Recovery blues

Recently I underwent surgery at a posh city hospital. The ordeal over, I was placed in a more traumatic situation.

Honestly, the experience was shattering. If I was kept 24 hours in the recovery room, I took a full 24 hours thereafter to recover from the aftermath of the stressful stay there. This is how the sob story unfolds.

I was operated upon for a lump in the throat. I was brought out of the operation theatre with my hands pinned down with wires and tubes.

I was wheeled into the room like the vegetable push-cart pushed in and out of the Koyambedu market. The pushing is so fast that you have to be exceptionally lucky and the ward boy inordinately skilful, to avert corridor accidents.

When you arrive in the room, you realise that all are equal when it comes to pain and trauma. People with all kinds of ailments and in different stages of recovery, are placed under one roof.

You are not supposed to mind since you are in a dazed semi- anaesthetised state and hence quite unaware of your surroundings and neighbours.

Sadly enough, you are welcomed with a demoralising groan from the orthopaedic patient at the mere touch of the hem of his bedsheet or a doleful moan from the renal failure case following a tug of the catheter tube.

Once wheeled into your slot, you realise that there are no separate cubicles to designate that particular place temporarily as ``yours privately''.

I realised that I had to resort to curtain call if the need arose but alas, in this context I espied that it was made of flimsy material that generously let the eyes of all around to see through it.

To add insult to injury you are informed that there is no toilet built anywhere around too. To heighten the gloom, you often hear the word ``died''.

Since I was operated for a lump in the throat, there was no voice forthcoming, no bell to sound and hence I had to put up my hand and shake it vigorously - a distress signal when seeking attention.

I had grown up to believe that administration of oxygen is resorted to as a life-saving measure and hence seeing the oxygen tube hanging from my nostril, I decided I was near dead. I was not once told that after anaesthesia, oxygen is given to nullify the former's after-effects.

To monitor the pulse, periodically the clip on the thumb nail will be clamped at different angles causing different degrees of pain.

When slumber overpowered me strict instructions as to ``don't sleep'', ``breathe deeply'' rudely awakened me.

Add to this recording of the blood pressure every now and then, painful adjustment of the bead-like drip drops that refused to crawl under the skin, no pain killers by day but retching due to medicine at night followed by sleeplessness... the traumatic picture is almost complete.

Then you have the ceremonial royal change of guard, which lasts for well over two hours when the duty persons change and you are subject to all this testing over again.

Just when all is quiet and you are on the threshold of slumberland, the lights are all turned on with a flash and you are greeted with ``It is 4 a.m. I have to swab you''.

I have heard that Man proposed, God disposes but here it is left to all around to dispose as to when you are to repose.

Is not physical rest of utmost importance rather than all the paper work and routine?

To an old-timer like me, recovery would entail complete rest with a near and dear one holding my hand, soft strains of soothing music, lovely pictures on the wall or an encouraging quote — these are a few of my favourite things for putting me back on my feet.

THARA MOHAN RAO

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