OH! TO BE A GRAND-MA

 

Oh! To be a Grand-Ma.

My grand-daughter turns 5 in a few months. The last five years have been something of a dream that I could never have dreamt of. Of all the phases of life, it’s amazing how this one phase topples your entire being upside down, filling your heart with a feeling you have never felt in the entire life gone by, heard of or read about.

A couple of decades back I wrote a fiction book on the life and struggles of a fictional female surgeon in the world of surgery dominated by men, during the eighties and nineties. It was titled, ‘Oh! To be a lady surgeon’.

The story I now write is a real life, non-fiction, about a non-fictional real character (read: me). The story has a similar sounding title, but the decades gone by have added the grey in the hair and the calcium in the heart vessels and changed the status of the character from ‘surgeon’ to ‘grand-ma’.

It was in 2021 on that gorgeous humid morning in July when the rains had taken a break and the moisture in the air had come back with a vengeance that the world decided to change my character.

A tormenting previous night of labour pains through which I held my daughter’s hand as she writhed in pain, one wave after another, only making her aware of what was to come, without a logical conclusion. Finally, the decision to put her on the operating table was taken.

 The time I spent staring at the operation theatre door, felt endless, tormenting and excruciatingly slow, reminding me of the countless relatives who wait for me to open the door and give them the news of the surgery that I have just finished and how their loved one was holding. Suddenly it was me who was sitting out, waiting for the surgeon to pop out.

The wait here was exciting but so was the stress of my daughter going under the knife!  After what seemed the longest wait ever, the guardian angel, my daughter’s obstetrician popped out of that magical door with a beaming smile to declare that I had become a grand-mom of a baby-girl!

Oh! to be a Grand-Ma.

Lot of people talk of life changing moments. For some, a discourse by a seer, for some, an unexpected event, and for some a book of philosophy. For me it was the birth of my grand-daughter that changed me inside out. Holding her tentatively (I had not held a baby since my kids grew old enough to be held by hands) the pink mass of softest cotton wool, my hands trembled ever so slightly but it was my heart that bounced loudly in my chest, threatening to burst with untold unexplainable joy. It was with utter wonderment that I looked at that tiny mass, hardly two and a half kilo weight with exquisite features formed over a round pink face, eyes that barely opened into slits, a tiny nose over arched lips that were still a little less pink as she continued to take in oxygen, an exercise she was unaccustomed to for the last nine months, a slender neck, long beautiful fingers on slender hands and legs that perfectly added to her beauty.

I was mesmerised.

 How could one be so perfect! God had taken all the time in the world, precisely nine months and a few days to chisel the beauty that was sleeping peacefully in the cradle of my hands.

It was not really sinking that I had now entered the ‘mother’s mother’ club. All I could think was how beautiful she was. Moments later, I regained my composure, my legs felt a less trembly, my heart raced but less than before, the tears in my eyes slowed down and I could quietly settle down to looking at her all over again………..and again ……………and again. A cursory look at my daughter, a relief for her stable health and I went back to staring at this little one, eyes closed one moment and then suddenly the loud bawl!

I panicked. My daughter was still under the daze of the anaesthetic drug and here she was, loudly declaring her hunger.  I remembered my grand-mother  telling me that crying is a good sign and the baby’s lungs expand to accommodate more oxygen. But that was when I was not a grand-ma, who was now shaking like a leaf, scared for the new born and worried when my daughter would be able to feed her baby. This was to be the standard reaction for the next few months. Each time she bawled, not cried, I went into a hyper-drive mode, wondering if she was hungry or had a colic or an insect bite or ………any of the hundred other medical causes that clouded my brain while my daughter silently cajoled her, fed her and put her to sleep. I looked at myself with wonderment, trying to understand if I was the same person who wielded the scalpel in the operation theatre with a calm, unwavering hand!

Oh! To be a Grand- ma!

Taking her to the paediatrician was a totally stressful event for me. The vaccines, the prick, the pain, the fever that would follow and the sleepless nights of heart-ache to see her crying through the night and my daughter exhausted with lack of sleep and the stress of tending to the baby, were the difficult moments of her growing up.

Needless to say, the most precious, unforgettable moments were her first smile, her first gurgle, the first time she turned on one side and the first time she held her neck. Every new step in her growing up gave me a deep sweetness in the pit of my stomach, as my heart was already full with the joys of seeing her grow each day, achieve each mile-stone.

Holding her close to my heart, carrying her in the cradle of my hands, changing her soiled diapers, washing her tiny soft clothes and holding them close to my face for her fragrance, neatly arranging her tiny bed, making baby food while my daughter healed and grew as a new mother were the jobs that I wore proudly on my sleeve! Singing to her the lullaby’s I could remember, making up small nursery rhymes and telling her stories she didn’t even understand as I put her to sleep were momentous achievements that were not even close to all my academic and past glories.  

Time flies and flies so fast!

 She sprouted her first tooth, took her first step and said her first word. Each step a divine moment, each moment a new treasure, each treasure that enriched my life beyond words.

Being utterly house-proud, I wonder how benevolent I had become for all the glass artifacts she broke in my house, for all the scribblings she did with permanent ink markers on the walls, for all the neat and tidy rooms that resembled a tornado after she came and went, for all the trashy food and chocolates she wanted, for all the toys and the cookery sets she demanded at any random time, for the sudden demands to be taken to a garden and the a sudden change of mind to go back home, and for the ‘nays’ that she said for something I had prepared because she likes. 

Time for nursey school and my heart sank. Why does she have to go out in the world. Why does she have to get exposed to pollution and noise, why does she have to leave the comfort of her home, even for two hours at that. The ‘Why ‘s’” didn’t stop just as my illogical thoughts that only a grand-mom has, didn’t stop.

Oh! To be a grand-ma.

Thankfully my daughter was the responsible parent and the little one started her journey of alphabets and numbers, rhymes and games, friends and sleep-overs.

My interference and interaction has slowed down as she has got busy with her life, but what has sustained me as I walk through the difficult process of growing old are her hugs, her small demands for pampering, the secrets that we share ( she later on secretly spills them in her mom’s ears), the garden trips where she learns a trick or two on the jungle gym causing me minor heart attacks, her beaming smile when she sees me and comes running into my arms, her curious observations and her need to know every detail of what she finds different, her growing vocabulary and her tantrums.

Each time I roam through shopping malls, all I can buy is those tiny dresses and frocks thinking of her beaming smile when she sees her gifts. Most of my evening outings have now been replaced by time playing her nanny and baby-sitter, with joy and pride of course.

It’s not every day that I see her grow now, most weekends she has her friends and outings with her parents, but just to see her face on the facetime call is enough to give me my daily dose of happiness.

My daughter complains that I am foolishly pampering her and have conveniently forgotten my own children.

My son feels I don’t have time to talk to him anymore

My friends complain that I skip their get-togethers and parties.

My husband feels I am obsessed.

Well, as I say,

Oh! to be a grand-ma!

 

Dr. Reina Khadilkar

 

THE DOCTOR AS THE PATIENT- TO BE OR NOT BE PATIENT!

 THE DOCTOR AS THE PATIENT- TO BE OR NOT BE PATIENT!

(A true account of what goes on in the mind of a doctor when the doctor becomes the patient and what actually happens))

This is the story of what happens when tables turn and the doctor becomes the patient!

Returning from a quiet dinner all alone, which I thoroughly enjoyed, (the loneliness, I mean), I was silently listening to the melodious voice of the Nightingale of India, walking on the darkened road in the campus where I worked. 

Life seemed bliss.

Till a small bunch of pebbles decided to turn me and my life upside down. In cahoots with my brand-new platform sandals, the pebbles brought me down in one swift motion, twisting my right ankle, throwing my hands in the air making me land full weight on my delicate (read-old) right knee. A loud crackling sound and a pain that sheared through my body like thousand volts, I collapsed on the rough ground, screaming in agony, calling for help and trying to find out by a quick clinical examination if I had broken my knee (the doctor in me) all at the same time. 

After a few excruciating moments, and clinical confirmation that the knee cap had indeed been broken into pieces, I allowed myself to be lifted onto a passing vehicle and be taken to the casualty where I declared ( through tears and grimaces) to the Orthopedic surgeon that I had a fracture patella, (knee-cap) and it needs to be fixed, much to the consternation of the specialist, but like all good husbands ( indeed I have married an Orthopedic surgeon, decades ago), he kept a calm demeanour and continued to order the management protocols.

Am I going to sit in the wheel chair? Hell, no! (Mind talk)

I thought angrily as my post-graduate students gently lifted me on to the wheel chair and pushed it to the waiting casualty bed.

No way I am going to lie on the bed meant for accident patients whom I see in emergencies and treat! (Mind talk)

I was lifted by a couple of orderlies and put on the metal bed with a hard mattress and a stone hard pillow, unaware of the bile rising in my mouth of anger, frustration and above all, helplessness. Isn’t it here that I stand and pass orders, follow protocols, scold the students for not doing their job correctly and walk away to another waiting bed? Isn’t it here that the staff on duty run behind me following my orders for quick management of emergencies? Isn’t it here that eager learners catch every word, rather every pearl of wisdom I drop while treating a patient? I looked around through tears of pain and anger only to see that world went around silently, doing their job, shouting orders, managing serious patients, attending emergency situations, and only occasionally stopping by my bed to record my pulse and blood pressure.

No way I will be lifted on to the stretcher to be taken to the radiology. No way this is happening to me. (Mind talk)

The stretcher ride was bumpy, steely hard and I shouted in pain as the technician gently changed the position of the knee to confirm my fears. The knee cap had indeed broken into multiple pieces.

Why are you asking me so many questions? I am in pain. Is this the time? You are not following the history -taking protocol (Mind talk)

The questions about my health, my fall and my medications started coming in succession as the junior doctor began the admission process. He is missing some points in the patient history, the teacher in me thought. Should  I correct him? A silent nod, a few answers, thank-you  Mam, and I was given the band on my wrist that said, patient for surgery!

I don’t think I should take spinal anaesthesia, just a jab of the general anaesthetic through my vein and life gets simpler. (Mind talk)

I sat silently in the position given by the chief anaesthetist and waited patiently for the needle to prick my back for the spinal anaesthesia. Thankfully the rest was a total blur and no more opinions flooded my mind till I was made to lie flat.

I will not go under the knife! As a surgeon, I always stand on the right side of the operation table and wield the scalpel.  I am sure there could be a way out of this. (Mind talk)

The Operation-table was warm, the over-head lights bright, and the gentle hushed voices of the surgeons, staff nurses and technicians was all I remember before finding myself a few hours later on the patient bed in a beautiful room with flowers and a television.

No, not that antibiotic and that pain killer. What is its microbial cover? Check the expiry date of the medicine, is the syringe just opened from its pack, has it been diluted correctly, is it going to be given slowly?????  (Mind talk)

I looked through hazy eyes as the nurse filled the antibiotic syringe and without a word, pumped the fluid into my vein, locked the tube, collected her things and walked out with a smile.

I will be fine! I know exactly how a body responds to trauma and heals.  (Mind talk)

It was when I took my first step on the walker, that I realised I was truly handicapped for that time. I needed support, I needed help and most importantly, I needed guidance from the experts to learn how to walk all over again. I needed to know when I will be back to normal again. Questions whose answers I did not know, even as a doctor myself.

I needed to surrender to the reality that I was a patient.

I needed to step out of my identity and assume the new one of being on the other side of the consulting table.

It was a difficult time but the challenge was to be a patient, patiently and wholeheartedly. It was the acceptance that however trained you are to save a life or cure a disease, there are aspects of the human body that you can never understand till you become a patient. There are experts in each fields who know the nitty gritty of that disease and must be listened to.

It is the basic tenet of healing, of the mind and the body, that one must surrender completely, walk out of the skin one is wearing and allow the healer to help one heal.

As a patient it is necessary to let go of the aura one develops as a doctor about knowledge of the body and one’s control over its functioning.

Doctors are cursed, they say! Now I know why.

Doctors make bad patients, they say! Now I know why.

But it’s never too late to learn and I learnt my lesson well.

I am well on my way to complete recovery now.

Dear Doctors, stay healthy!

But for those who may become patients, I wonder if you will learn your lesson the hard way or accept that it is in our interest to be ‘to be’ and not ‘not to be’ a good patient!

Here’s wishing everyone a great health.

 

Dr. Reina Khadilkar

 

 

 

 

HIRAETH

 

HIRAETH ( hi.rai.th)

NOUN    ---   A deep wistful longing for the home you can’t return to or that never was.

 

A long searing pain cut my heart as I read this word, letting out bleeding memories, nostalgic times and years of growing up, flooding my conscience with images of the stone structure that was home, the staircases, the halls, the many rooms, gardens, tall trees and the forever alive kitchen which was the heart of that structure. 

Where was all this, I wonder!

Beyond the blurred eyes all I can manage to see is a huge sprawling 2 storied structure, hidden behind tall Ashoka, purple and yellow jacaranda and jamun trees, fragrant night blooming jasmine (raatrani), green and golden frangipani (chafa), and the delicately pretty bakul tree. The rest of the plot was full of potted plants with leaves that shone red and yellow and a thousand shades of green. An occasional shrub of jasmine or jui laden with flowers that shimmered like stars on a starry clear night and wafted with fragrance that pleased the senses and warmed the heart. A red rose here, a pink one there and a yellow to brighten the day. Unfailingly, the most pious of all, the red hibiscus meant solely for Vignaharta who stood holding the house strong and protected, was flowering bright and cheerful near the side staircase of the house meant for a discrete entry, back door but not exactly back door as it was on one side but functioned as a back door, especially when one wanted to sneak in without being admonished. 

The rest of the area around the bungalow had a narrow cement walkway lined by pots with multi-coloured flowering plants and unnamed leafy plants all behind a brick line placed obliquely to give that serrated margin to the walkway.

The concept of bungalow was never in the architect’s head and so it was built into a huge rectangular two storied cement and glass structure in the center of the plot, but made beautiful by the trees and plants that enveloped it in their shade.

The ground floor was dedicated to the hospital that was the temple where my parents worked. It was the era where most doctors lived in the same building as their hospital so that they could be near to their patients who depended on them for life! A concept that has died long ago and still tugs at my heart with pain. Imagine, as a suffering being, you get treated in the place where your doctor is forever available, never ever leaves your side and looks after you at any time of the day or night, must have been such a huge part of the trust and hope that one comes with for delivering one out of the physical and mental misery.

 

For the family growing in that home that stood on the first floor, it was difficult to fathom why the parents worked odd hours, long hours, came home happy, sometimes came home sad and defeated, but came home to a comfortable life!

Ahhhhh, the first floor. Home is where the heart is, they say.

A multitude of rooms, two large spaces (halls) that entertained visitors, relatives, friends, extended families and occasionally doubled up as a place where accomplished vocalists mesmerized a small elite gathering of music aficionados till wee hours of the morning, the smell of cardamom laced coffee wafting through the night with jasmine and roses adding to the ethereal experience.

A posse of live-in servants moved seamlessly keeping each corner of the house clean and shining while a matronly lady ran the kitchen with a precision of a corporate honcho. My mother had given up on this activity, for obvious reasons though!

Kitchen- where do I even begin! The smell of hot flat breads, the alarms from the pressure cooker signaling the comfort of rice and dal and the sizzle of the seasoning with mustard seeds and cumin spluttering in ecstasy, the curry leaves making their presence felt and the various vegetables that simmered in taste that still evokes memories of the theatre that was the kitchen. This routine occasionally cut by the smells of sweets, fried puris, and special festive food.

It was not just the daily kneading, frying, cooking, simmering, seasoning but come summer, the kitchen doubled up as a place for making tons of heady raw mango, lemon and chilly pickles to be stored carefully in huge ceramic jars for the yearly consumption. The amount would boggle the mind but every year the ceramic jars seemed to be emptying faster than the year that went by. Needless to say, the kitchen master, our matronly lady gathered her cronies for cutting, chopping and mixing the fruit before submerging it in tons of seasoned oil and of course, for the juicy gossip spoken in hushed tones, clamping up whenever the kids rushed in for a glass of water or a bite of laddoos. 

The love and warmth of the home slowly entered that corner of the heart through these smells and sounds and stayed where nothing could erase it. It became an irreplaceable memory 

The house bustled with people, visitors who dropped in for a chat, cousins who wanted some advice and good food, friends who bonded over whiskey and cricket commentary. The dining table was a round table conference presided by the Monarch and his queen, with eager, ‘green behind the ears’ budding doctors such as me, my siblings and cousins, listening intently, on patient histories, treatment modalities, newer advances in medicine, miracle stories that warmed the heart, defeats that teared the eyes, and life’s lessons that would see us through ups and downs, yet unknown to us, but being prepared for the life to come.

There were arguments, heated discussions, illnesses, and unifying festivals celebrated in all their glory. There were angry outbursts, tears, failures, heart breaks just as there were celebrations for birthdays, academic achievements, ranks, medals and successes. There was the pampering of childhood just as there was the admonishment of being the irresponsible adult. Life was full and growing in the place we called home.

Time and age wait for none.

Reminiscent of the song by Sahir Ludhiyanvi- ‘sabhi bichhade bari bari’, one by one each one of us flew out of our comfort zone to create the life we were being prepared for. In the initial period, vacations and the unmissable Diwali was where home was. As life took us further, vacations no longer existed, Diwali was difficult to make it to home and a weekend here and there was all that was left for what was home.

Time is ruthless and relentless. 

Parents walked slower, patients went to younger doctors with smarter demeanors and posh clinics, the hospital had now become a ghost of itself, visitors came down to a trickle, relatives gradually disappeared into their own world as theirs grew, and friends slowly faded behind the curtain of time.

The health and age took its toll and the beautiful rock-solid bungalow could no longer hold on its own. The chatter had died down; the gossiping coterie could barely hear their own voice and the ageing Monarch and his queen shifted out into a more manageable tiny home with lesser people to deal with. Ageing gracefully, yet painfully lonely, finally fading into the sunset with dignity and a full life. 

The new owner shared no bond with the building and it crashed into a gigantic heap of twisted steel and cement dust.

A new shiny tower rose where lay buried my “HIRAETH”

 

Dr. Reina Khadilkar