Manthan


Manthan: July 2005 www.nihindia.org N.D.E. I cursed myself heavily. I was a moron not to have realized the symptoms earlier. Our family has the concept that you should give your body enough time to fight a disease or ailment and resort to drugs only as final alternative. That idea had been so firmly inculcated and entrenched in my mind that lately I had started neglecting potentially serious problems. I should have realized that there was something seriously wrong, when I fainted during my trek in Himalayas. We had just finished climbing from 11000 to 13000 feet in the valley of Jispa and all four of us were panting as if we had been chased by pack of hounds. And all of a sudden, there was this shearing pain inside my head and everything blacked out. After what seemed to be an eternity, I was able to see my worried mountain-mates peering myopically at me. I blinked a couple of times and finally regained my complete senses. Things were fine for next few days and I attributed the fainting to lack of oxygen, mountain climbing and general fatigue. Then it happened the second time. It was Traditional-Day in our college and the entire college was attired in “traditional” costumes. Judy was in a bridal dress that represented a catholic wedding dress, while Rahim was wearing his brown kurta with a Maulana cap and chewing beetle leaves. I thought he had done a pretty impressive job. I was wearing a dhoti, and an embroidered white kurta, carrying the end of the dhoti in my hand as Bengalis traditionally used to do many moons back. Since a dhoti is a loose garment, my legs felt pretty spacious and almost naked. I was accustomed to wearing tight jeans, hence this lack of the feel of fabric on skin made me bit nervous. I was disembarking tentatively on the college stairs, when that same pain shot through what felt like my mid-skull. In a flash, I was heap of white garment and limp body. Someone generously sprinkled water on my face wetting the kurta in the process. I was accompanied back home by Shibu and Rahim. They narrated the whole incident to my mom, while dad was still in his office. I laid down; my temples throbbing and whole body feeling emaciated. Such was the pain that Mom’s concerned queries started irritating me and I snapped back. I changed sides on my bed against the light, so that I could have some thought to myself. This pain seemed definitely odd- it seemed located right in the centre of my brain as though I was holding some magma that would erupt once in a while with an insidious burst of lava. My heart beat oddly at the thought and I had a foreboding because this was happening for a second time with this severity in the last six months. Dad fixed an appointment with a neurosurgeon, Dr. Priyanshu Mallick. The appointment was only after two weeks, which indicated the doctor to be good, hence busy. An ominous feeling compressed my heart making it beat jerkily. On Friday we started after lunch. Dad was jabbering something inconsequential, and I kept agreeing with an occasional grunt of yes. I was glad he was talking because a complete silence at this stage would have been more unnerving. He asked, “What could be the worst possible malady?” Well, there were lot of terrible diseases floating around in the world. I could have tapeworm eggs in my head. I have heard people getting migraines because of them. I might have a compressed nerve. “Stop it!!” I said to myself, “Is speculation of any practical consequence?”. We went inside the doctor’s chamber, it smelt sterile and disinfected. It also had the all-white funeral appearance that I always hated about clinics and hospitals. White lab-coats, starched white-uniforms of the ward-boys and the nurses, white bed-sheets, and the occasional artificial white roses in the waiting room vase. The doctor was pleasant faced. We formally shook hands and the interrogation started. I mentioned everything in whatever detail I could and at the conclusion of the discussion, I had to undergo CAT scanning next Monday. Putting yourself inside that gaping hole- why! why!! I always felt such things happen to characters in television, and I imagined that I had to be a century old before such afflictions would happen to me. After I underwent that ordeal, the doctor said that the reports would be coming in 5 days. You can envisage my tension. The big day finally arrived. My dad and I went to the doctor’s office. A look at that doctor’s glum face was enough to make my heart sink. How serious could it be? Was I going to die? In a gruff voice, the doctor asked us to take seat. Today his face looked particularly cheerless. I did not have the courage to ask- Dad finally asked, “So, what’s the verdict?” Well that interview with the doctor was three months ago and things went pretty much downhill from there. The days just streaked past, full of fear and hopelessness. I was fed-up of crying and seeing Mom and Dad put up a brave front. Prominently seared in my memory was the visit by my college friends. This was after they started with the chemotherapy and I had lost a substantial amount of hair. Tulsi fainted on seeing me. And as for myself, I refused to look in the mirror. I might have asked myself a million times, “what wrong did I do?” “Why should I be the chosen one?” By all standards and criteria I should be going to college, having tea in the canteen, going on treks among the hills and jungles. This whole tragedy seemed insane, unjust!! It left me bewildered, bitter and morbid. Bravely facing a terminal disease is true only in motion pictures. Real life is different. Death is real and you die million times before you actually die. Today had been a particularly bad day- I fainted twice and my body has not been not fighting the disease with the same strength. I think this is going to be the end. As one puts colloquially, check and mate. The incredulity of the situation is still raw in me. I want to call Mom but the word wouldn’t come out. I want to say bye for the last time- it might not occur to them that their son is not going to be there for another second. The thought of them sent a pang in my heart and a tiny tear oozed out of my eyes. As the drop trickled down, I almost gave an involuntary convulsive shudder; my last defiance against death. And I almost fell down. A wet cloth flopped on my lap. Mom jumped in surprise. I blinked my eyes a couple of times almost expecting to be in either heaven or hell. My history till now made both of the situations equivocal. But seeing live Mom confused me. I asked, “What happened? Where am I?” my mom quickly whispered in my brother’s ear, “I think the hangover of delirium is still there”. She turned to me and explained, “You came home with a fever of 104 degrees, and were talking nonsense. I gave you Paracetamol and put some wet cloth on your forehead to bring the temperature down. “Let me check,” and saying that she popped a thermometer in my mouth. I choked. No, not because of the thermometer. I was alive- all that dream of glioma was a nightmare!! I was healthy in body and mind. How could all that be so real!! Thank god I could not open my mouth. Otherwise my howls of ecstasy would have sounded like another attack of delirium to Mom. The whole thing seemed so uncannily true. If I had a weak heart, would I have actually died of sheer terror in my sleep? Do those who die in their sleep see the same terrible stuff that I saw? Who knows, but that certainly seems a possibility. Whatever be the case, I am alive and kicking (No! not the bucket). I have recovered both from the viral attack and my near-death-experience. Moloy Goswami

Manthan: July 2005 www.nihindia.org

N.D.E.

I cursed myself heavily. I was a moron not to have realized the symptoms earlier. Our family has the concept that you should give your body enough time to fight a disease or ailment and resort to drugs only as final alternative. That idea had been so firmly inculcated and entrenched in my mind that lately I had started neglecting potentially serious problems. I should have realized that there was something seriously wrong, when I fainted during my trek in Himalayas. We had just finished climbing from 11000 to 13000 feet in the valley of Jispa and all four of us were panting as if we had been chased by pack of hounds. And all of a sudden, there was this shearing pain inside my head and everything blacked out. After what seemed to be an eternity, I was able to see my worried mountain-mates peering myopically at me. I blinked a couple of times and finally regained my complete senses. Things were fine for next few days and I attributed the fainting to lack of oxygen, mountain climbing and general fatigue.

Then it happened the second time. It was Traditional-Day in our college and the entire college was attired in “traditional” costumes. Judy was in a bridal dress that represented a catholic wedding dress, while Rahim was wearing his brown kurta with a Maulana cap and chewing beetle leaves. I thought he had done a pretty impressive job. I was wearing a dhoti, and an embroidered white kurta, carrying the end of the dhoti in my hand as Bengalis traditionally used to do many moons back. Since a dhoti is a loose garment, my legs felt pretty spacious and almost naked. I was accustomed to wearing tight jeans, hence this lack of the feel of fabric on skin made me bit nervous. I was disembarking tentatively on the college stairs, when that same pain shot through what felt like my mid-skull. In a flash, I was heap of white garment and limp body. Someone generously sprinkled water on my face wetting the kurta in the process. I was accompanied back home by Shibu and Rahim. They narrated the whole incident to my mom, while dad was still in his office. I laid down; my temples throbbing and whole body feeling emaciated. Such was the pain that Mom’s concerned queries started irritating me and I snapped back. I changed sides on my bed against the light, so that I could have some thought to myself. This pain seemed definitely odd- it seemed located right in the centre of my brain as though I was holding some magma that would erupt once in a while with an insidious burst of lava. My heart beat oddly at the thought and I had a foreboding because this was happening for a second time with this severity in the last six months.

Dad fixed an appointment with a neurosurgeon, Dr. Priyanshu Mallick. The appointment was only after two weeks, which indicated the doctor to be good, hence busy. An ominous feeling compressed my heart making it beat jerkily. On Friday we started after lunch. Dad was jabbering something inconsequential, and I kept agreeing with an occasional grunt of yes. I was glad he was talking because a complete silence at this stage would have been more unnerving. He asked, “What could be the worst possible malady?” Well, there were lot of terrible diseases floating around in the world. I could have tapeworm eggs in my head. I have heard people getting migraines because of them. I might have a compressed nerve. “Stop it!!” I said to myself, “Is speculation of any practical consequence?”. We went inside the doctor’s chamber, it smelt sterile and disinfected. It also had the all-white funeral appearance that I always hated about clinics and hospitals. White lab-coats, starched white-uniforms of the ward-boys and the nurses, white bed-sheets, and the occasional artificial white roses in the waiting room vase. The doctor was pleasant faced. We formally shook hands and the interrogation started. I mentioned everything in whatever detail I could and at the conclusion of the discussion, I had to undergo CAT scanning next Monday. Putting yourself inside that gaping hole- why! why!! I always felt such things happen to characters in television, and I imagined that I had to be a century old before such afflictions would happen to me. After I underwent that ordeal, the doctor said that the reports would be coming in 5 days. You can envisage my tension. The big day finally arrived.

My dad and I went to the doctor’s office. A look at that doctor’s glum face was enough to make my heart sink. How serious could it be? Was I going to die? In a gruff voice, the doctor asked us to take seat. Today his face looked particularly cheerless. I did not have the courage to ask- Dad finally asked, “So, what’s the verdict?”

Well that interview with the doctor was three months ago and things went pretty much downhill from there. The days just streaked past, full of fear and hopelessness. I was fed-up of crying and seeing Mom and Dad put up a brave front. Prominently seared in my memory was the visit by my college friends. This was after they started with the chemotherapy and I had lost a substantial amount of hair. Tulsi fainted on seeing me. And as for myself, I refused to look in the mirror. I might have asked myself a million times, “what wrong did I do?” “Why should I be the chosen one?” By all standards and criteria I should be going to college, having tea in the canteen, going on treks among the hills and jungles. This whole tragedy seemed insane, unjust!! It left me bewildered, bitter and morbid. Bravely facing a terminal disease is true only in motion pictures. Real life is different. Death is real and you die million times before you actually die. Today had been a particularly bad day- I fainted twice and my body has not been not fighting the disease with the same strength. I think this is going to be the end. As one puts colloquially, check and mate. The incredulity of the situation is still raw in me. I want to call Mom but the word wouldn’t come out. I want to say bye for the last time- it might not occur to them that their son is not going to be there for another second. The thought of them sent a pang in my heart and a tiny tear oozed out of my eyes. As the drop trickled down, I almost gave an involuntary convulsive shudder; my last defiance against death.

And I almost fell down. A wet cloth flopped on my lap. Mom jumped in surprise. I blinked my eyes a couple of times almost expecting to be in either heaven or hell. My history till now made both of the situations equivocal. But seeing live Mom confused me. I asked, “What happened? Where am I?” my mom quickly whispered in my brother’s ear, “I think the hangover of delirium is still there”. She turned to me and explained, “You came home with a fever of 104 degrees, and were talking nonsense. I gave you Paracetamol and put some wet cloth on your forehead to bring the temperature down. “Let me check,” and saying that she popped a thermometer in my mouth. I choked. No, not because of the thermometer. I was alive- all that dream of glioma was a nightmare!! I was healthy in body and mind. How could all that be so real!! Thank god I could not open my mouth. Otherwise my howls of ecstasy would have sounded like another attack of delirium to Mom. The whole thing seemed so uncannily true. If I had a weak heart, would I have actually died of sheer terror in my sleep? Do those who die in their sleep see the same terrible stuff that I saw? Who knows, but that certainly seems a possibility.

Whatever be the case, I am alive and kicking (No! not the bucket). I have recovered both from the viral attack and my near-death-experience.

Moloy Goswami