By Devraj Singh Kalsi
As one grows older, there is a growing concern about failing health even if no major health issues are detected. Anything that causes a minor aggravation calls for a timely consultation to prevent complications later. Driven by the lure of prevention benefits, I chose to visit a general physician for the comforting thought that a medical practitioner was checking my pulse, monitoring my blood pressure and oxygen levels, pricking my finger for sugar spike, and noting the abnormalities on the electronic gadgets under his control. While he carried out the standard procedural check-ups for deviations, I was finding it difficult to trust these devices just like the opposition political parties cannot trust the EVM for accurate polling results. Since the readings confirmed my overall good health, I ruled out the need to worry about the hidden, undetected alarms ticking away like a time bomb in my system.
I cannot keep my mouth shut when I am in the presence of a doctor – I end up sharing minor details that do not add up to anything significant. My talkative disposition irritates the doctor as he is bombarded with piles of information that prevents him from completing a quick diagnosis. He gets mired in the sea of irrelevant information so most of the medical practitioners, including my dentist, prefer specific, short answers instead of long, rambling inputs.
There is a sense of healing in opening up ones heart in front of doctors but, unfortunately, they do not understand this angle. The catharsis of sorts soothes the mind and the patient feels relieved much before popping the prescribed pills. In one such case, I observed the doctor threatened that he would refer me to the couch of a psychiatrist if I was so fond of conversing. It was a brazen attempt to silence my voice inside his chamber and meekly accept the prescription and walk out.
My attempt to praise his handwriting – even though it was a classic example of illegible scrawl – did not bring a smile on the doctor’s face that resembled the dull visage of a chronic depression patient battling negative thoughts. I had noted the model of the car with doctor’s sign parked outside the chamber and admired his choice in terms of mileage and pickup. Whenever a patient tries to cheer up and behave like a normal person, perhaps the doctor feels a sense of creeping discomfort that he is examining someone who looks healthier than him.
Taking off the shirt in front of a male doctor and his assistant feels like performing in a stripper’s club. Usually, I oppose this assault on my dignity but when there is a need to test or inject, I have to expose. I prefer to be properly clothed with protective innerwear since I do not have a gym-trained body to stoke envy in any gender.
The sagging flesh around the waist and the bulging tummy reminds me of the need to land up on the weighing machine that moves rapidly before stabilizing itself to indicate I am overweight by twenty kilos at least. Wearing a smart watch that calculates the heart rate while a doctor feels my pulse seems like a gross distrust of his expertise. While the doctor writes the pulse rate is normal, the smart watch reads it as elevated. Finally, reposing full faith in what the doctor records, I choose to consider the smart watch as a fun object which you use when you feel something throbbing within all of a sudden.
During a recent visit to a general practitioner who had never set up a private clinic practice before his retirement as a doctor in the railways, I finally woke up to his operational modesty inside a non-airconditioned cubicle sliced off from a chemist store and separated by a curtain. That the medical store hoped to sell more medicines based on his prescriptions was obvious.
This doctor was also known to generally avoid antibiotics and write mild, affordable medicines to prevent side-effects on health and monthly budget. His low consultation fees made him affordable for the middle-class patients. Earlier, he was entitled to a fixed monthly income but now he was enjoying the daily inflow of money to buy fuel and fruits. Even though he did not attract more than twenty patients in a day, he was punctual in attending the chamber in the morning and the evening for six days in a week. This availability of a doctor every day in the same location improved his connection with the local people. He was initially recommended by a friend of mine who said he was dependable for common ailments like seasonal cold and cough, gastric problems, and viral fever. I wanted to promote him as my family doctor but the plan was put on hold. My association with him began for a minor complication that did not resolve with self-medication with over-the-counter drugs.
My visit did not go down well as it appeared I had irritated him by showering fake praises on his line of treatment. He asked me to stick to my problem. I began by clarifying I did not suffer from constipation throughout my life, that the frequent trips to the loo made me think I suffered from irritable bowel syndrome. This was a medical term I had picked up from online medical sites after matching the syndromes. I was under the impression that his irritation peaked with my self-diagnosis and he was going to throw me out of his chamber where I was seated on a wobbly wooden stool. His own hearing was low as he lowered his left ear to bring it closer to my mouth to follow me clearly. I noticed a fancy aid much smaller than an ear-pod tucked behind to amplify his hearing.
My quick clearance update had no effect on him as he broke his silence with a different query related to bloating. He simplified it by using the word gas though I had already gathered its meaning. I needed time to decide whether I was bloated. He asked for my full name and age and began to write the prescription. I disturbed his thought process by adding another complication related to blood pressure. I told him I also thought that my BP became high when I am stressed or anxious. I clarified my diet was low on salt. I began to explain what I ate every day, the butter intake and caffeine intake, adding unhealthy snack items from my menu.
The patients waiting outside must have heard the loud listing of samosas, chops, and oily chips and imagined my current situation. Caring two hoots for my narrative, he resumed writing the prescription while I played a bit of tabla on my tummy to show him whether it was making any sort of sound that he could identify with a medical condition in case he heard it properly. But it was nothing more than a case of empty vessels sounding much. While the doctor ignored it, this was my playful attempt to stay relaxed in front of him. He wrote three medicines and started to explain in his soft voice how I should take them. It was hard to understand what he said in his low voice and that made me doubt my own hearing capacity. I noticed he did not prescribe any test at this stage. I wondered if he should have sent me for ultrasound. This fear was grounded when he ignored my crazy musical indulgence and signed off the prescription, asking me to report after a month again. I took a detailed look at it, understanding it was mentioned as a confirmed case of fatty liver. I wanted to opt for google pay but he insisted on cash, unwilling to share his scanner in the fear of being scammed. Since I had consumed a lot of his valuable time, he pressed the calling bell to ask for the next patient.
As I stomped out of the chamber, the chemist grabbed the prescription from my hand. He fished out those prescribed pills from the plastic boxes placed on the lower shelves and calculated the total payable price after a nominal discount. Since it was relatively low, I managed to buy the stock for the entire month. He specified the time for the medication and there were also ‘after-food’ and ‘before-food’ labels on the packets. When I came home and tried to google their composition, I found the doctor had added a psychiatric pill that is common in treating bipolar disorder and schizophrenia. I wanted to grab him by the collar to ask him why he put me on brain-related drugs as it could slow down my creativity and ruin my fledgling business by keeping me asleep most of my time.
The chemist explained that brain-gut health is interlinked and any disturbance in the gut could generate a counter-effect on the brain. Since they could not be discontinued as per my will and required medical guidance in lowering the dosage first, I dumped the entire pack in the dustbin when he refused to give me a refund. I had annoyed this doctor so much that he thought the best way to punish me was to give me a strong mental dose to contain my erratic mood swings and sudden bursts of laughter noted down as the key symptoms of an unsound mind that mirrored emotional upheaval inside.
Thirty days later I went again but this time I began with a fresh complaint of worms, those small intestinal worms causing embarrassing itching in public spaces after consuming sweets and chocolates. I showed him graphically using my index finger the approximate size of the ultra slim white worms I had seen moving gently in the mound of poop. Such a vivid description made the doctor feel outraged and he stopped my narrative by writing down a pill for use for two consecutive days and then repeating the same dosage after three weeks.
He wrote this medicine on the reverse side of the old prescription and then proceeded to ask me if I had seen any improvement in my previous complication. I said I could not confirm much improvement, but there was no deterioration either. The status quo prevailed and I laughed out loud which offended him again, making him infer once again I was a mentally deranged fellow who needed psychiatric help.
I paid him with a soiled note and spoiled his mood. He said I could safely continue the pills for another month but I need not return since I had no faith on him. I thought I should have confessed I did not consume his mental health pills even for a day. And the ones for fatty liver were herbal supplements that I was willing to donate to the pharmacy. Why did I make him write prescriptions when I had no intention of consuming his pills and capsules? Was that a practice exercise for him or a test of his competence?
His clients included older adults who felt comfortable discussing their hernia and bladder health. He wanted to test the strength of his diagnosis without relying on medical tests. Although he failed in this objective, he seemed to have made this a habit. He sounded eager to confirm a disease before the report confirmed it. Many other patients were caught in this trap as his diagnosis did not always match with the test reports conducted late after his experimentation had ended in a fiasco.
Some months later, I went to consult him again since he was easily available without a long wait. I told him about my neck problem due to improper sitting posture and he wrote some herbal pills and asked me to go for an x-ray as it was a clear case of spondylosis. I shared a few symptoms but he said I did not need a collar yet. When the x-ray econfirmed there was a mild lordosis, he looked happy as he had guessed it right after a long time. A clear case of hitting the bull’s eye on the basis of his medical instinct developed over the decades!
He directed me to consult a physiotherapist and undergo sessions of neck movement exercises for long-term relief and suggested ergonomic back support for better cervical alignment. He advised I should cut down on cold items like sherbet and ice cream. I was asked not to carry heavy objects. But I needed to handwash two buckets of clothes every day for my daily exercise and carry large bags of fruits and vegetables every week. He warned me to cross streets carefully and avoid sudden turning of the neck, to reduce strain and contain the symptoms of vertigo in this ailment. But the sudden appearance of beautiful women on the roads made me forget this alert.
I applied almond oil to relax my muscles and made it a habit to take slow turns like a robot. Much of this was not documented but doled out as verbal advice from a senior doctor who seemed to regret his past misdemeanor.
I chose to exit before he could press the bell this time as I heard the voice of a woman patient waiting outside with a bawling baby to seek urgent consultation. I gave a fake smile and stood up to leave, not ready to wait for his reaction. I came out and told the chemist to give me something for stress and he suggested meditation as the best antidote. Chemists love to supply drugs of their choice and they feel good as compounders consulted for free medical advice.
When I chose to meditate, I could not find peace. But when I wrote a story, I got peace. I liked this trick and wrote many stories following the same process, ready with an eclectic collection worth publishing. The next visit to the doctor’s chamber was decided after the self-test reports for B12 and Vitamin D3 confirmed a minor decline. Trying to appear fit, I climbed the comfy sponge bed after placing the reports on the doctor’s glass-topped desk. He was basking in the winter sun in the balcony. As I called out to him, he stared at me as if wondering if I were playing the fool again.
My frankness peeved the doctor who was convinced after this episode that I was a hypochondriac obsessed with health hazards all the time. Before he could prescribe anything for it, I mentioned whether there was any possibility of memory loss that could worsen into dementia in the middle years. I wanted to know from him if there was an urgent need to undergo a complete body check-up including CT scan and MRI. It was a pleasure to be diagnosed as a serious patient when he quietly wrote down all that I wanted him to write. The best testing lab and diagnostic centre was giving a mega discount for the first time and I wanted to grab this lifetime offer available for two days!
Devraj Singh Kalsi works as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.
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