Down the Medical Memory Lane (names changed)

If you happen to watch an accident as you drive along, the natural tendency among passengers thereafter is to share the accidents they had witnessed. Similarly, as I lie down on bed battling with viral fever, under the care of daily-change doctors in our Clinic, thoughts of my visits to hospitals, clinics, labs, pharmacists, in the various stages of my life go past my mind.

I was 8 or 10 when there was an epidemic of cholera, plague or smallpox. The elders engaged Dr Tanikachalam, a family doctor to many houses, for a mass inoculation/vaccination programme, starting with children. Very competent, he was a Mr Serious – even with children. I can’t recall him ever having smiled. His driver, Mr Noor Mohammad, was still worse.  He won’t let us, children, touch doctor’s new Oldsmobile car. 

Everything was ready. But no child was forthcoming. Ten, fifteen minutes have passed – no sign of anyone coming forward. Then my Chiittappa, a happy go lucky person, announced, “Ah, Sundaram is a brave boy, he climbs treetops, rooftops and is always for daredevilry. He will take the first shot.” Everybody clapped. I had no choice. Took the shot. “Ask him if it was painful,” suggested the doctor to the others. “No, not at all,” I said, as I managed to hide my tears out of pain.

For day-to-day bruises, scratches, or small cuts that we five siblings might sustain while playing, our parents had a monthly account with Compounder Krishna Iyer who had his small clinic where he attended up to surgery which didn’t require anaesthesia. He had worked under Dr Tanikachalam. Both were competent in their fields, but both given to short temper. It was this sharp-edge nature that led them part ways. Compounder Krishna Iyer’s separate clinic did eat into Doc’s income. Decades later, while in Hebbal, we were surprised to see that his granddaughter was staying just 200 yards away from us. I was delighted to see someone from my village, and I even showed her the scar on my back of the surgery her grandpa had done.

In Delhi, we had three family physicians in the three different localities that we lived. Two of them were MDs and one MBBS. All three simply superb and were incorruptible. No unwanted lab, x-ray or other tests. As my boys were coming of age, Dr Ashok Taneja whispered into our ears that drug peddling was taking strong roots in the area and asked us to be careful with our children.

My Mother, diabetic, was easy going with food, and relished spicy food. Things started getting out of control. Unable to persuade her at our end, we took her to Doctor Anju Khanna. She was still unrelenting: “Let me eat as I please. Doesn’t matter if it means an early death. So much the better.” Dr Anju Khanna replied to her politely: “Mata ji, maybe so, but don’t think it will occur suddenly one fine morning. You will get first gangrene, your leg may have to be amputated; you will be bedridden, there will be urinary and other problems. The end could be very painful.  Only you will have to suffer.” It went into Mom’s head, and she became a little more careful.

In office we do exchange our experiences with doctors. My collegue, Mr Bhatia, would always be one up. “One dose of my doctor’s medicine, and the disease disappears.” He would repeat it for everything. For three kinds of small medical issues – sneezing, cough, fever…, I noted down his prescriptions and showed it to Dr Anju Khanna. She smiled. Yes I too can prescribe them. But once you get immune to them, there is no other alternative. He prescribes the ultimate. I prescribe two steps below, so that we have stronger doses to rely on. In other words, it’s like prescribing straightaway steroid. 

In Geneva I was hospitalized for a medical intervention. The surgeon explained the situation and gave me the options. “Non-invasive, invasive, or radical.” What would you do if you were operating your own father?” I asked him. “I would give the same choice,” he quipped, giving me no escape route.

“I say, your breakfast is ready,” comes a voice from the kitchen, bringing the flow of thoughts to an abrupt ending.