‘Viral fever.’
It was November and coughs, colds and fevers were all over the place. Hot during the day, cold at night.
‘Quite common in children during a change in weather.’
A pen with an orange body and orange cap moved smoothly across the prescription slip, scribbling out medication twice a day for a week.
Back at home, the red bangles jingled as the soft hands opened the medicine bottles and administered the medicine holding the little mouth forcefully open. The little arms flailed and the little legs thrashed in protest and out came deafening yelps that kept bouncing off the four beige walls of the bedroom for quite some time. The medicine must’ve had a bitter aftertaste. When the medicine kicked in, however, the fever came down and there was much relief, laughter and play. Rice or roti stood absolutely no chance, so a packet of chips went in after a little coaxing. This brought some more relief. Something was better than nothing at all, wasn’t it?
The groans and whimpers and the cough returned by evening and the little forehead was burning again. The beautiful little face lost all of its mischief and vigour. In this condition, even the biscuits or chips went ignored. The little arms reached up demanding to be picked up, and wouldn’t get off the comforting laps even for a moment. Evening medication gave some reprieve.
The next morning wasn’t any better. There was relief as long as the effect of medication lasted, and then the fever and cough returned. What was worse was that the effect of medication now lasted only a couple of hours. Even less after the evening dose.
Biscuits and chips having failed miserably, the olive-green sandals hurried out of the house, kick-started the bike and drove out. In came apples, bananas, green grapes, pastries and egg puff, all of which were arrayed on the bedside table. All of them went untouched. The cries started off on a strong note but fizzled out in moments. Lack of energy.
‘He’s weak. He must eat something.’
Any coaxing, as usual, only brought more whimpers.
Or, could this mean a difficulty in breathing? Was the breath growing shallower and shallower? Were the lungs shrivelling up?
‘He’s refusing to lie down too!’
This realisation caused much restlessness and panic. The young ailing body was at once eased into a pista-green sweatsuit. The olive-green sandals started the bike immediately and the bike rumbled out through the gates toward another hospital. Too much traffic and noise along the way but the brittle evening air made the little eyes drowsy.
‘He can’t breathe well, doctor. Won’t eat anything.’
The flat end of the stethoscope felt the slender chest for a long time. Yes, there was some restriction. A blue click-pen worked along the prescription slip slowly and deliberately. A blood test and a chest X-ray.
The little eyes woke from sleep as the needle punctured the little, almost invisible vein at the elbow. The little arm tried to pull back with a half-breath cry. Maternal eyes brimmed with tears.
‘Check back for the reports in half an hour.’
The X-ray room was underground. Thankfully there were no needles or syringes down there, and the report sheet came out within five minutes.
The door to the doctor’s room opened without a creak and two pairs of feet shuffled in. The blue click-pen traced each element of the blood report from top to bottom. The X-ray report sheet went up against the tube light and hung there for a few seconds.
‘X-ray shows inflammation here, here and here, making breathing out a little difficult.’
The blood report was a matter of great concern. The blue click-pen hovered over TLC for some moments before underscoring it. 11,000 was the limit and the report said 21,200. And also, CRP: the report said 36 while the limit was supposed to be 6.
‘Too much infection in the blood. Admission is the best option.’
The two hearts sank, but the decision was made in no time. If admission was the best option, so be it.
‘Health insurance?’
‘No, sir.’
The click-pen glided through the prescription slip. Impression: Bronchopneumonia. And then, illegible medication all across. General ward was on the first floor, where there were six beds in all, three among them already occupied. A corner bed was vacant and looked fine. Help walked in and spread a clean green bedsheet on the corner bed. The olive-green sandals made an errand home and brought two blankets and an electric kettle. Assurances poured in from other occupied beds.
‘Everything would turn out fine.’
‘Very good doctor, you know.’
‘Such a sweet boy.’
‘Such a small boy.’
‘Infection? Too bad?’
‘Don’t worry, it will come down in two days.’
The white nursing coat on duty shuffled in. A cannula was eased into the little wrist, to the accompaniment of weak protests. A saline bottle turned up, hung from a pole next to the bed, dripping its contents into the little wrist. Most medication was injected into the saline bottle while some went directly into the little veins through the cannula. Some time later the little eyes shut in sleep, the little hands still holding the loving hand that wore the red bangles.
Not everything was settled so far. There was still a problem. The olive-green sandals walked out of the hospital into the cold of the night and, making phone calls, crossed the road towards a restaurant to get the dinner packed. The first call went unanswered. The second one turned out a complete waste of time. The third one brought in nine thousand rupees, the fourth one none, and the fifth one twenty thousand rupees. Now there was some relief.
At eleven o’clock, the nursing coat turned up in the general ward holding a metal box with a monitor. The metal box’s name and purpose became clear as it approached the corner bed. Pulse Oximeter. Used to check pulse and oxygen saturation (SpO2). Just a little ahead in time, this PO was to have full emotional control over the two miserable hearts. It was going to play a significant role in disturbing, restoring, disturbing, restoring mental peace with every passing hour.
The sensor probe’s infrared mouth opened up and went for the little big toe. The pulse graph dipped and rose and dipped and rose for a few seconds before it displayed the results accompanied by a soft two-tone alarm. Pulse was 140, SpO2 dancing between 79 and 83%. The pista-green sweatshirt went up and the little chest was checked, found swollen.
‘Oxygen saturation too low, pulse too high. The boy needs oxygen support.’
Panic.
The couple of beds that had the provision of oxygen support in the general ward were already occupied. So the corner bed turned vacant once again. A little ahead, along the same gallery, the key to room no. 203 turned and the door opened with an eerie creak. The room had a neatly arranged patient bed and another one for the others to rest on. An AC was there too but was neatly wrapped in newspaper because it was November. There was a separate bathroom. But most importantly, a white oxygen pipe ran along the wall up to the head post of the patient bed. Water bubbled in the oxygen filter at the end of the pipe as filtered oxygen went into the little nostrils by means of a silicone pipe stuck to the little cheeks with a med plaster. The saline bottle had shifted in too.
The Pulse Oximeter now settled atop the low almirah at the foot of the patient bed and bossed over the room with its monitoring eyes. Its sensor probe was connected to the big toe, as it should be at all times from now on. The adjustment knob over the bubbling oxygen filter turned this way and that and, after a while, the PO was a little satisfied: SpO2 came up to 92%. But this didn’t mean it would ignore the elevated pulse, which it openly blinked on its display, letting out the soft two-tone alarm. An injection went in through the cannula. This was supposed to calm the heart down for the night. The pulse came slowly down and settled around 95. Finally, some inner peace. Panic eased down. Sweat on the foreheads and backs began to dry up under the slowly moving fan. The nurse coat was satisfied too.
‘Call me if the SpO2 goes below 90%.’
Two o’clock in the morning. The little chest was heaving steadily under the white bedsheet. The room was left with two sets of worried eyes watching the PO intently. So far the SpO2 had gone below 90% three times, but went back up within a few seconds.
Five thirty in the morning. SpO2 went down to 84. The PO sounded its soft two-tone alarm. Panic.
‘Call the duty nurse, call the duty nurse!’
Nurse coat hurried in. The knob over the bubbling filter turned, levelling up the oxygen input. It took a long time, but the SpO2 went up. Relief.
Six o’clock. SpO2 crashed to 82. Readjustments were made on the knob. SpO2 went up but wouldn’t stay above 90 for too long. It stayed below 90%, sometimes dipping below 85%, which made the PO give out its alarm.
The stethoscope came on its morning round. SpO2 was going like 84-85-83-84-85-86… Discussion between the stethoscope and the nurse coat.
‘SpO2 isn’t improving.’
An opinion was made. And then, a decision was reached. In came a second machine, its castors squeaking. The little arms and legs and face were held immobile while a thin suction tube went into each nostril to draw out the brown red mucus. Weak resistance, weak cries echoed through the room. Then came another, bigger machine. The oxygen pipe now went into this machine first, mixed with air as per the set proportions and sent up the warm oxygen-air mix to the little nostrils.
‘Cold weather outside; cold oxygen supply.’
This machine was about ten times bigger than the PO. Yet, it was still the PO that held sway over the room and there was no question at all about it. SpO2 rose to 92. Not bad. Some improvement after all the effort. But the PO wasn’t fully satisfied.
‘Give me 95!’ the PO demanded the machine.
The machine cowered, struggled for an answer despite its hugeness compared to the PO.
‘I’m… I’m trying.’
A blood collection tube filled with another blood sample reached the lab for a repeat blood test.
‘Check back in half an hour.’
Results showed that the CRP came down to 22. From 35 to just 22 in two days? The olive-green sandals walked over to the doctor’s room.
‘We’ll have to wait a little more.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The olive-green sandals retraced their way back to the room.
‘The doctor says we’ll have to wait.’
‘How long?’
‘A little more.’
Calculations. They must be ready for four or five days more. Mobile came on, UPI PIN was clicked and the balance shown clearly wasn’t enough.
‘We need more money.’
‘What do we do now?’
The mobile lit up again and made a call. An old female voice answered from another state.
‘We’ll need more money, Ma.’
It was taking much longer than expected. God alone knew how much longer it was going to take. How long could one ask around for money?
‘Don’t worry, son. We’ll do something.’
A gold necklace became unfastened from around the old neck that morning. Before noon, the necklace had been weighed, quality-checked, and was settled among other valuable things in the most secure chambers of a national bank, in exchange for a loan.
The little mouth still accepted no food. It was a horrific sight to see the little body lie weak, surrounded by machines, with the oxygen tube stuck across the cheeks. Who could’ve imagined it would come to this? What could’ve caused the infection? Bad food? Bad water? Bad air? Weather change? Playing in the soil? Or was it an internal infection?
The little eyes kept flitting lazily around the room. They had figured out by this time that if the door opened and unfamiliar faces walked in, it meant pain. The sheer sight of unfamiliar faces filled them with terror. Tears cascaded down the little cheeks and the little limbs resisted weakly and the little arms rose up towards the two familiar faces. It took a full hour to comfort the little heart.
‘Everything’s going to be all right, my child.’
The stethoscope came on its round. Pulse moved between 80 and 90. Not too bad. SpO2 seemed to be stuck between 85 and 90. It should’ve improved by now. More discussions in the medical language between the stethoscope and the nurse coat before the stethoscope turned to the olive-green sandals.
‘We’re exploring the possibilities.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Now there could be a bunch of reasons, right? Blood, heart, head… We’re exploring the possibilities.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The blue click-pen moved scribbling out tests. Echo and a head X-ray. The two pairs of worried eyes kept staring down at the paper long after the stethoscope left the room.
‘Is something wrong with our child?’
Maternal eyes welled up again. Paternal eyes had no option but to stay strong and defiant. They simply couldn’t afford that luxury. This was a time to be a little strict with emotions. Emotions are quite explosive. One moment of weakness could lead to a total derangement.
Despite mutual assurances, it was quite clear that the comfort lay in the test results.
Heart hospital was a walkable distance away. The specialist eyes observed the blue-green-yellow-red mosaic playing live on the screen while the worried eyes waited for the verdict with bated breaths. For the little eyes, it was more unfamiliar walls and faces, more discomfort. Therefore, more resistance. The little body wouldn’t stay calm, kept moving and moving, wanting to get up and walk out of all the discomfort.
‘Please calm him down.’
It took three attempts to get a decisive analysis of the little heart. But relief eventually.
‘Heart is absolutely healthy. Nothing to worry about.’
Same with the head X-ray. Everything was fine with it too.
‘See, I told you everything will be all right.’
‘Baby shark do-do-do-do-do…’
The little eyes now began to take note of the cartoons playing on the mobile. The little head began to nod in tune; the little arms emulated the movements every now and then. It was at this time that something went in. A biscuit or some rice. It was proving much harder now to keep the little hands from trying to pull the oxygen tube off the face. All the good mood and good spirits lasted only until the moment those hostile faces appeared holding those nasty syringes or that terrible nebuliser that made breathing so uncomfortable. No cartoons, no food entertained for a long time after that. Groans and grunts, fingers pointing at the door as if saying, ‘Let me go out.’
The little hand that had the cannula had moved so frequently it began to swell like a balloon. There was no choice but to bring the nurse coat into the room.
‘Will you please get a new cannula from the dispensary?’
The swollen wrist was pinned down to remove the cannula. The new one went into the other wrist. Loud and long cries broke out. The cries were a source of worry, but there was also some relief. This was a sure sign that the little lungs were in a much better working condition now.
The stethoscope came on its round.
‘Well, this is a good sign. This means the kid is getting better.’
But it was really hard to hold the kid back.
‘Is there a possibility for a discharge, doctor? Can we give him oral medicines from now? We don’t live too far from here. We’ll come for check-ups morning and evening.’
‘We’ll see after the blood test.’
Blood test report showed that the CRP came down to 5.6. Great news. SpO2 was 94 without oxygen support. Not bad. The only cause of concern was that SpO2 was dropping a little at night. The final decision was made and on the fifth evening. The olive-green sandals kick-started the bike for the journey home. The cautious red bangles made a cup of the hand and masked the little mouth and nose as a sort of a shield against the cold and dusty air. The little fingers pointed to the cars and buses and lorries and autos and other bikes zooming past.
For the first time in a long while, the chapped little lips stretched into a smile as the little eyes scanned the familiar beige walls of the bedroom. Vaseline came in. The little hand made a gesture asking to bring it closer. The index finger dipped into the Vaseline and applied it clumsily on the dry lips.
Now the little finger pointed to the fan overhead. As the fan began to spin at its lowest speed, the little eyes brightened up and the smile turned into a grin and the grin matured into a soft laughter. A little later, the little hand reached automatically into the plate that lay on the bed with a jaggery roti rustled up by the red bangles.
The little mouth only took a few bites, but this was such a relieving sight that the paternal eyes were overwhelmed. They were quite explosive, these emotions. The proud, defiant eyes couldn’t hold them in check any longer. All the masculine courage melted into moments of vulnerability and tears of immense joy rolled down the stubbled cheeks.
DoubleSpeak 