He walked with a purposeful stride. A lean, lithe, tall, dark figure! As he glided in with beaming confidence and surprising agility, in a well cut three piece suit, I fumbled for the clinical look. Close cropped hair, perhaps a regular at the gym too, he was the epitome of the modern, suave, urban, metro sexual – the image and aura belying his profession or perhaps I was out-dated always looking backwards jotting down mental notes with an eye towards the past, comparing and contrasting the bygone with the present. But he also had sharp, penetrating eyes, behind a pair of spectacles, which gave way to a thinking, probing, analytical mind – a mind which weighed the pros and cons of every situation before vying for the best, a mind which gauged his clients (read patients) with extra ordinary acumen, a mind which not only remembered every curvaceous letter of the Hippocrates Oath but also the intrinsic worth of those in terms of commercial and material gains.
This, my friends, is the proto type of the modern physician – the doctors, the specialists , the men with the magic wand, on whom in today’s time, we are more than dependent, as the stress and strain of jet-paced living takes a toll on our physical and mental health.
He came up to my mother, now recline on the stretcher-cum-physiotherapy-bed, touched her knees with expert, nimble fingers, coaxed her to bend them as far as possible, pushed her arms lightly by the wrist to see their movements from the shoulder blades, tched- tched a little bit and asked her age and a few more mundane, preliminary questions which would help facilitate to build up her case history and then came straight to the point. All medications and physiotherapy were a waste. A Total Knee Replacement (TKR) was the only sovereign remedy if she wanted to lead a life with dignity. In the torrential downpour of his pep-talk to bolster up the morale of the examinee and ready her for the supra major surgery he gave way that the ideal age for the operation was between that of fifty five and sixty five. My mother, a chronic arthritic, was eighty one. But he still insisted saying that given her general health it would all be fine to go in for the surgery.
We two sisters tried to look as intelligent as possible squeezing in a few appropriate questions in between the volley of knowledgeable darts (read talks). He sounded more like a motivational guru and medical insurance agent both combined. Amidst the tinkle of surgical instruments the gift of the gab had been sleekly imbibed somewhere during internship perhaps, I mulled. On the issue of expenditure, he quickly calculated the package rate. I’d forgotten health and treatment now came in tetra packs. Money was no issue, we supplied. He looked at me piercingly and asked which organization I served. The professional knew exactly, without our divulging, who was going to foot the bill. On hearing the name, he assured that his hospital was enlisted with the same and that given the circumstances, getting a reimbursement would be a buttery affair.
But the deterrent was the patient herself whose concept of good health was just being mobile and independent within the bounds of the homestead. His dream of a “dignified” pair of legs pedaling all over the world flew out of the window (there was none). My mother was happy to limp but dead against the operation (Shocking!!!) which also included a prolonged period of convalescence and rehabilitation. Any other option, please, except that? She asked. The chagrined messiah tried to hide his disappointment behind a cool façade. Failed and came up with, “Well! You are telling me to swim with both my hands bound. It’s all about leading a life with dignity…” I wondered where the indignities came from when the rest of the members of the family were hell bound to be on my mother’s beck and call taking care of her barest to the need of the highest order (That wasn’t taken from Maslow’s Theory of Self Actualization, please).
Dejectedly he scrawled a pain killer on a plain sheet of paper. Yes! He didn’t carry his prescription pad, as usual, outside his clinic. A professional touch, indeed! I was informed that he was attached to the giant medical hospitals whose branches networked throughout the capital. I wondered whether his appointment letter carried a sub-clause of attracting greater amount of business to the institution as well.
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