Summer of 2008

Secretly, very secretly sometimes I wished to be sick! I longed to lie down on the bed for days, reading all those books that piled on the bookshelves, listen to all the CDs that piled up on the rack, sit on the balcony with a cup of jasmine tea gazing at the changing colors of dusk – the list was endless. Along with it there was a silent intention to compute my “love quotient” - a simple mathematical function based on the anxiety and eagerness expressed by near and dear ones who would wait on me. Unlike many other dreams, the Almighty granted this one promptly and with what abundance on that fateful summer of 2008!

It started with a searing pain at the middle of the chest. Given the age, causes like heartbreak could be ruled out. Given the position, heart problems could be ruled out. Soon it became obvious that it was not simple acidity – the Bong favorite. By the third day evening, it became an Emergency. The doctor on duty looked crisp and fresh, just out from college. I moaned and groaned as he pressed my sternum. He gave me a coy smile and asked “Surely you are not from Delhi?” Admittedly, I am not as gorgeous as befits the capitalists, but then one does not expect such flak from doctors. I decided to ignore. “I mean, only Bengalis of Delhi moan in English”, he clarified. After a couple of tests, an X-Ray and a few injections, he declared that barring some infection in the blood, which need not be bothered about, most of my internal organs were OK.

The injections indeed gave some relief for the next twenty four hours, but then it all returned with a bang. Crippled with pain and high fever, I went to a Gastroenterologist who took one look at me, a second look at the earlier blood report and blasted my husband for allowing me to rot for three days with an infection in the blood glaring out from the report. The poor professor, who is more accustomed to shouting than being shouted at, opened his mouth but then shut it up instantly, a bit like Bertie Wooster. The doctor, an ex-army person, repeatedly asked him whether I was routinely so subdued and life-less or was this due to the sickness. Hubby dear repeatedly answered that I was usually quite high-spirited, it must be the pain. Had I been in the mood I would have gracefully increased his love quotient for me by quite a few notches. But the pain was crippling and I could only moan.

One nudge at the sternum, and the doctor declared that he suspected an abscess on the liver.  Gallons of dye were forced through my throat for the next four hours. And then under the piercing eyes of a CT Scanner, my colored inner self revealed a balloon like abscess throbbing with life on the left lobe of the liver, almost kissing my heart, occasionally caressing my lungs forcing a bout of cough and breathlessness. While I was almost ready to collapse by now with the pain and the awful after-taste of dye, the doctor was inexplicably happy. Since one can’t really pat oneself on the back, he kept on praising himself for an accurate diagnosis - though slightly late! To further put his point across – he also stressed that the delay was definitely a fault on my husband’s part, and not his. A deluge of medicine followed along with Jhumpa Lahiri’s “Unaccustomed Earth”. But after two weeks of bitter medicines, ultra-sounds on alternate days revealing that the abscess was not reducing at all, the laptop as the make-shift office on bed choking with mails - my desire to remain sick was slowly ebbing. It vanished even faster when many a near and dear one from Kolkata equated liver abscess with cirrhosis, and further equated it with an alcoholic – a la Keshto Mukherjee! Some were outrageous that they had never suspected I was always high on spirits rather than being simply spirited. Others were rather upset with the fact that they had misjudged me as one who could not even turn over a fried fish. With whatever energy I had, I sent frantic mails to all - urging them to google “liver abscess” and become educated that amoebic liver abscess like mine could have been caused by street food, in all probability by the “gol-gappa” which me and my son had secretly devoured a fort-night back, but not many cared to listen.

Meanwhile, the office informed that my august presence was desperately needed in Australia and bed-office would not do. Not really in a physical or mental state to travel, I decided to call on the doctor for advice. My husband put his foot down. He swore that he would sell off his car, feed me if I lost my job, in short, do anything, but would not definitely hear another abuse from the doctor. After much persuasion, it was decided that it was to be made clear to the doctor that it was not the job but professionalism that urged me to take the trip.

The doctor glanced at me – “Perth! Oh! I

had not guessed you were so high-flying!” Another dig at my sophistication, or lack of it, but again I let it pass. “Hmmn,” he said finally, with challenge writ all over his face. “If you have to go, you go. I have to apply my brains now to make sure you can go. No time to fool around!” Husband sulked, though no one was particularly mentioned this time. Out came needles, scanners, suckers and along with a handful of more doctors dressed like astronauts - the balloon was punctured. It was unbelievably humiliating to see the teeny-weeny 8 ml of poison inside the syringe, which had held all of me at ransom for fifteen days! The doctor declared that I was now ready to fly off to Perth along with quinine tablets to be consumed at the rate of six per day.

Back home, armed with a suitcase full of quinine and a bag full of clothes, I desperately tried to get into the mood. But fate decided otherwise. Half-a-dozen quinine tablets a day caused severe nausea, blurring of vision, acute disorientation – in short anything but fit to fly. Three days later, I walked into the doctor’s chamber once again. The doctor was shocked, almost frustrated at seeing me still in India, muttered to himself about how wrong it was to adjudge someone smart too early, and then demanded to know why I had not flown. Spirits now restored a little, I said either he takes off the quinine, or else, I shall be forced to call off the trip to Australia altogether. “Oh! You mean there is still some hope that you may go?” - his face lit up! Yes – I said – in a week’s time if he could cut out the quinine. He stared at me hard - “OK! Some people do better without medicines. Go ahead. Enjoy your work while you stay abroad. Carry the quinine though. And keep your spirits high. ” I winced. No spirits for me – not even on those lovely green banks of the Swan river when all of us would call it a day with freshly grilled fish and the sinful tiramisu. Not with all those doubting Thomases as friends and foes.

Three weeks later, ready to board the return flight from Perth, I asked hubby dear whether there was anything special that I should bring back. “May be a bottle of famous Australian wine for your doctor,” he said.