Odyssey of Life

The odyssey of life is full of unexpected turns, jerks, and bumps. As long as one is hale and hearty and earning well, everything seems wonderful. Never does a thought cross our minds that we are mortal beings; instead, we carry ourselves with an air of immortality. Then, the Almighty often chooses to hold up a mirror and remind us of our rightful place as fallible human beings.

A recent visit to a distinguished hospital due to some personal urgency, which I wish to take up in another blog, prompted me to share some of my observations and insights about what I witnessed there.

My first impulse was to flee from the entrance itself. There was such an overwhelming rush inside and outside the hospital that a surge of fear ran down my spine. I wondered, for a fleeting moment, whether the whole world was sick.

At every stage—from obtaining a token and undergoing the required tests to finally reaching the doctor—everything seemed like a herculean task. The attendants accompanying their patients appeared to be silently praying for favourable reports. On one side, I saw newborn babies being happily carried out of the hospital; on the other, a deceased patient was being wheeled out of the ICU, with medical equipment still attached to him. Life and death seemed to be playing a relentless game of see-saw, while human beings appeared like puppets dancing on their strings.

Finally, the time came when I had to wait, almost as if in a VIP lounge, with four or five other patients in a queue for their respective surgeries. Our vitals were checked and the paperwork completed. Surgeons and anaesthetists came one after another, speaking to their patients and family members as though preparing them for the worst possible scenario. Consent forms were signed by both the patients and their kin, formally placing the responsibility for the outcome of the procedure in the hands of the medical team.

There were five surgeries scheduled simultaneously, including mine. When I arrived, there were already three other patients waiting. I was perhaps the youngest among them.

There was an elderly lady whose daughter was a nurse at the same hospital and seemed almost like a carbon copy of her mother. She checked her mother’s vitals herself and carefully recorded the readings in her file, a bead of sweat visible on her forehead. Something about the situation seemed to have frightened her deeply.

Another patient was a very distinguished-looking gentleman of around seventy-five. He must have been a handsome man in his youth. A catheter was attached to him. He smiled when he saw me, and I reciprocated.

Then there was another elderly man of roughly the same age, with a face as stern as a rock. He too had a catheter attached, but the fluid inside it was bloody.

I observed the entire process quietly. Our arms were tagged with orange bands bearing the names of the patients and surgeons, presumably for identification. The hospital staff, despite the hectic environment, were extremely courteous and amicable.

I was lost in observation when a pretty woman with the loveliest eyes entered. From her gait, I could make out that she was unable to walk without assistance. Compared with the other four patients, I suddenly felt that I was the healthiest among us.

All five of us sat quietly, like sheep waiting to be led by their shepherd. Four of us exchanged occasional glances, while the new patient kept her eyes fixed on the floor. Little did I know that day that I was about to learn a lesson—perhaps one of the most meaningful lessons of my life.

Being inquisitive and talkative by nature, I could not remain silent for long. I greeted the woman sitting next to me. She smiled and asked whether I was there for surgery. I nodded and briefly shared my ailment. It was then my turn to ask about her.

She told me that she was there for spinal surgery. I was surprised and felt that she seemed far too young to be undergoing such a procedure. On further conversation, she revealed that she was forty-five, unmarried, and had chosen to spend her life with her elderly father while working for a company. She worked long hours on a computer and earned a good salary. A few weeks earlier, she had developed mild backache and stiffness, which she had ignored. Unfortunately, the condition had progressed to numbness throughout her body and now required immediate spinal surgery.

Her father could not accompany her, she said, and her elder brother had come to take care of her.

While we were still talking, the nurse’s mother was helped onto a wheelchair, all set to be taken to the operation theatre. I noticed the tears in her daughter’s eyes as she spoke to another colleague. She was saying that despite their dedication to the hospital, they were not given any concession when their immediate family members needed treatment. She had even taken a loan against her jewellery to arrange the best possible treatment for her mother.

It dampened my spirits.

Meanwhile, a young doctor accompanied by an anaesthesia specialist came and sat beside the elderly man whose catheter contained the blood-like fluid. The anaesthetist explained to him that he would be under general anaesthesia, took his consent, and then stepped away to speak to his companion.

The young lady doctor gently asked him whether he had undergone chemotherapy, making it clear to all of us that he was a cancer patient. He nodded.

The doctor then noticed that one of his fingers had been amputated and asked what had happened. He told her that, as a high-school student, he had been extremely mischievous and had injured himself in a sugarcane-extraction machine.

She asked who from his family was accompanying him.

His smile faded. He told her that his wife had passed away a couple of years earlier and that both his children lived in Canada. They would be able to come only after a month.

The doctor looked concerned.

Sensing her dilemma, he calmly told her that his friends were accompanying him and would be there to take care of his cremation if the need arose.

The doctor smiled and said she would like to meet his friends.

Two equally elderly men entered. The doctor explained to them that the chances were fifty-fifty, as the cancer had already begun to spread.

Meanwhile, two more doctors came to explain the situation to another elderly man, who until then had been all smiles. His son arrived to discuss the procedure and sign the consent form. I could not understand exactly what ailment he was suffering from.

The doctor explained that after the surgery, the old man might have to be placed on a ventilator.

I shuddered.

The elderly man was visibly shaken. Loud enough for everyone to hear, he declared that he did not want to be put on a ventilator. First, he commanded his son and then pleaded with him to either take him back home or ensure that he would not be placed on life support.

His son signalled to the doctor, visibly emotional.

Realising the gravity of the situation, the doctor assured him that they would not put him on a ventilator—a white lie that all of us seemed to understand instantly.

Lost in observing and analysing the circumstances of others, I began reflecting on the belief that a son is indispensable for taking care of parents in their old age,since it was to shatter that day.

The nurse whose mother had just gone into surgery was a wonderful daughter, willing to stake everything for her parent. The unmarried woman beside me had her brother beside her in her hour of crisis; she needed neither a husband nor children to ensure that she was cared for. The old man battling cancer, whose children were thousands of miles away, had lifelong friends who refused to leave him alone.

The Almighty sends angels in different forms and through different relationships to take care of us.

And then there was the elderly man who might have to be placed on a ventilator—a living reminder of perhaps the greatest truth of all: we are born alone and, ultimately, we die alone. Our suffering is uniquely ours. No matter how deeply we may love our children or how much they may love us, the final journey remains our own.

Attachment, perhaps, is futile.

I was ruminating over all these thoughts when my doctors came out and informed me that I too would be under general anaesthesia. The procedure might take around four hours, perhaps longer, and they explained a few other details.

I had gone into a trance and was almost oblivious to everything around me.

A wheelchair was brought in, and I was asked to sit in it. It was my turn to head towards the operation theatre of that super-speciality hospital. I could walk perfectly well before the surgery, but I had to follow the hospital protocol.

The lady sitting beside me waved goodbye. I prayed for her speedy recovery, and she said it had been nice meeting me.

I turned around one last time towards the two elderly men. I folded my hands in a namaste, and both blessed me with a long life.

I went in for my treatment, carrying with me a strange mixture of fear, gratitude and reflection. I genuinely wish I could know what happened to the other four patients who underwent surgery that day. I hope they are all well and recovering.

That visit to the hospital has become etched in my memory—not merely as a medical experience, but as a profound lesson in life.

There is far more pain, uncertainty and silent suffering in this world than we can ever fathom. The pomp and show of worldly life is perhaps a delusion that keeps us tethered to this earth, making us believe that everything around us is permanent.

But life is transient.

Death is certain.

And perhaps, somewhere between the two, lies the real meaning of our existence.