now. Chiranjeevi was making some hip thrusting moves on the television with a chick less than half his age and weight, making me christen him Pelvis Presley in my mind. At least, it took my mind off the impending ten minutes. 

Only this time, I was not going to get away in ten minutes. The dentist looked at the chipped cap, and tried thrusting it in my mouth with all his strength. Just that it wouldn't fit well anymore. So I had to come back for a few more sessions, when they cut me open once again, and reset my tooth for that perfectly infectious smile one could swoon over. It was little relief that he did it for free, since he was the one who did not set things right the last time. When my grandma had to replace all her dentition, she actually opted for a teeth setting that resembles Madhuri Dixit's (I am not kidding). I think I am still a few decades away from the luxury of that choice.

Anyway, knowing how I make the best use of the situation, I decided to go in the opposite direction from home, so forlorn I was. There was only one thing that could cheer me up at that hour. A pair of fleshy green coconuts. I visited the square close to home, where my mom usually encourages me to bargain a little. But I do not. Anything good that comes for less than €1 is not worth bargaining for. Just that the green coconut guy was really concerned, not knowing how I would have two coconuts in one go.

"Bari niye jaaben? Nijei khaben? Pack kore debo?", he kept asking me. (Will you take it home? Will you share? Should I pack it for you?). Thank God he did not enlighten me about the calories two coconuts contain.

At least I walked back home feeling content, temporarily happy, and thankful for having teeth. According to me, tooth problems are better than toothless problems, and graying hair is better than a receding hairline. Tomorrow, we shall see tomorrow.

sunshine

A few good people

Many tell me that one should always befriend people from one’s country, especially when one lives in a foreign country, because they help you in need. I am reflecting on one day of my life to understand this thought.

 

I woke up this morning to find that I cannot move at all. I was fine just yesterday, I had walked, run, worked, and done my groceries. But today, my back was all stiff and I could not move. My old spinal pain had probably flared up.

 

All it took me was one Whatsapp message and one email saying, “I need help.” Someone immediately rushed to bring me pain ointment. Conny and Ulrike from the department got busy retrieving my insurance documents from office, arranging a car, taking me to the doctor, and translating every bit of conversation between the German doctor/nurses and me. Someone helped me buy the medicines. Someone gave me candles and matches to brighten my day. Someone fed me chicken soup and rice for dinner. Someone is going to bring me a hair dryer tomorrow to dry the plasters on my back. Physically, I feel better. Emotionally, I feel great.

 

These people are Americans, Germans, and Koreans. More than nationality, all these people are humans. They mean something to me. I had not known them four months ago and was likely to never know them if I did not live here.

 

I have taken this opportunity to reflect. I don't think ideas like "foreign", "us", "them", and the distinction between ours and theirs make sense to me anymore. Home is not determined by the country of citizenship. Friendship is not determined by nationality. I don't see just India as my home, the entire world is my home, and everyone I meet who means well is my friend. Often when I visit India, I hear people telling me, "But one's own country is one's own country." Today, I was in pain, but I was not scared. I knew all it would take is one call. All it would take was to submit myself to whatever happens and have faith, and people around me would jump to my rescue. I put my faith in the goodness of humanity, and not in the security of clan affiliation. Trust me, there is no "our people" and "your people". Only "good people".

 

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A Day To Write About.

This would perhaps be a long post, but bear with me. There are times when something happens, and it totally changes your perception of a place, or people around you. I am in such a state right now. It's barely been 12 hours since all this happened. But awake now, and still a little groggy from sedatives, it seems as if the entire morning happened eons ago.

In 12 hours, I had dealt with everything. Pain. Doctors. Cops. EKG. Injections. And much more. I woke up this morning with a deadly pain in my chest. It was strange, since I had eaten okay last night and got proper sleep too. Trying to ignore the pain, I focused on work. I had a couple of meetings, labs, papers to write, and everything else that would make you ignore your bodily discomfort. But my body made sure I did not. Even before I was out of bed, I knew it was serious. Every two minutes, I felt a sharp stab of pain right in the middle of my sternum that would last a few seconds. I tried breathing deep, I tried to get some fresh air, but the pain kept coming back like a cyclic rhythm. I felt that someone was stabbing me in the ribs every few minute.

My first step was to call up a few friends, who for some reason were not available on the phone. I called up someone, who immediately asked me to make an appointment at the campus medical center. Scared of doctors and shots, I thought that I would be okay in an hour or so, and there was no need to make an appointment. A few minutes later, I had keeled over in pain. 

I called up the clinic, and for the next 10 painful minutes of my life when I barely managed to keep my breathing okay, I explained to them my symptoms. I asked them if I could come over immediately.

I am sorry but you need to call the emergency first.

(I was recently told that anytime you face a crisis, see an accident, see fire, get attacked, get stuck inside a locked building, swallow something, anything, you dial three digits. Nine. One. One.)

The emergency? I couldn't believe it.

Yeah, we cannot risk anything happening to you on your way. We need the medic incident reports first. They need to get to your place first.

I was in a dilemma. I had never dialed those three digits before. Once you do, an entire team of ambulance, cops, and the fire department shows up at your doorstep in a minute. I had heard tales about their promptness. Today, I witnessed it.

Hello, there has been an emergency. Chest pains. This is my address.

20 seconds later, I heard the shrieks of the sirens. I did not even need to look out of the window. I had barely managed to open the door for them when four well built, uniformed men entered and asked if I had called. And then, a pair of strong hands inserted two tubes that connected to an oxygen cylinder into my nostrils. Another pair tied something strong on my left arm to check my blood pressure. The third pair was counting my pulse. And all this while, I was never even asked a single question.

When they thought that I was in a position to talk (I was always in a position to talk, just that they never let), they asked me about my discomfort symptoms and took copious notes. 10 minutes later, I was on my way to the clinic with S.

The clinic had some more actions in store. Temperature, blood pressure, and pulse (though these had already been done once earlier) later, I was asked for an EKG. An EKG? I thought an EKG was for elderly people who had massive cardiac arrests. I was told that an EKG would be done not because they thought I had a heart attack, but to make sure that everything was fine. So while I lay in the dimly lit room, small tubes attached with adhesives all over my chest, I felt graph sheets making graphs of my heartbeat. Thank God no one saw me that way. As expected, everything was fine with the EKG report.

Next, I was told to go get a blood test done for pylori infection. These are the bacteria that aggravate the digestive lining due to excess of acid secretion. I did not know this, they told me so. They always tell you what they are giving you and why are they doing that. Back in India, I remember going to the doctor for a simple fever when he would write some 3-4 medicines in a handwriting best read only by the pharmacist. I could never really understand if those squiggles were made intentionally so that no one understood them. I would later have to ask the pharmacist what medicines had to be taken when and how many times a day. Here, every instruction was labeled on the medicine vials. What more, you were told about everything that was being tested on you. I remember back in India I would ask my doctor what exactly was wrong with me, only to see an inscrutable "Why do you want to know? Are you the doctor or am I?" expression on his face. I had a right to know, and I could also distinguish my hepatocytes from my lymphocytes.

To cut a long story short, I was informed by a very patient doctor who wore braces on her teeth that the chest contained organs like the heart, lungs, the food pipe, and it could have been anything. An hour later, I was informed that it was an inflammation of the esophagus, which in layman's term meant that excess acid in my gut had caused inflammation of my food pipe in the chest area. Strangely, I was happy that someone took out the time to actually explain to me what was wrong with me. A needle was again pricked in my arm with utmost care, and when they were done, they nicely bandaged it up so as not to leave any evidence or mark (see pic). I was given a medicine to swallow that would act like a local anesthesia and numb my upper gut. Very interestingly, they actually explained to me that the medicine contained three different stuff, one of which would put me to sleep soon. I was given the medicines, visiting cards, and appointments to come back in a few days. Roughly four hours after I had entered the building complaining of pain, I walked out in the bright sun towards my department.

I had to inform the department that I was taking the rest of the day off and I would be working on my take home due this Friday from home.

Word had spread in the department about my illness and I was soon offered a chair and concerned looks as soon as I had reached there. My departmental secretary had already called the professor and rescheduled my take home to be handed over by Monday.

It was the finals week, and here I was sedated and ready to doze off. My department actually understood this and gave me the extra weekend to finish my exam.

This country never ceases to amaze me. As long as you are insured, being sick is nothing to be scared of. You get the best treatment. Every single symptom you complained of would be dutifully diagnosed. They would draw blood with utmost care. They would inform you about every medicine you take. You would walk out of the place more knowledgeable, and more aware of your body and your illness. The next time someone asked you what was written in the prescription, you wouldn't have that blank look on your face. People would even reschedule final exams. In India, you miss one single exam, and you repeat the entire year.

As I think about the day's experiences now, I can see every incident replaying in my mind. It was not nice to be in such pain for hours. But this incident has definitely made me understand this country a little better. I appreciate the way the doctors did everything meticulously, and followed protocol to make sure that things are fine. The way they explained to me the symptoms for every discomfort I had. The way my friend stayed with me like that silent support, giving her work a little less priority for the day. The way the professors showed concern, and other students emailed me ask if I was feeling better. Most importantly, I appreciate the flexibility in the education system where you are not penalized for things you have no control over.

In a nutshell, my perception about this country, the people here, and the way the system works has totally changed. With medication and sleep, I feel a lot better. Just that I wish I had taken note of how the machine made graphs based on the my thumping heart.

sunshine.

Prick Me Baby One More Time.

I thought I should write about this before the pain somewhat eased. I am referring to the pain in my biceps. Words like injections and blood have always scared me. The sight of a tiger would perhaps not scare me as much as a sight of a syringe would. Only sheer mental strength prevents me from passing out every time I need a shot or a vaccination.  

My department thinks that international students are a depot of germs and diseases. Within a week of arriving here, I was handed a long list of vaccinations I was supposed to take at the department health clinic. Despite being immunized right from childhood, handing over all my previous health records, and being in the pink of health, I had to take more vaccines, including the TB test.

Suddenly images from the past vaccination and blood test experiences came flooding back. A clinic that smelled like chloroform and alcohol. Really ill patients. Babies crying. People with plasters and limb casts and wounds ready to be fomented. How I was dreading this. I remember when a friend was leaving the city and had asked me to help pack, they had accidentally slashed their hand while using the knife. Instead of being useful, I had fainted, and they were the ones sprinkling water on my face.

Being alone in a new country made the anticipation of pain and suffering worse. Doctors are liars. They always lie that injection shots feel like ant bites. Maybe I had excess bradykinin, the pain-causing factors in my body.

I was already half dead by the time I entered the immunization clinic. Full dead actually, half from all-day classes, and the other half from fear. What more, I had a meeting in the next 30 minutes, so I did not really have the time to sit back and cry. 

When I entered the clinic, I was a little taken aback by the ambience. There were no wailing babies or wounded patients. What amazed me even more was the fact that there was no stench of chloroform or blood. Okay, so this is how it is in America, I told myself. So health clinics here did not reek of suffering and death. Maybe the needles here did not pain that much either.

I was soon made to fill up a couple of forms and directed towards a semi-shielded cubicle. The lady attending me made me sit and asked me unusual questions. Was I allergic to things? Did I have anemia or a low blood pressure? Did I pass out at the sight of blood? Back in India, with the long queue waiting outside, nobody would actually bother to ask all this.

Soon a wicked idea popped up in my head. What if I scared her a bit, would she be a little more compassionate towards me? I made a very serious face and told her that I always passed out when I saw blood. And just when I was expecting the usual rebuff of being too old to feel pain or fear, she took me to one of the nearby beds and asked me to lie down. 

I saw some of the most amazing things that day. At every table, there were trays of candies and chocolates, and no two of them were the same. You could pick whatever you wanted, as many you liked. Like a child, I soon found my eyes raving at the sight of so many candies, undecided as to which one I should pick. When the lady asked me if I was scared, I told her that I was scared, so I preferred looking at the candy tray. She asked me how do I keep in touch with my family, and if it is very expensive to make phone calls or trips to India. And jut when I was starting to calculate my monthly phone bill, she pricked me hard.

Ouch…..

And we are through….

Oh, so soon?

Yeah. So how expensive is calling them up?

I was so engrossed looking at the candies and calculating figures in my head that the initial trauma of seeing someone approaching with a needle was gone. Later, no hairy guy rubbed my arm hard with a swab of Dettol-soaked cotton, making me sick with the smell of the antiseptic and the sight of that one drop of blood. The punctures were neatly sealed with band aids, making my arm looked like someone did patchwork.

For every vaccine that I got, I was given a handout of what I was vaccinated for and why. They made sure that no person was ignorant about why they were being vaccinated. And they gave me a complete handout for the dates when I’d have to go next. Very organized. I would even receive regular email updates whenever my vaccine dates were due.

Pricking me multiple times on the same arm hurt a lot. The Mantoux test was even more painful. But I don’t dread going there now. As long as I get to choose and take whatever candies I want to, I don’t really mind a little pricking here and there.

sunshine.

Teeth-ing Troubles- I.

If you are looking for your daily dose of laughter in this post, you’ll be thoroughly disappointed. I am in a lot of pain, and humor is the last thing I can sense now.

It so happened that I hurt my cheeks while having some popcorn. And I totally forgot about it. The next day, I woke up with tremendous toothache. Thinking that it must be the popcorn, I tried to fix things with a toothpick. The problem got worse. By the evening, my entire right jaw, right neck, and my right ear was throbbing with pain. Not to mention the fever. So I went to the doctor for the routine checkup. And then....

It’s very easy to write about funny stuff. But your pain and your insecurities, not so much.

If there is one thing that could turn me to jelly out of fear, it is the sight of blood. Doctors are a special breed of people I genuinely fear. But things you fear the most keep coming back to you again and again. Somehow, I keep having to meet my dentist every six months. I still shiver when I think of the last surgery. I’ve had some of the weirdest encounters with dentists right from age five. I could probably write a dozen posts on that alone. 

Coming to wisdom teeth, I had my first one operated at age eighteen. The dentist was a muscular, hairy man, about 6 feet tall who looked like the devilish version of Kumar Sanu. I still remember the way he had towered over me, blocking the lights from my face, had caught my wrists with his hairy hands and had pinned me down before he mercilessly punched an injection into my gums. I was so shocked by the way he had grabbed me that I could hardly protest. The toothache had seemed nothing compared to the mental trauma I’d felt on being treated that way. Of course he was the doctor and he knew what he was doing. But I never again went back to him, or to a male doctor for that matter.

My new dentist is a lovely looking Punjabi lady with smooth, hairless hands. She is barely a few years older than me and is very sweet. This time, she checked me thoroughly, and after an agonizing scrutiny for about 15 minutes and constantly gurgling and spitting blood, she decided that I needed a tooth extraction.

Me: What? But it was just popcorn.

Naah, the popcorn was in no way responsible, she found no popcorn, it was the wisdom tooth causing the pain and the fever.

Dentist: Get it extracted. Come Sunday evening. I am writing the list of antibiotics and pain killers you must take......

Me: Hey hang on, you mean this Sunday? Four days from now? But I need some time to be mentally prepared. 

Dentist: Girl, I would be with the scalpel and scissors, not you.

And this brought afresh the memories of the last time.

To add insult to the injury, mom tries to pacify me. She says- Toothache is much better than labor pains. What would you do then?

And the dentist says- Ah, with such an irregular set of dentition, problems are sure to arise. But then, you have to pay a price for having a sweet smile.

Very funny.

So Sunday evening it is then. And knowing me, I know that I am gonna worry myself sick the next four days. I am gonna behave badly with friends, am gonna be irritated and restless throughout the day, am gonna cry for no reason, and am gonna get mad at everything and everybody.

And I wonder, what would I do with so much of wisdom? This is the third one.

BTW, I just looked at the prescription and found out another reason why I could never become a doctor. I do not have an illegible handwriting.

To be continued..................

sunshine.