I Do! Do I? by Ruchita Misra

Author:Ruchita Misra
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers India
Published: 2014-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

23

23 May 2013, 10.00 a.m.

Dad was now well settled in the private room. Family, friends and relatives had all been calling up as news of Dad’s dramatic surgery spread far and wide. With Dad out of the ICU and danger, Mum was only too happy to relate the whole sequence of events to anyone willing to listen. There were, of course, some modifications. For instance, the time between the MRI scan and the surgery was reduced from four hours (the real number) to forty-five minutes (the more dramatic number), from two doctors wheeling Dad into the OT, the number theatrically shot up to eleven doctors and – lo and behold – fourteen nurses. If the latest version was to be believed, it would seem that the entire hospital had been in an uproar and Mum was just about managing to keep everything in control.

I found myself shaking my head but smiling nevertheless.

6.00 p.m.

‘Subdural hematoma?’ asked the nurse, looking at Dad’s chart and readying him for another antibiotic injection. Purva, who seemed to know every doctor in the world, had made sure that Dad was getting five-star treatment from everyone, ranging from the head of the department to the nurse.

Dad nodded his head, which at least looked considerably lighter, now that the helmet-like bandage had been taken off.

‘Today is Monday?’ she asked, most casually.

‘No, I think it’s Tuesday,’ Dad corrected her.

‘So you are a doctor too?’

‘Yes,’ said Dad, rolling up his sleeves, ready for the injection.

‘Your specialty, Doctor Sa’ab?’

‘Ortho,’ he said.

I rolled my eyes. This covert way of checking if Dad’s memory was working fine was ridiculous. Of course, as soon as Dad had come into his private room, I had asked him what two-plus-two was. He had smiled and rattled off the multiplication table of thirty-seven, which had Mum really worried for a second; after all, seventy-four was not the sum of two and two.

‘Your name, Doctor Sa’ab,’ she asked again.

Dad looked at her and, with a straight face, said, ‘Pintu.’

Pitajee laughed for two minutes without stopping. Seeing him in splits, Mum joined in, as did Anu. Even I managed a small smile. The nurse on the other hand, scuttled out as soon as she could.

8.00 p.m.

I was sitting on the floor outside Dad’s room, taking a moment to myself. I rested my head against the wall as sounds of laughter from the room reached me. Purva, Mum, Anu and Pitajee were inside, entertaining Dad. Eleven times since Dad’s surgery, various doctors have tousled my hair and told me that subdural hematoma is an uncomplicated surgery. I am, of course, ready to kill anyone who repeats that to me. It is my dad. Even if subdural hematoma needed the simplest surgery known to man, it happened to my dad and, because of that simple fact, it is, for me, a big deal.

I was thinking these angry, dark thoughts when someone touched my hand gently, startling me out of my reverie.

Pitajee. He joined me on the floor and held my tightly-clamped fist.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.