My Medical History: Two stories

  

Our pain is our own.

This week, three different guys tried to share their pain with me.

An old man, whom I know since the time he wasn’t old, gave me a lengthy discourse on the series of ailments he suffers from. He consumes something like forty tablets each evening. And now, the doctors have recommended a hernia operation for him. At my age, imagine, he said and talked in great detail about that malady. I made a grave face, said sorry I was in a rush and left him.

A friend of mine, who had an operation performed on his buttocks this week, called and began describing graphically – using technical and lay terms – the operation and its aftermath. I said sorry I must have network problems, can’t hear anything, and finally cut the call.

Yesterday I saw an acquaintance standing on crutches. Before I could greet him, he said he was on crutches for the past 47 days (and 5 hours), and went on to tell me about his motorbike accident. It wasn’t really his mistake, he added, and cursed the traffic police for not having the right procedures. When this went on for forty minutes, I said sorry I was getting late for the gym (which I was) and wished him a speedy recovery. 

Pain of someone else is easy to bear. Particularly when you are healthy and not suffering from the same affliction. (Two diabetic or arthritic patients can lovingly talk to each other for hours). I’m normally sympathetic and have enough imagination to understand what the other person must feel. But please, spare me the details and the graphic descriptions. I’ve decided that if I reach old age, and find myself in a situation similar to the man on forty tablets, I should consciously try to keep my miseries to myself.

Having said that, in this article I plan to talk about my medical history. Contradiction? Hypocrisy? No. First of all, the stories here have happened in the past. I don’t seek readers’ sympathy. Secondly, the objective of this piece is educative. God forbid, but if you experience similar symptoms, you’ll be able to identify the malady immediately, and know what to do and what not to. I’ll try to keep out unsavoury descriptions as much as I can.

I’m not a qualified doctor. But I’m a qualified patient. I was a sickly child. It’s a wonder how I managed to survive childhood. Some people donate their bodies after death for the benefit of medical science. I’ve done the same thing while alive.

***

You have possibly heard this story from me.

Non-muscular young men observe their bare chests only when shaving. Shaving is one ritual that forces them to stand in front of a mirror. In 1990, I was working as a consultant in Moscow. I lived in the hotel Sevastopol. One morning while shaving, my eyes caught something unusual in the mirror. My chest, from neck downwards, was full of black patches. Oval-shaped spots that looked like rash. I caressed the patches with my palm. There was no pain, no itch. Simply a chest full of black patches. I waited for two or three days, and began feeling uneasy. A focused thought about the patches made permanent residence in my brain. Except for the fact that my chest was spotted, I was fine. But without pain and without itching, what were the patches doing there? What was going to follow? How did they appear in the first place?

Ten days later, I went to see a Russian doctor.

‘Must be some allergy.’ He said and gave me an ointment. Doctors, who don’t appear confident when giving opinions, aggravate your discomfort. I decided I would consult an Indian doctor. In a week’s time I was scheduled to fly back to Bombay.

The first thing I did on reaching home was to call my aunt –a pathologist.

‘If it’s not bothering you, why are you worried?’ She asked.

‘I have the patches for three weeks now. I just can’t get them off my chest.’ I tried to be witty though I was genuinely scared.

My aunt said I should go the following day to the Sion hospital, the municipal hospital where she worked. Her colleague was a skin specialist. 

The hospital smells frighten me. They are normally accompanied by bad news. My black-spotted heart thumping, I walked with my aunt in the hospital corridors.

‘Oh, there she is.’ Said my aunt.

‘Who?’

‘My friend – the skin specialist.’

The two women started chatting – and the chat was interminable. Both were doctors, but women first. I looked at my aunt with my eyes full of meaning.

‘This is my nephew.’ My aunt said. ‘He has some patches on his chest.’

‘Please take off your shirt.’ Said the skin specialist.

‘What? Here?’ Awkwardly, I removed the shirt in the corridor.

The lady doctor threw a fleeting glance.

‘Ok, you can put it on again.’

‘That’s it?’ I asked and wore my shirt.

To my amazement, the skin specialist continued her chattering with my aunt. And no mention of my chest at all.

‘Excuse me…’ I pointed to my chest.

‘Oh that, nothing to worry about.’ The doctor said.

‘I haven’t told you, these patches have appeared more than three weeks ago.’

‘Do you travel much – in different weather conditions?’

I nodded. I spent alternate months in Bombay and Moscow. You couldn’t have weather conditions more different. Had my aunt told the doctor about me?

‘That explains it, then.’ The doctor said.

‘But what should I do? You know for the past three weeks…’

‘You should be proud of yourself. This thing happens only to healthy young men.’

‘That may be so. But I would rather be a healthy young man without black spots on my chest. What’s wrong anyway?’

‘The name is Pityriasis rosea,’ she said, ‘the patches will vanish on the 42^nd day since they appeared first. And you won’t get them again in your life.’

I went home and checked the medical encyclopaedia. It said exactly what the doctor had said. This was an unknown lady doctor in a municipal hospital. She had correctly diagnosed in seconds. The type of experience that an Indian doctor gets makes her far superior to the European colleagues. I’ve heard of Indian surgeons who have performed more than ten thousand heart transplants. (I also wonder if that’s the reason why Indians are wiser. We see so many samples of human emotions – jealousy, hatred, anger, love, indifference, cruelty, goodness – that we are better at recognising human behaviour instantly.)  

On the 42^nd day, the patches vanished and never appeared on my chest again.

***

At the beginning of 1991, I moved to my first apartment in Moscow. I loved winter, I loved snow and I was convinced that the Moscow weather was good for my health. In Russia, I had never fallen ill.  Naturally, it took me some time to realise my cheeks were swollen like tomatoes. Cold and flu were not new to me. But this time my head, my cheeks, my teeth, my nose… one after the other began aching. It was a comprehensive package. Breathing was difficult. On the third day, I lay flat unable to think of anything except the pain in every part of my head. Outside the window, it was snowing. The temperature was twenty degrees below zero. I could feel the chill even when heating was on.

My Russian fiancée, Lena, tried the folk remedies. Like putting boiled eggs on the cheeks. They didn’t work. I didn’t even feel like eating the eggs.

‘We’ll have to take you to a hospital.’ Lena said. ‘No sensible person should go to a Russian hospital, but your condition is worrying.’

I agreed after a promise that I would go for a diagnosis, but wouldn’t lie in the hospital. Lena needed to make a few phone calls. In those days, it was impossible to get a hospital appointment without contacts or gifts.

‘You have Gaimorit. You probably didn’t cover your head properly.’ Said the Russian lady doctor. ‘A serious one. Come tomorrow at eleven. You need punctures.’

By this time, my voice was a croak. Anyway, I didn’t have the courage to ask what punctures meant. It was true I hated wearing fur hats. I had never used Long Johns. In my textbooks, I had read about Russia’s human seals who swim bare-chested in freezing temperatures. Of course, I never dreamt of matching them, but yes, I had occasionally run in the mornings wearing only the sportswear. My head really needed to be checked.

The next day, in the hospital, I was surprised to see the room where I was summoned. It looked more like a theatre – not an operation theatre but a drama theatre. Yesterday’s lady doctor asked me to take the chair on the stage.

‘I should… should I… sit here?’ I occupied the chair. My face was red and bulging. I kept opening my mouth for breathing. I hope you have not experienced them, but there are certain types of pain when you think death is preferable.

‘What are we waiting for?’ I asked. It was more than twenty minutes since my entry in the auditorium.

‘I have called my students.’ The lady doctor said.

The students arrived and took seats. My hand reflexively covered my face. There must have been forty or so students. The lady doctor stood up.

‘I thought I should invite you.’ She addressed her students. ‘This is a fine specimen of double-sided acute antritis. You may have seen the left- or the right-sided antritis, but this is a rare example where both nasal antrites are inflamed. In fact, this is at a fairly advanced stage. The maxillary area is entirely inflamed. Such advanced cases can lead to meningitis and death. Why don’t each of you come forward and take a closer look?’

The students then formed a queue and one after another scrutinised my nose – as if it was part of a Madam Tussauds exhibit. One girl pressed my cheek and asked if it was painful. I smiled artificially and said yes. Taking cue, everyone started pressing different parts of my face and head.

‘Is it painful here? And here? Does it hurt more here… or there?’

‘Your teeth are very white. Can you tell us how?’ one girl asked.

‘The white teeth are also aching now.’ I answered and everyone laughed.

‘Ok, I think enough of inspection.’ interrupted the doctor-professor. ‘Before I start punctures, please ask any questions you have.’

That was followed by a Q&A. I was ensconced in the chair all the while. If I had an appetite, I would have felt hungry.

Finally, she took a needle in her hand.

‘Come closer, all of you… so you can watch it.’

The students gathered around me.

The Russian lady doctor poked the needle in my nose. It tickled my nose, but it was a lethal tickling. I stifled my scream with effort.  

‘As you can see it’s painful, but effective. I haven’t yet managed it. The puncture pumps out the impurities.’

The doctor gave me another shot. Another tickling. I wanted to scream and sneeze. I kept my eyes shut.

‘You need to find the right spot. I’m not getting it.’ Said the lady. ‘Maybe I should try the other nostril.’ 

She went on poking the needle in my nostrils. What was left of my brain considered fleeing. This was more unbearable than the antritis itself.

After another try, and an agonising sound from me, she said,

‘I think I should call Dr Petrov. I’m not able to use the necessary force.’

She then left the auditorium. I wiped my face with my handkerchief.

After a few minutes, she reappeared. With a man in a white coat. This must be Dr Petrov. He didn’t say a word. He took the needle, stood close to me and gave a jab. For a moment I thought I died. It was a moment of supreme pain – no tickling, no whining, one single moment of supreme pain, and it was over with that nostril. He repeated the procedure on the second nostril. I lived another supreme moment. But I didn’t scream at all. And my face felt lighter. My eyes weakly smiled at Dr Petrov.

‘See the type of strength you need.’ Said the lady doctor. ‘When this patient comes the next time, those of you who feel you are strong enough can try executing the punctures. I think you had a good lesson today.’

I am not in a position to describe the next few days. Before going to the hospital, I trembled. I felt what the enslaved prisoners in concentration camps must have felt before attending their torture sessions. One thing I managed through skilful negotiations was ensuring Dr Petrov would deal with me, alone, in his cabin. No students ever saw me again. Two bottles of vodka had convinced Dr Petrov that this was the best strategy to treat the patient.

When I returned to India in March, I went once again with my aunt – where else, but to the Sion hospital. To check that there was no long-term damage.

‘In Moscow you said? What treatment were you given?’ The doctor checking me asked.

‘Punctures.’

‘Punctures? What punctures?’

I gave the details.

The doctor laughed. He called his colleagues and said look what they do in Moscow to treat maxillary sinusitis.

‘This is…’ he said to me, ‘a 19^th century method. Primitive and long forgotten. In India, we don’t use it. Indian antibiotics would have cured you easily.’

Ravi