Gas passer – striving for more

Ok, this aint the best way to look at the past few days, but really, this must be recorded.

I needed to have my insides overhauled – had finished producing my children so my system decided the uterus really couldn’t stay unproductive. So the uterus started producing fibroids. Would have been fine, except fibroids are never delivered. They just grow and grow and push things around and generally cause trouble, until of course, you’re too old to produce kids anyway.

Finally, the surgery got scheduled. Here I am, flattened out on a gurney, with a couple of needles poking in. Set one of the surgeons comes around, pushes some papers in front of me and says sign. Oh-kaaay! So, I sign on the dotted line. Then comes the next set, another lot of papers, another signature. Here I’m thinking, would they do the same to someone who’s not a doctor’s wife? I know I’ve read the consent form, but isn’t someone supposed to tell me all the risks? (A different matter that as an anaesthetist’s wife, I probably am a firm believer in Murphy’s law. More can go wrong than one can even begin listing)

Next, I’m rolled in to the OT. Transfer myself to the operating table with huge round lights beaming down on me, like in the fillums. So, tell me, why could I not have just walked in?

Next thing I know I’m waking up, feeling thirsty. Hubby being Hubby, lovingly dabs the parched lips with a wet rag. Swimming in an out of sleep for the next few hours, I’m closely monitored in the post op area – no ICU with seriously ill patients for me to see and scare me(aaaaah! the advantages of being a staff wife).

Time to be shifted to the room. So the blood trolley rattles through corridors, lifts and more corridors and its time to shift to the bed. Now, this takes some doing. 5-6 guys, all hanging on to the sheet below me heave ho at once and there you are, Bob’s you uncle!

Monitors are attached, cuffs tied in place. And the first sips of water administered. The pain med pump is set. Two hrs later, the pump decides its not working and the first of the beeps go off. Bleary eyed, hubby looks into it. Fifteen minutes later, back to the same, and so on through the rest of the night. The nursing staff is in and out through the night. The heart monitor keeps taking my BP at set intervals, crushing my upper arm to smithereens every time. The shoulder begins to ache. The poor nurse is pressed into massaging the shoulder and upper arm. All in all, not a great night, though a lot worse for the attending hubby and nurses-I’m all woozed out, they are the ones working!

Morning arrives with belches, nausea and endless questions about passing gas. At least 7 incidences of hearing to me tum. Meanwhile the loo door malfunctions, locking people in – so am shifted to the next room. Is it the movement, or just that it was bound to happen, the big throw-up arrives. Turn my head, no kidney tray in site, so just throw up all over the freshly changed sheet. A large towel is pressed into service. Soaked through. It’s all out, finally. Feeling much better for it.

The rest of the day is spent in no hunger, no pain, and answering the Big Question – HAVE YOU BEEN PASSING GAS? Thirst assuaged infrequently with sips of water, and HAVE YOU BEEN PASSING GAS? Being raised up, lowered, belches, belches and more belches – followed often by a small upchuck of bile laden mucous, checked and the Big Question – HAVE YOU BEEN PASSING GAS?

Yup I’ve been belching, horribly so. No, No – Paaaasing gas??? Yup I have(ain’t that just too indelicate a question to answer?)

A more peaceful night. No monitors going beep. No Big Questions to answer. A midnight top-up of pain killer, right into the spine. Brilliant! No pain. Snooze off once again.

Morning arrives and my left leg decides not to move left to right or vice versa. Shall I press the panic button? Wait a while. Nope. It ain’t getting better… but I remember the incident described on other patients and their reactions. So mention it but keep the panic under wraps. And yes, I PASSED GAS!

Ok, time to remove the catheter that has been quietly removing all the liquid product of my kidneys. A swift pull, and its out. Two hours later, no sensation. I don’t still wanna go. And there’s talk of putting it back in. Disadvantages of a VIP patient. A lot more gets done than absolutely necessary. Thankfully, 3 hrs later, make it to the loo and voila, pass urine on my own and some poop too. Everyone’s happy! No more catheters for me. A fairly peaceful night except for a trip to the loo. Morning arrives, Hubby gets ready for work having checked on the pain med, blood pressure, position, etc. and yes, I continue to Pass Gas.

Now, I’m hungry. Ask for breakfast – just a soft-boiled egg and toast will do. Consternation in all quarters. No, no, we can’t give you food till the consultant says so! She’s not likely to be in for another couple of hours and I’m hungry! My stomach growls. I call the Hubby. Apparently, no patient in recent history has actually ever asked for food on their own. Everyone moans, groans and generally requires cajoling to take in the daily nutrition. Hmmmm. Yup, I’m certifiably nuts. Much consulting later some breakfast is brought in – hard boiled eggs, cornflakes with skim milk and toast. So what If I’ve been growling lactose intolerance.

Couple of humdrum days later – spent alternating with smiles for vistors, bucking up the kids, pain, indigestion, horrible food – with no respect for the lactose intolerance, I’m released. Street Clothes! What a blessing! Hadn’t realized how much the hospital clothes were irritating me. The wheelchair is brought in. Looking around who its for. Certainly not going to be wheeled out. Big battle over this. Hey, I aint a cripple. Eventually have my way and walk out on me own two feet.

Hell yes, I am still PASSING GAS! Too much of it.

I Hate Religion

Or rather what it makes of people. Any religious being believes that my own religion is far superior to every other, that people belonging or following that religion are better. That others belonging to another religion are somehow lesser beings.

Every religious and pious being, spending hours in prayer and meditation, believes they are on the path of salvation. They believe that every prayer shall be answered with a ‘yes’ because they bribe God with a chadar, with money, with food, with hunger, with abstinence. That God may have ‘no’ for an answer is not to be contemplated. Some places have a special connection and all prayers result in a positive.

Fynn wrote a book on Anna, a five year old abused child he found on the road. Fynn was 17 or 18 at the time. Anna’s vision of God is amazing in one sense and yet so absolutely right, that it feels that she has put into words what one has felt all along. Mr. God, This is Anna – seems to me is a book that must be read sometime in life – preferably in ones early teens, for the first time.

For me God has always been on my side. He has provided for me in the most difficult circumstances. For a person hating violence and unable to cope with it, He has made it possible for me to be away in some more peaceful place – without knowing why I should be away. He has made it possible for me to get 3 years of comfort and ease when I was at the point of breaking up. He has made it possible for me to have enough money to bail me out of the worst situations at critical points. He has made a wonderful housekeeper available to me. He has gifted me a wonderful husband and beautiful children at a time of utmost despair. Sometimes, He may have asked of me to do my duty, yet He has never demanded payment for all this and more that He has provided me with.

Being a peace loving person, who is yet to hit anyone in anger, it hurts to be asked time and again, why the Bombay Blasts. Just because I was born a Muslim, does that make me a terrorist or an expert on terrorism? Why am I supposed to know the thought processes of that vile breed? Yet it is the most devout who pray morning and night after having carefully bathed, who ask me this question. The very same who have known me for nearly half my life.

So, God is my best friend… but… I hate religion.

Emotional outbursts
We’ve all heard it from our parents – when you are parent you will understand… From childhood onwards – every time we exasperate – out comes this remark, made from a supposedly higher position.
Well yes, now that I am a parent, I do get exasperated too. However, I seem to be in the minority, who hasn’t forgotten ‘that age’.

Having reached this age one can only admire what our parents achieved with so much less. Continuing education, producing three children, their education, saving up for the weddings, all without a single complaint on how tough life is. We hated being left behind(for our education) on that foreign posting. Unthinking, we thought they were having a whale of a time, meeting a clutch of foreigners in another country, not knowing the local language, living isolated, the only Indians in a small town. A place where Vijayanthimala was the name of every Indian woman in a saree and Bol Radha Bol the song to sing after her. At the same age I’ve found it impossible to live in a city where Hindi/Urdu(my mother tongue) are the second language, Malayalam the third and English a distant fourth, where there is population of over 30% Indians.

We grudged them their holiday in Europe. Yet, with all their responsibilities they found the time and money go through Europe, living in cheap lodgings, carrying drinking water, and walking every where.

We’ve not understood how they could stoically stand by and look at years of hard work and savings go down to bull dozers of the Emergency Raj. At 14, I could have killed Sanjay without remorse. To go back and rebuild, to fight for an essential part of the whole… one can only wish for that courage.

That courage still exists can be seen in their ancient eyes, tired and lost from betrayal of decades long love. Love that was given at the cost of support to their only son. Love that supported during times of need – with ready cash, with emotional support, with hands-on labour. Always seen as the blessed – beautiful and rich – few saw the sheer effort required to walk back in the summer heat for lunch from work to be home when I reached home from school – to save the cost of petrol. No one ever saw us scrimping on food – living on dal chawal – when the cash ran low and the instalment for the flat had to be paid. No one saw the endless hours in the kitchen garden for fresh vegetables (3-4 days of bhindi on the table every week, the only vegetable that produced enough).

They’ve taught us to live with our heads held high. To bear uncomplaining the ravages of time. To know that this too, shall pass – the good the bad and the ugly. To enjoy the rain, the sunset, the sunrise, the smell of the soil as the first raindrops fall, the chill of winter…

Will we be able to pass on even a fraction? To give our children a core of values to last their lifetime?